House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  “The organist was indisposed at the last minute,” he said apologetically. “But it’s not a total loss; Miss Fox’s left arm is playing up and the organ’s a bit flat.”

  “My organ gave up years ago.” Tony said.

  “Anthony,” Clarissa remonstrated.

  “I’ve lived in Cornwall for forty-five years and never knew this chapel existed,” Kitto said.

  “It dates from the early sixth century,” Mr. Fogg explained. “It was founded by a Welsh princess named Madryn, elder daughter of King Vortimer of Blessed of Ghent. The spring is supposed to have healing qualities.”

  “Exactly what this family needs,” Jane said. “Perhaps we should all get blessed here; come out the other end fresher and better people.”

  “Don’t tell me the father’s a Jew?” Clarissa said in a stage whisper.

  “I’ve noticed an interesting type of Polytrichum by the wall,” Tuffy said, holding up a large wedge of moss. “How many variants are there here?”

  “I must admit I don’t know. My speciality is divinity,” Mr. Fogg confessed.

  “Or is he a you-know-what?” Clarissa asked, putting a hand to her scrawny bosom. “A Ninth-day Adventurist?”

  “You’re missing out on a whole world.” Tuffy was aghast, unable to believe the man’s willful and woeful ignorance.

  “Gods of different varieties are my universe,” Mr. Fogg said, clasping his hands together in supplication.

  “And those so-called varieties don’t spread as far as nature?” Tuffy snorted and, turning to Arabella, asked, “Did you bring some specimen bags?”

  “Of course.” Arabella nodded and pulled copious plastic bags out of her pocket.

  “Who wants smelly old moss?” Toby said, wanting to ingratiate himself with his girlfriend’s father.

  “Oh, no. He’s a Pentecostal Mormon,” Clarissa groaned. “Or an Epicurian.”

  “There are over a thousand different species of moss in Great Britain, many undiscovered. They are our heritage, the first visible colonisers of our ancient land,” Tuffy explained.

  “We used to call moss nature’s underpants,” Tony said.

  “Mosses can hold many times their own weight in water; it’s like a miniature cooling and humidifying system,” Arabella told Tony.

  “Pity my underpants couldn’t do that—it would have saved a great deal of trouble.”

  “Do you think we should crack on with the service?” Kitto asked. He had forgotten to wear a jumper or jacket and, although it was late May, the chapel was cold and draughty.

  “Don’t tell me: the father’s a Buddhist—the baby will grow extra limbs and sit around cross-legged all day.” Clarissa leaned against the wall for support.

  Mr. Fogg checked his watch surreptitiously. He’d hoped to be home before the nut roast was polished off by the little Foggs, but the service was running half an hour late already. In an attempt to hurry things along a bit, he handed out the small red books and an adapted Church of England christening sheet.

  “Please take your seats,” he said firmly. The family shuffled into the two front pews. Luckily the church was small and the lack of a full congregation was barely noticeable.

  Mr. Fogg took his place by the font, rearranged his duffel coat and bobbly hat and announced, “We will sing number twenty-three, which is on page thirty-four of the little red book. You’ll recognise it from the popular version by Yusuf Islam, formerly known as Cat Stevens.”

  “The father is a Muslim!” Clarissa proclaimed.

  Clearing his throat, Mr. Fogg led the singing in a thin reedy voice.

  “Morning has broken,

  Like the first morning.”

  * * *

  “I refuse to sing a Muslim song,” Clarissa said, snapping her hymn book shut. “Or a Jewish or a Catholic one, for that matter.”

  “It was written in 1931 by an English poet Eleanor Farjeon, set to a traditional Gaelic tune,” Kitto told his mother.

  “I like ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country’ or a good psalm.”

  Toby looked at his girlfriend’s father in consternation; he couldn’t help wondering if she’d develop the same bulbous nose and wild ear hair.

  Tony sang loudly and badly; this was his funeral as well as Perrin’s baptism and he was determined to enjoy his last contact with his family and a Higher Power. He missed the pomp and formality of a traditional church service but supposed that God, if there was one, would overlook today’s eccentricities. Clarissa thought about Enyon and their perfect marriage; Tuffy and Arabella were lost in dreams of moss. Only Blaze didn’t sing: her throat hurt with the effort of not crying her heartbreak to the rafters. She felt lonely and afraid, daunted by the task of raising Perrin on her own and haunted by memories of her brief time with Wolfe. Jane, seeing her friend’s face, leaned forward and put an arm around Blaze’s shoulder.

  When the song was finished, Mr. Fogg beckoned the family up to the font. Made in the thirteenth century from a single piece of local granite, it had a criss-cross pattern on the outside and the well was covered with an intricately carved iron lid.

  “In naming a child, a Higher Power calls us out of darkness into His marvellous light. To follow this light means absolving our sins and rising to new life.” Mr. Fogg was sure that the motley crew before him were thinking about other things, but he lived in hope of reaching one stray lamb. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old uncle wipe away a tear and wondered if it was too late to draw him into his flock.

  “The water is a symbol of a Higher Power washing away our sins in an act of forgiveness.” Mr. Fogg beamed—it was his favourite line in the service.

