Finding Home

by Lauren Westwood

  ‘I… well…’ No. This man, of all people, cannot possibly be the one person who understands.

  ‘But— I see now that the surveyor hit the nail on the head,’ he says. ‘It would cost a small fortune to fix up. No – make that, a large fortune.’

  ‘You know, I definitely agree. This place is a money pit.’ I raise my hands in futility. ‘A huge, unwieldy white elephant. And although the surveyor’s report says it would cost at least three million pounds just to get it to comply with Building Regs…’ I lower my voice, ‘I happen to know that he was just being generous. I’m sure Hexagon would be better off building their golf course somewhere else. The only way this place is going to be saved is if someone buys it to fix up – as a labour of love.’

  I take a breath and gear up to lie in grand Tetherington Bowen Knowles fashion. ‘Besides,’ I say, ‘no matter who your friends are in the planning department, you’ll be tied up in red tape for ages. There’s an army of old ladies in the village ready to challenge any change of use. They’d rather see it crumble to the ground than have a golf course here. And I also heard that there are some protected bugs near the village. And bats – there are loads of bats that live up in the eaves. Developing this property as a golf course would be nothing but hassle and headache, let me tell you.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s good to know.’ He gives me a puzzled frown. ‘But aren’t you supposed to be selling the place?’

  ‘Oh,’ I laugh coyly. ‘Yes, I am. But I don’t want to lead you up the garden path. I think it would make someone a fantastic family home – someone who loves it and has the wherewithal to restore it. It’s just the merits as an investment that I question.’

  ‘All property is an investment,’ he says. ‘If you live in it, develop it, rent it out – whether you keep it or sell it, it all has investment consequences. And this place…’ he waves his hand to take in the great hall, ‘it is a money pit. I did a little research myself when I first saw the surveyor’s report. Apparently, with a listed building, it’s incredibly hard to make any alterations, and every material used for restoration has to be old and authentic. That will put most people off. It’s too bad really. I seriously doubt you’ll be so lucky as to find someone to take it on as a “labour of love”.’

  ‘You never know.’ I smile. ‘There’s a right house for everyone, and a right owner for every house. Someone who belongs to the house as much as the house belongs to them. I’m working on finding the right combination for this house.’

  ‘You’re like a house matchmaker, is that it?’ His eyes dance with amusement.

  ‘Precisely.’

  He doesn’t answer, and instead walks into the first drawing room off the main hall. He opens the curtains and a puff of dust engulfs us. In addition to the mess I’ve contributed to, I notice another pile of old papers and newspaper clippings on a sofa that wasn’t here last time. There’s a pair of half-moon glasses next to the pile – Mrs Bradford’s. Mr Faraday takes one look around the room, then goes over to the newspaper clippings and picks up the top one. It’s a page of obituaries.

  ‘I’m sorry for the mess,’ I say. ‘The housekeeper, Mrs Bradford, is a bit shaken by everything that’s happened. It’s too bad really, but between us – she’s a bit barmy.’

  ‘A bit barmy?’ He laughs. ‘I like that.’ He skims over the obit and sets it back on top of the others. ‘Do you know if Mrs Windham died in the house?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Actually, I have no idea whether or not Mrs Windham died in the house, or whether it might have been Mr Windham, or neither, or both of them. But I seize what might be another opportunity to put him off. ‘Right upstairs in the main bedroom. I think the body was here for a few days before anyone discovered it. Luckily, the smell has dissipated.’

  Mr Faraday doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks through to the next room: the blue salon. He looks around and touches things – marble mantles, old books and photos, the carved panelling – almost reverently. He’s lost in thought. Maybe he’s picturing all the rich men in collared shirts drinking whisky and smoking cigars in the parlour after their eighteen holes. But somehow, I don’t think so. Still, he is who he is and we are where we are.

  It takes the better part of twenty minutes before we’ve walked through one wing of the downstairs and return to the great hall. ‘Interested in seeing the upstairs?’ I ask cheekily. ‘It’s even more of a tip.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says with a shrug. The warmth has gone out of his voice. I begin to feel strange – like I’m the one betraying the house, not him.

