Trelawney was not ready. In its heyday, it had taken a retinue of nearly one hundred staff to prepare for a single house-party. Over the last weeks, Jane and Blaze and two hired hands had worked night and day but their tasks were never fully completed. The original ambition—to open at least fifteen rooms to the public, each one representing an episode in the family’s history—had been scaled back significantly and, of the planned seven rooms, only three were ready. Jane hoped that neither John Acre nor Penny Cuthbert would be there with their notebooks, checking off all the health and safety issues that hadn’t been addressed.
She forced herself out from under the warm, threadbare linen sheets and, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, felt for her slippers. Although it was July, the long winter was hiding in the brickwork and the walls were still cold. It would be mid-August before any warmth wormed its way through the bricks and mortar to the inside. She ran a bath in the enormous cast-iron tub resting on lion’s paws made for the 19th Earl. He’d been seven feet tall and, with the castle’s antiquated plumbing, it took twenty-five minutes to fill halfway. Kitto had made a “shortener” out of bricks so that Jane could lie down without sinking. The enamel under the brass taps was stained green by years of Cornish residue and for the first few minutes the water ran a peaty brown. Jane turned on the hot tap and stepped back to avoid the explosion of water; if only she had the luxury of time to enjoy this new phenomenon. After ten minutes, when the level was only ten inches deep, she crouched in the ancient bath and splashed herself energetically. Then she found a clean pair of socks and knickers and pulled on yesterday’s clothes: jeans and a Fair Isle jumper. She’d forgotten to charge her phone the night before and left it by the bed. Opening her bedroom door, she tripped over the red rope put there as a deterrent to keep visitors out of the private areas of the house, and landed flat on her face.
Lifting herself up slowly, one leg at a time, one hand on her lower back, the other on the banister, Jane rubbed her sore shins. These days it seemed that few parts of her body didn’t ache; it was almost inevitable that her shins should join her neck, back, forearms and temples in a constant thrum of pain. Steadying herself with one hand on the wide mahogany balustrade, she went down the staircase to the hall. The evening before, Toby and Arabella had cut armfuls of elderflower, guelder rose, ragged robin and gunnera. Maybe, she thought, their visitors would presume that using wild flowers was a deliberate affectation.
In the kitchen she was surprised to find Blaze already at the table, poring over a history of the castle.
“I’m sorry you’re looking after Clarissa. Let’s hope a new carer turns up soon.”
“I’ve offered the agency twice the normal salary. Perhaps avarice will triumph over umbrage.”
Jane grimaced, thinking of Magda’s and the others’ fury at the way they’d been treated.
Blaze pushed away the ancient guidebook written for guests by a bored and largely illiterate Countess before the First World War. “She advises ‘changing before each meal and after every activity.’ Can you imagine living like that? There wouldn’t be time to do anything else.” Blaze looked more closely at Jane and suggested, “Perhaps you should find the hairbrush?”
Jane ran her fingers through the knotted curls. “So many things to remember.”
“Have you done your homework?” Blaze asked.
Jane shook her head. “Milly escaped again last night and, by the time I’d caught her, I had to start making scones. It was past midnight when I started reading up on the family; three sentences in and I was fast asleep.”
Blaze’s spirits sagged; persuading her family to act as tour guides was certain to lead to disaster.
“Can’t I do slavery rather than the Wars of the Roses—at least you have fewer dates to remember?” Jane pleaded. “I can never remember if it was in 1491 or 1481 when the Trelawneys came to the rescue of Queen Margaret and Henry VI.” While she could recite the names of every queen who’d died in childbirth and match any great work of literature to the relevant reigning monarch, Jane had always had difficulty with dates.
“It was 1471 and our lot were bloody useless—most of the population favoured the House of York.”
“I get so muddled between Henry VI and Richard III.”
“They were enemies. Richard was the York king supposed to have murdered his nephews in the Tower of London to secure the crown.”
“Oh, he was that one.”