  “Total tosh,” Clarissa tutted.

  “Amen,” Kitto said, looking furiously at his mother.

  “A-women too,” Arabella added, remembering that feminism was an active cause. Toby kicked his sister.

  Mr. Fogg pondered what it was like to be part of this family, brought low by time and ill fortune. Who would have thought the mighty Trelawneys—builders of counties, castles, battalions and businesses—would be reduced to such inconsequential circumstances? The community had talked of little else for the last few years. He thought of an appropriate passage from the Bible and was tempted to say it out loud, but decided against it. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return. He looked at his watch and realised that the nut roast was in the oven. Closing his eyes, he imagined the smell and his taste buds began to twitch.

  “Who’s doing the reading?” he asked.

  Arabella stepped forward. She’d been told to write a poem but, while finding the sentiment was easy, rhyming and metre had refused to coalesce.

  “All that matters is that we don’t harm the planet.

  Every living thing is equally important.”

  “Is this Shakespeare?” Clarissa asked waspishly.

  “Well said,” Tuffy exclaimed.

  Arabella pursed her lips and continued.

  “A blade of grass is as significant as an elephant.

  A flea is as necessary as a horse.”

  * * *

  Clarissa shuffled in her seat. “The world’s gone mad. What’s wrong with the Lord’s Prayer?”

  “Shut up and listen, Clarissa!” Tuffy shouted.

  “I’ve been longing to tell her that for years,” Tony guffawed.

  Arabella straightened her shoulders and continued.

  “ ‘Mice have as much right to live as men.’ ”

  “That’s very beautiful, Bella,” Kitto said.

  Clarissa snorted.

  Mr. Fogg wondered if anyone would notice if he cut the rest of the service short. “Will the parents and significant others step forward?”

  “
What is a significant other?” Clarissa asked.

  “The reading isn’t finished,” Arabella protested.

  “The great thing is to know when to stop,” Clarissa said.

  Blaze and Jane shuffled forward and Toby helped Mr. Fogg lift up the font’s heavy lid. “Good people, will you welcome this child and uphold her in her new life?”

  The Trelawneys nodded. Behind them, the door to the chapel opened and closed quietly. Tony wondered if Miss Fox had come to play the closing hymn.

  “Will you be giving the child to the Higher Power?” Mr. Fogg asked Blaze.

  “Higher Power?” Clarissa repeated. “Is that the name of the father?”

  “I hope I’m in the right place?” a man’s voice said.

  Everyone apart from Blaze turned around to see who had spoken. Blaze didn’t dare, in case she had misheard. Footsteps approached the font. Blaze held her breath.

  “Could I hold the baby?” Wolfe asked. “Please.”

  Blaze closed her eyes.

  “Don’t forget to breathe,” a voice whispered in her ear. Blaze inhaled deeply and looked up into Wolfe’s face. Placing their sleeping baby in his arms, she held on to the font for support. Perrin wriggled but didn’t wake.

  Mr. Fogg continued with the ceremony. “Naming a child is a sign of a new beginning and becoming part of a universal family.”

  “We are not and never have been universal,” Clarissa said.

  “The cameras are not on, Mother. Can’t you behave like a normal person?” Kitto snapped.

  Mr. Fogg, stomach rumbling, decided to miss out the last chunks of the service; this lot would never notice. He gestured to the latecomer to lower the baby over the font and, taking a small metal cup, splashed the infant’s head with water. Perrin, rudely awakened from a deep sleep, let out a loud cry of alarm.

  Making the sign of a smiley face on Perrin’s forehead, Mr. Fogg said, “Welcome to the world, sweet baby. May your days be happy.”

  “Unspeakably common.” Clarissa scowled at her son, but Kitto, along with the rest of the family, was staring at the interloper, wondering if he was Perrin’s father.

  “Shine a light in the world to the glory of mankind.” Mr. Fogg raised his voice in order to be heard over the baby’s wails. Then, seeing that all attention had turned to the newcomer, he decided to use this diversion to make a swift exit. “Would you mind blowing out the candles and locking up after you go?” he said cheerfully. “Put the key under old Moses Wilson’s gravestone, please. Third one down on the left-hand side.” With that he was gone. Blaze and her family stayed standing, all staring at Wolfe.

  “Could someone hold our daughter?” he asked.

  “Oh, that’s who you are,” Clarissa said. “An introduction wouldn’t hurt. I presume you are the aforementioned Mr. Higher Power. I am the Dowager Countess of Trelawney.” She held out her hand.

  “Joshua Wolfe,” he said, taking it and bowing slightly before turning to the others and smiling broadly. “Sorry I was late; it was hard finding this place.” Jane stepped forward, gave him a kiss on the cheek and took the baby. “Lovely to meet you.” Following her lead, Kitto pumped Wolfe’s hand. “You are most welcome.”

  “Would you mind if Blaze and I stepped outside for a few moments?” Wolfe asked the family and, without waiting for their response, he placed his hand in the small of Blaze’s back and steered her towards the door. They walked in silence between the old gravestones until they reached the lip of the churchyard and stood side by side overlooking the seashore below.

  “What are you doing here?” Blaze asked.