  I lead the way up the stairs and pause by the portrait of the young woman. I rub my fingers along the frame as if to say ‘hello again’.

  He stops beside me and looks the painting up and down, then at my hand, which is still touching the frame. Sheepishly, I withdraw it.

  ‘Who is she? Do you know?’ He leans in and studies the brushwork.

  ‘Not for sure. But I think it might be Arabella Windham.’

  ‘Those eyes…’ he says. ‘She looks familiar somehow. And what’s that in her hands? Paper or letters, maybe?’ He takes a step back, still analysing the painting.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe you’ll discover the answer when you start ripping the house apart piece by piece.’

  As soon as the words come out, I can’t believe I’ve said them. Mr Faraday looks shocked.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was totally out of line,’ I say. I turn away and walk to edge of the staircase landing. The time-worn banister is smooth under my hand. I look out over the elegant hallway and give a half-hearted laugh. ‘You must think I’m the barmy one. I’ve obviously grown too fond of this place…’ I can’t even finish. It all sounds so silly, and I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain. But something about this man seems to demand it. ‘It should be nothing to me,’ I add. ‘I’m just the estate agent. But this house is special. I’d so like to see it go to a family that loves it – or else preserved and opened up to the public. I hate the idea that yet another great English House is about to be changed into something beyond recognition. I’m sorry.’

  I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring at the picture like he hasn’t heard me.

  Unable to bear his presence, I leave him there and go into the first bedroom. This one doesn’t have a working loo or a closet full of costumes, but it does have the same clutter spanning decades – some as far back as the 1930s. On the mantle, there’s a photograph of a young couple standing on either side of the queen, and a photograph of the same man standing next to Winston Churchill. I pick the photograph up and blow the dust off the frame.

  I sense Mr Faraday coming into the room after me. I set down the photograph and look up. His eyes seem to pierce my skin and see inside the depths of my soul. To my great shame and dismay, I almost hope that he does recommend to Hexagon that they pursue development of the property – so that I might have a reason to see him again.

  He comes over and picks up the photograph I just set down and looks at it intently. ‘I admit that things are not quite what I had expected. I can almost see where you get your romantic notions from.’ He sets down the photograph. ‘But unfortunately, reality is something quite different. The public will get to enjoy the estate – the members of the golf club, at least. There are worse results, surely.’

  ‘I just wish I had more time.’

  ‘That’s something you don’t have.’ He goes over to the grotty en-suite bathroom and peers inside.

  I don’t know what to make of his comment, but my stomach feels liquid. I’m confused and flustered, and this man is entirely the cause.

  He comes back over to where I’m standing. ‘You’re obviously a passionate person, Miss Wood, and I admire that. But maybe you’re also too quick to judge a book by its cover.’ He smiles like he’s won a victory over me, and at that moment, I do hate him a little. I maintain a discrete distance as he walks through the rest of the rooms on the second floor. He doesn’t speak and seems to be
lost in thought, touching a damp spot here, a crumbling window frame there.

  We go up another flight of stairs. He quickly tours some of the servant’s bedrooms and we head up into the attic. He walks over to the huge, round window, at the centre of the house, and looks out at the view over the parkland beyond. I walk over and stand beside him. Far below where we’re standing, the fountain crumbles in the forecourt, and beyond, the long tree-lined drive snakes downwards from the house into a little valley. A cloud of dust rises, and I can almost see Rochester riding furiously towards Thornfield, his horse wild-eyed and lathered, straining at the bit; when all of a sudden, he encounters Jane Eyre on the path—

  ‘Damn,’ he mutters beside me, and I realise that there is no horse and no Lord of the Manor, just a car coming up the drive. Immediately, I snap back to my senses.

  ‘If you’d like, Mr Faraday,’ I say, making every effort to sound professional, ‘you can take your time looking around and I’ll go down and see who it is.’