Blaze got up and looked out of the window at the ruined garden. “Why are we doing this? Perhaps we should just let the house go.”
The two women remained silent for a long minute.
“We’ve been through this argument too many times,” Jane said eventually. “We can’t just give up.”
“The castle won’t let us,” Blaze said. “It’s in control, pulling our strings.”
“Will you help me with my speech?” Jane asked, wanting to stop this line of conversation. A few nights earlier, Blaze had told her about a psychic she consulted regularly who predicted that Kitto would return and Trelawney would be restored to its former glory and more. It was baffling and worrying that a rationalist, so adept with numbers and calculations, would entertain such fantasies.
Blaze sat down and taking a piece of paper, scribbled down some notes. “You take the visitors to the bloodied standard and hold it up. ‘This,’ you tell them, ‘is Richard’s standard and it was his blood spilt when he was cut down at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485.’ ”
“How do we know it’s his blood?”
“For over five centuries this is what the family has believed.”
“Bosworth is nowhere near here.”
“The 12th Earl fought on the side of Henry Tudor.”
“Which one was he?”
Blaze groaned. “He became Henry VII. Jane, I don’t think you should do this.”
“To think I got a first-class degree in history. Where has all that knowledge gone? Did I lose a bit more with the birth of each child? Can the brain regenerate?”
“It retains information that is strictly necessary,” Blaze said kindly.
“Like how to start a boiler, mend an engine and solder a handle back on to a broken pan.” Jane got up and went to fill the kettle.
“Maybe you should talk about the trials and tribulations of life as a contemporary countess.” Glancing at her sister-in-law, Blaze saw that Jane’s head was bowed and her shoulders were shaking. Was she laughing or crying? It was far too early for either. Blaze wondered if she could tell her to “get a grip” or sneak out of the kitchen without comment?
“Sorry, I know you hate tears,” Jane said.
“You’ve got to be strong.”
Jane lifted up her head and, reaching for the dirty tea towel, wiped it across her face, then turned to Blaze. “I’m going to pack my bags and write the children a note. It’s for the best.”
“Please sit down,” Blaze said. It was 6 a.m.; she was already exhausted.
“My mind is made up,” Jane said, blowing her nose loudly into the tea towel.
Please let there be another clean one, Blaze thought.
“I’m not sad. I am angry. I’ve had enough. This isn’t my real home; it never has been, never could be, but I’ve given it my whole life, my inheritance, and have never received a single word of thanks. Before I’m totally past it, while I have enough strength, I’m going to leave this hellish prison, this ghastly family, and start again. I will go to my Cousin Lynn’s and get a job.”
“Please, Jane, sit down. It’s too early for all this.”
Jane, her face swollen and red, her chest heaving, slumped onto the bench seat in front of the window. “I’ve been trapped by my children but you could be in London having a life.”
Blaze didn’t answer immediately. “You’re not the only one whose life is upside down.”
Jane
looked up in surprise. “I thought your business was recovering?”
“Who said anything about business?”
“You’ve met someone?”
Blaze was about to answer when there was a loud knock on the back door. Both women looked at the old clock on the wall. It was 6:15.
“Are you expecting visitors?” Blaze asked.
“Only the debt collectors.” Jane rose to go to the door.
“You better wash your face first.”
Jane hurried over to the sink and turned on the cold tap. While she splashed her face, Blaze walked down the stone passage to the back door. Opening it, she saw a large man with a ruddy face, black hair and a fluorescent yellow jacket.
“Dick Dawson, leader of the Cornish Brass Band. We’re playing here later. Is the Countess around?”
“Hello, Dick,” Jane called from behind Blaze. “I was expecting you at midday.”
Looking beyond Dick to the gravel drive, Blaze saw a large dustcart with three men leaning against its silver sides.
“We were on the rounds so I thought I’d drop by and see what music you wanted.”
“What are the choices?” Jane asked. Her face and hair were wet and she ran a sleeve over her chin and nose.