  “I had a visit from Ayesha two days ago.”

  “Ayesha?” The situation was becoming increasingly confusing.

  “She turned up unannounced in a helicopter, making an entrance and frightening the animals to death.”

  “What did she want?” Blaze, hurt and shocked by Ayesha’s duplicitous behaviour, dreaded hearing what had happened next.

  “She told me how stupid I was being. How a love like yours and mine rarely comes along and, when it does, we have to grab it and never let it go.”

  Blaze fixed her eyes on a point on the horizon and held on to a headstone for support; the ground beneath her feet felt as uneven as her thoughts.

  “Ayesha doesn’t believe in love; she likes money and status.”

  “She told me you were the bravest and kindest of people, that she admired you more than any living person.”

  Blaze looked at him blankly.

  “I agreed with her.” Wolfe hesitated and stepped towards Blaze as if to kiss her.

  Blaze put her hand up to keep him at bay. “What happened to Ayesha?” Nothing was making sense.

  “She went.”

  “Went?”

  “In her helicopter.”

  Wolfe touched her arm gently. “I have been a terrible fool. Have I left it too late? Will you, can you forgive me?”

  “What do you want?” Blaze tried to organise her thoughts.

  “To be with you and our child.”

  “You don’t want children; you made that clear.”

  “Not any children, but I do want ours.”

  Blaze didn’t answer. She couldn’t find the words. Joshua looked at her. After a very long pause, when no reply came, he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Blaze looked up into his face.

  “It’s too late, Joshua. I don’t have the strength or the imagination to start all over again. For Perrin’s sake, I can’t take the risk; I am millimetres away from falling to pieces.” Her words trailed into a whisper and she gazed at him silently, resigned. “Perhaps I loved you too much.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.

  “I want you to go. Now. And not come back.” Blaze clenched and unclenched her fingers. She felt an overwhelming tiredness; she longed to lay her head against a mossy gravestone and go to sleep.

  Wolfe opened and closed his mouth. He was desperate to say something to make her change her mind, but could see from her expression that it was too late for words.

  “I am so desperately sorry. I will regret my behaviour for the rest of my life.” He hesitated. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  Blaze’s heart and body had never felt so heavy; a thousand tiny weights pulled down on every fibre, every cell. Summoning every ounce of strength, she opened her mouth. “I am sure.” Turning away from her, Wolfe walked up the path towards the road.

  Blaze looked out over the water at two gulls flying along the shore, their white feathers turning pink in the fading sun. She was glad he’d gone. Her love for him had been a kind of madness; sudden thoughts of him could knock the wind out of her lungs and then moments later an inexplicable current of hope would send her spirits soaring. She was lovesick: the only cure was total abstinence. And now, just when she had begun to recover from her mania, he’d come back to tell her all the things she’d been so desperate to hear. But she didn’t have the strength or courage to risk a further bout of insanity. It was her duty to construct an orderly life for herself and her daughter, even if it meant forsaking a chance of happiness.

  Added to which, the involvement of Ayesha, although apparently benign, terrified her. Nothing that Anastasia’s daughter had done—not one single action—suggested anything kindly. There had to be an ulterior motive: of further revenge on the people whom her mother hated.

  From the chapel, she heard Perrin start to cry and, impelled by instinct, she turned to go back inside.

  A twig cracked loudly and she jumped. Looking into the darkening shadows, she saw Wolfe.

  “Why are you still here?” she asked.

  “You always needed extra time,” he said. “I thought I’d wait, in case.”

  Blaze, bewildered, looked at him. Then, without thinking, she ran int
o his arms.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing is a solitary pursuit, but I am indebted to various people for turning an imperfect manuscript into a polished book. Sarah Chalfant, far more than an agent, was its first reader and champion. Alexandra Pringle and Shelley Wanger are peerless editors, helping make House of Trelawney the best version of itself. Sarah-Jane Forder’s patience and skill have been transformational. Thanks also to the teams at Bloomsbury, Knopf and the Wylie Agency for their mainly invisible but always essential care and professionalism.

  Mala Goankar, Jenni Russell and Magnus Goodlad were particularly astute and thorough readers. I am grateful for their suggestions and for sharing their considerable knowledge.

  Thanks as well to Susan Adams, Linda Drew and Rudith Buenconsejo for their support. And to the SP for shining a torch in odd patches of darkness.

  The idea for this story was sparked by the discovery of a batch of old letters, sent from India in the 1980s while backpacking with Milly Soames. Rereading the faded pages of airmail paper, I tried to imagine the last twenty-plus years without her or my other treasured friends, and from that bereft and lonely place the characters of Jane, Blaze and Anastasia emerged.

  This book is also about families, but any resemblance to my own is coincidental. Indeed, I can’t imagine a day without the joy and inspiration given by my daughters Nell, Clemency and Rose or the support of my sister Emmy. My father Jacob’s intellect, flair and brilliance set a level to aspire to in all areas. My mother Serena, a voracious reader, thought up the title Trelawney and it is a great sadness that I didn’t write fast enough and she didn’t live long enough to read the outcome.

  And finally to Yoav, who has complicated both the fictional and the actual plot in the most unexpected way.