  ‘Fine.’ He smiles at me. I get a sense that he sees everything – from my ridiculous fantasies with him in a starring role to how much I wish they could be true. And I can’t bear to think that he might be laughing at me, thinking I’m pathetic and eccentric – or worse.

  ‘Fine,’ I repeat. I leave the room and the spell that he has cast over me, rushing down the stairs two at a time. As I reach the lower staircase landing and the portrait of the lady in the pink dress, the front door creaks open and slams shut. Immediately, I tense up. The last thing I need is a visit from Mrs Bradford and Captain. I head quickly down the stairs to stop her at the pass.

  As I reach the bottom step, a woman enters.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I blurt out.

  It isn’t Mrs Bradford, but rather, the Windham heir, Ms Flora. I had no idea that she was back in town. She looks as polished and perfect as before, this time wearing a dark green Burberry coat, black stiletto boots, and a black pashmina.

  ‘Hello, Miss Wood.’ She unbuttons her coat. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs MacArthur,’ I say, returning the smile. ‘I’m just showing around one of the executives from Hexagon. We won’t be much longer – is that okay?’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘Hexagon? You must be joking.’

  ‘No, not at all—’

  ‘Actually, Miss Wood,’ she interrupts, ‘you can go now. I’ll lock up the house. I need to speak to my brother in private.’

  - 24 -

  Brother?

  As soon as Flora says the word, the penny drops. Mr Faraday is not, in fact, an executive from Hexagon, but the second American heir – Mr Jack – and now that I know the truth, it seems blindingly obvious. I rewind the sequence of events: my boss telling me that an executive from Hexagon was planning to schedule a viewing at some unspecified point in the future, me jumping to the conclusion that Mr Faraday was said person. But though the wires were crossed, Jack Faraday must have guessed my mistake – how dare he deceive me like that?

  Finally, I have a good reason to hate him.

  But when a few seconds later he comes down the grand staircase, his sheer je ne sais quoi hits me all over again. I feel like Jane Eyre after she’s been half-flattened by Rochester’s horse and lashed with his whip. His blue-grey eyes flick from me to his sister.

  ‘Hello Flora. Glad you could join us.’ He sounds anything but.

  ‘Sorry to blow your cover. But I’m not going to let you play Lord of the Manor.’ Tension crackles in the air between them. She turns to me like she’s dismissing a servant. ‘Can you see yourself out?’

  I look from her to Jack. He shrugs like Flora’s in charge and it’s nothing to him anyway. ‘Thanks for showing me around, Miss Wood,’ he says. ‘It’s been interesting. I’ll call your office tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ I say through clenched teeth. I hurry to the door and practically run to the car.

  *

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ As soon as I’m out of sight of the house I bang my fist on the steering wheel. I can’t believe some of the things I said: Luckily, the smell has dissipated!

  And to be fair, while Mr Faraday didn’t come clean and say that he was co-owner of the house, in fact, he never denied it either. He might even have assumed I knew. Aren’t you supposed to be selling the place?

  Shit. I take my foot off the accelerator. The view of Rosemont Hall in the rear-view mirror will surely be my last.

  - 25 -

  After two sleepless nights and a miserable Sunday afternoon spent helping Dad demolish the old garden shed, when Monday morning rolls around, I still feel furious, embarrassed, and every other negative emotion in between. I seriously debate taking a sickie. But in the end, I can’t stand the thought of sitting at home stewing in my juices while Mum potters around and Dad waits for the Argos delivery of a new pre-fab shed. Besides, since I’m obviously going to have nothing more to do with Rosemont Hall, I may as well give Jack Faraday a piece of my mind if he does ring the office.

  Jack Faraday. I think back to all my ludicrous imaginings of him: fat and middle-aged, a New-York ball-buster; Bill Gates – all golf-playing, and all based on nothing at all. Whereas in reality, I now know that he’s devious, underhanded, and… beautiful. Every nerve in my body tingles when I recall the sound of his voice; the electric moment when we shook hands.

  Which is just ridiculous.