“We have three melangeries. One for funerals, one for weddings and one for other stuff.”
“We better have the other stuff,” Jane said.
“What is that?” Blaze asked.
“Kylie, the Beatles, Sheena Easton and a bit more Kylie.”
“What about some traditional Cornish songs?” Blaze suggested.
“Kylie goes down better,” Dick said.
“Kylie it is then.”
Dick nodded. “We’ll need a place to change. And some crisps.”
“Just crisps?”
“Beer would be nice to wash them down.”
“Bitter?”
Dick nodded again. “And £100 cash up front.”
After the dustmen had gone, Blaze turned on her sister-in-law. “A hundred pounds is a hell of a lot of Kylie! What were you thinking? We could have put the money into hiring three extra helpers for the day.”
“It’ll be festive.”
“It’ll be cringe-making.”
Jane giggled. “You sound like the thirteen-year-old Blaze.”
“That’s how old we were when Kylie first sang.”
“In our teens.”
“We were already twenty!”
“That ages her.”
“And us.”
In the kitchen Jane put the kettle back on the Aga to boil. “We never finished the conversation.”
“Coleridge was interrupted by a man from Porlock, you by a Kylie-playing bandleader from Truro,” Blaze said. She didn’t want to discuss Wolfe.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jane asked.
“Don’t you have some more scones to make?”
“I’ve made five hundred.”
“Cornish pasties?”
“Fifty.” Jane hesitated. “What if no one comes?”
“We’ll be on carbohydrate overload for many weeks.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Am I laughing?”
Jane took out a crumpled list from her pocket and read aloud: “7 a.m.—lock Milly in her stable. Feed ducks and hens. 7:30 a.m.—wake up children. 7:45 a.m.—finish laminating notices. 8:15 a.m.—hang bunting outside doors. 9:15 a.m.—take food to orangery and set up tables, chairs, cups and saucers. 10:00 a.m.—check ropes. 10:30 a.m.—check ticket barrier, tickets, petty cash, route maps and loo paper.”
Blaze stood up and walked across the room.
“Where are you going?”
“I have a few chores of my own.” She stopped at the door. “And please wash that tea towel.”
* * *
“Why won’t you enter into the spirit of the thing?” Celia asked. “For fuck’s sake, this is your house and family.”
“These whiskers itch like crazy.” Toby’s face was obscured by a stick-on walrus moustache and long sideburns. He wore a pinstripe suit and a black frock coat, slightly moth-eaten, found in one of the attic rooms.
“John Rolfe would have had lots of whiskers.”
“What was Pocahontas doing here?” Celia went behind a curtain and Toby heard the sound of ripping fabric. “Didn’t she live in America?”
“According to Gran, she stopped off for a night on some countrywide tour. What’s that noise? What are you doing?”
Celia stepped out from behind the curtain.
“I don’t think Pocahontas would have worn that,” Toby said. Celia had torn off most of the minidress, leaving her midriff bare and the skirt revealingly short. In recent months, he’d noticed her flirting with others, particularly Roberto Syson—a boy in the year above, captain of the football team, a lead guitarist in a band; someone whose natural attributes Toby admired and could never begin to equal. He knew too that his insecurity irritated Celia, who was far happier in the role of huntress than comforter.
“Celia, I love you,” Toby declared. He had never uttered those words to anyone apart from his mother.
“Sweet,” Celia replied, and gave him a pat on the head.
“Sweet? Is that all you can say?” Toby felt as if Pocahontas’s tomahawk had been lodged in his heart. “Why are you with me, Celia?” Even before the words had left his lips, he knew it was the wrong thing to say; it was so un–Roberto Syson.
“Don’t get heavy.” Celia was beginning to find Toby a bore, always wanting to hold her hand and stare into her eyes. They were only sixteen, not old people. “Come on, Toby—let’s get our act straight,” she said, pulling down the hem of her dress. “You never know who might be watching.”
Both of them, simultaneously, thought of Roberto Syson.