  I try to force him from my mind with a cup of hot coffee and a piece of toast. It doesn’t work. How could he, of all people, be the one person who feels a connection to the house? And feeling that connection, how could he betray it? He’s even worse, much worse, than I thought.

  And so much better.

  I change my outfit three times, but I’m no less distracted. Then, as I’m about to leave the house, I can’t find my pink cashmere scarf, which was a birthday gift from the first and only class I taught. I’d be sorry to lose it. I’ve a vague recollection that I wore it to the Rosemont Hall viewing. It’s another freezing morning, so I grab one of my mother’s chunky knit snoods instead. I’ll call Mr Kendall to arrange to get it back – sometime when I know for sure that Jack Faraday won’t be there.

  At the office, I try to lose myself in the task of checking the latest property stats on Rightmove. I’m not going to think about him. Full-stop.

  Mid-morning, an email I wasn’t expecting pings in. It’s from my former graduate thesis advisor. It twigs that I asked him a few months ago to send me information about teaching jobs he heard about, but that he hadn’t responded before now. He’s attached an advert for a job opening in Edinburgh, teaching literature at a private school for girls. ‘Happy to put in a word for you,’ his note reads. I stare at the screen, the realisation dawning about how much my life has moved on over the last few months. I think of the Blundells, David Waters, Hexagon, and Rosemont Hall. For all the toil and trouble I’ve encountered at Tetherington Bowen Knowles, I have a strange notion that for the first time, I’ve been experiencing life, not just reading about it. And then there’s Jack Faraday. I shiver at the memory of the brief, fleeting ‘realness’ of him.

  Get a grip! I scold myself. My fingers tap out an email to my former advisor: ‘Thank you! The job sounds perfect. I’ll definitely send in my CV’.

  The phone rings. I stare at the blinking light on the switchboard. It’s him – I just know it.

  The light stops blinking but doesn’t go out. From the bowels of Mr Bowen-Knowles’s office, I can hear his muffled voice – he’s picked up the phone. I’ve missed my chance to do damage control. But that’s fine, because I’m not going to think about him.

  The phone rings again. My heart leaps into my mouth. Maybe this is him.

  I jerk the phone off the cradle. ‘Tetherington Bowen Knowles, Amy Wood speaking.’

  It’s Ronan Keene ringing to schedule a viewing at the Bristol flat. We go through all the details and arrange it for that same afternoon. Which is fine by me. Anything to get my mind off – other things.

&
nbsp; When I hang up the phone, Mr Bowen-Knowles’s line is still lit. The suspense is killing me. I stand up. ‘Anyone for Starbucks?’ I say. Over the last few months, my willingness to do the coffee run has somewhat defrosted the hearts of my colleagues, but today, I just need to clear my head.

  Everyone orders their usual (skinny double decaf latte for Patricia; lemon poppyseed muffin and Earl Grey tea for Jonathan; Americano for Claire) and I leave the office practically at a run.

  The day is grey and foggy, but nonetheless, Bath is buzzing with tourists and shoppers. The traffic crawls by, people push past me, and I feel like I’m in a bad dream where I’m being chased through the woods but my feet are too heavy to run. The dreadful mistake I made on Rosemont Hall continues to loom in my mind. As does the delicious and unscrupulous Jack Faraday.

  I enter Starbucks and take my time staring up at the chalkboard. ‘Next please,’ the barista says with disinterest. I place the office order and add a mint hot chocolate for myself. As I wait at the coffee bar, I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder. ‘Amy Wood – is that you?’

  I turn around. It’s Mary Blundell. She smiles at me, looking fresh-faced and rosy from the cold. She’s wearing an old coat and a knit scarf similar to my own, and once again I’m struck by her homely openness that seems in such direct odds with her being married to an art thief and falling in love with an ultra-modern penthouse flat.

  ‘Hi Mary,’ I say with real enthusiasm, ‘how are you getting on?’

  ‘Fine – we’re fine.’ By some unspoken cue, we both collect our drinks and sit down together at a little table by the door.

  ‘I can only stay a few minutes,’ she says. ‘I’m on my way to London to visit Fred at Pentonville.’