* * *
In the Mistresses’ Wing, Clarissa stood in front of the long mirror looking at her own reflection. “Are you sure the ermine works with the tulle?”
“You look extraordinary,” Arabella said truthfully. It was her turn to look after Clarissa, a job that no one ever volunteered for. Her grandmother wore a floor-length gown in white silk covered in layers of white tulle embroidered with tiny flowers. On her feet were matching handmade white silk court shoes also embroidered with flowers. Her hands and forearms were sheathed in kid gloves and around her shoulders was a stole of ermine.
“You don’t think I look emancipated?”
“Emaciated?” Arabella suggested.
“Wallis Simpson said one can never be too rich or too thin.” Clarissa turned to the left and right. “It’s at moments like these that one appreciates self-restraint—the joy of keeping one’s figure. I wore this to my coming-out ball in 1946. I’ve been keeping it to wear in my coffin.” Due to her failing eyesight, Clarissa couldn’t see the liver spots splashed over her back and arms. Nor did she notice the papery veined skin hanging in folds over her bony chest or the bald patch at the back of her head. In the last few years, she had lost over a third of her body weight and the dress had become far too long. She took her shoes off to reveal toes twisted by bunions. Protected by her own vanity, she saw only the young debutante with the creamy bosom and the cascading golden hair.
“I don’t suppose Debrett’s has advice on appropriate attire for the occasion of opening one’s house to the public, but I am not too old to be the belle of the ball.”
“The visitors will want to see what a proper countess looks like. They’ll want you to play the part.”
“I don’t need to play anything.”
Looking at her grandmother, Arabella was glad that she hadn’t asked any friends; they’d have laughed.
“What time is it now?” Clarissa asked.
“It’s eleven-fifteen, so we should go to the main house in about fifteen minut
es.”
“We must not be late for Her Royal Highness.”
“I’ve never met a real royal,” Arabella said.
“When I was a gal, Amelia wasn’t considered top drawer.” Seeing Arabella’s puzzled look, she added, “Minor royal, I’m afraid.”
“Why did you have to be afraid?”
“No one gets it any more,” Clarissa said in despair. “Now, dear child, I have to powder my nose. I will meet you in the drawing room.”
* * *
HRH Princess Amelia had not been to Trelawney for thirty years, but she remembered the grand weekend house-parties for up to forty guests, based around a summer ball or shooting or hunt meets. On one notable occasion her cousin, the young Queen, had danced the night away to a fifty-piece swing band flown over from America. The same evening, the young Duke of Maddingly had proposed to a sheikh’s daughter and the leading debutante of her day, Lady Serenetta Dunn, had ridden naked on a white horse through the ballroom. The Trelawneys had the reputation for throwing bigger and better parties than anyone else in the West Country. They had to, to justify the long journey from London.
The Princess had been surprised and delighted to receive Clarissa Trelawney’s letter. Forcibly retired twenty-two years earlier for calling the Ghanaian ambassador something inappropriate, she missed her former life and was bored to tears in Kent. On the long (very long) drive across the south coast of England, she replayed old memories and wondered how many people would be at Trelawney for the weekend. It was well known that the family had fallen on hard times, but their wealth had been so enormous there was bound to be a bit of a show. As her car made slow progress up the A303, she looked out of the window for signposts to her youth. Every twenty miles she saw a turning to a stately home; there was Hellingham Hall, bang smack in the middle of Tedworth country in the county of Wiltshire. It had a second-rate hunt (miles of Salisbury Plain) but a jolly field of dashing young men. A bit farther on there was a sign to Barrowby and she could just see the Palladian house’s riot of chimney tops peeking over a medieval oak forest. She remembered a particularly violent game of Freda in which a billiard ball knocked out the front teeth of the leading debutante of 1955. The exquisitely beautiful Miss Henrietta Fletcher-Lawrence had been earmarked for Lord Devonly, but had been so disfigured by the accident that she only bagged a baronet.
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