But there’s one thing that does cheer me up a little. The painting of the lady in the pink dress is still hanging in her place on the staircase landing. As long as she’s there, I feel a tiny flicker of hope that, somehow, Rosemont Hall can be saved.
Mr Kendall follows me up the stairs and we stand together in front of the painting. ‘She’s quite stunning, isn’t she?’ he says.
‘Yes. It’s Arabella Windham, isn’t it?’ I half-turn to him. ‘All along it’s been her, watching as everyone tramps through her house, talking about her things like they’re just some old lady’s rubbish.’ I purse my lips.
‘Arabella? Is that who you think she is?’
‘Yes, I do.’ I explain briefly about the costumes I found. I avoid mentioning the sketchbook and the letters, which are still safely ensconced in my knicker drawer. If anyone misses them, I can always post them back.
Mr Kendall frowns. ‘But I’ve always assumed that the painting was old. It says 1899 here on the frame.’
‘But frames can be changed, can’t they? New wine in old bottles and all that.’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, Amy. I’ve been their solicitor for about twenty years – Arabella was already well into middle age when I knew her. But she had light brown hair and brown eyes.’ He points to the face of the girl in the painting. ‘Not blue like hers.’
‘Oh.’ I take a step back. The only photo I’ve seen of the young Arabella was the blurry black and white wedding photo, where it wasn’t possible to make out the colour of her eyes. But now, I realise that it’s obviously not the same girl. All of my sleuthing – thinking that I was so clever to discover the historical joke that Henry and Arabella must have played – has been pointless. If there is a mystery as to who the girl in the portrait is, I haven’t solved it.
‘Anyway,’ Mr Kendall says, ‘whoever she is, most likely she won’t be going far.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All the art in the house was left to Mrs Bradford, not Flora and Jack,’ he explains. ‘That’s why that painting is still there. When the house is sold, Mrs Bradford will have to take it away.’
‘Oh. Is she going to sell it?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Mr Kendall turns and slowly walks the length of the landing. It’s as if he too is trying to imprint the house on his memory. ‘If this place does become a golf clubhouse,’ he says, ‘then at least Hexagon will be required to keep the fabric of the building. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Lots of people will be able to enjoy the house, not just one family.’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t believe that.’
‘Of course I’d prefer it to be left intact. It’s a national treasure – too bad the National Trust didn’t want it.’
‘You checked too?’ I smile wryly.
‘Yes, I did. A while back, when Mrs Windham was ill. I was told that the Trust has its hands full – during the last recession, a lot of the nouveau-pauvre walked away from their stately homes, leaving them to rot.’ He stops walking and puts his hands on the railing, leaning over to look down at the great hall. ‘And even were that not the case, this place needs too much work. It’s a money pit.’
‘They could open it up to the public.’ I say, all too aware that I’m grasping at straws. ‘With the right business plan, Rosemont Hall could be self-supporting. A wedding venue; a tea shop and restaurant; organic garden shop – the whole estate would draw in loads of people if it was advertised properly.’
Mr Kendall shakes his head. ‘That requires a huge outlay of up-front cash. No bank will lend on a wing and a prayer – not anymore. And as I mentioned before, there’s a large inheritance tax bill that the heirs are responsible for. The first instalment is due next month. Eighty thousand pounds. And that’s only the beginning. The total bill is closer to a million.’
‘A million pounds in taxes?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
The truth seeps through my veins like freezing water. I remember what David Waters once said: It will take buried treasure to save this house. No amount of number-crunching about tea rooms and adventure parks is going to make any difference.
‘You have to remember that the crown always gets paid first out of an estate before any remainder can be distributed,’ he says. ‘The house and land are the only assets with any value. If the heirs don’t sell, they’ll still be liable for the IHT. Imagine getting a phone call out of the blue that you’ve inherited a crumbling mansion in England. And by the way, please can you pay a million pounds for the privilege.’
I look at the young woman in the portrait, my eyes blurry with tears. ‘It’s hopeless,’ I whisper.
She smiles back, keeping her secrets.
‘Anyway, the heirs were very relieved to get an offer from Hexagon. At least they can walk away with the debts cleared.’
‘Of course.’ I turn away from the painting, my head hung low. It was ludicrous of me to think that Jack might want to keep the house even if he could afford to. How relieved he must be to be shot of the whole inheritance palaver, and everything and everyone associated with it. Everyone – including me.
Mr Kendall gives my arm a fatherly pat. We stand there together, leaning against the carved railing. It helps to know that he’s feeling sad too about the fate of the house. But I suppose that ultimately, he’s right – both of us have a job to do.
A noise from below breaks the silence. Mr Kendall and I look at each other. Keys rattle; the front door opens and closes. Then, the sound of whistling.
Mr Kendall goes back down the stairs just as Mrs Bradford enters the great hall, clunking her stick in time to the music. Behind her, she’s dragging a plastic trolley full of grocery bags – like she’s setting up camp in the house.
‘Hello, Mrs Bradford,’ he says loudly. ‘You’re keeping well I trust?’
The last note peters out. Looking past Mr Kendall, she lifts her gnarled hand and points her cane at me. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘She’s with me.’ Mr Kendall intones like he’s talking to a child. ‘I’m sure you remember Amy Wood. The estate agent.’
I go down the stairs, keeping a smile drawn on my face. I’m sure we both remember all too well our previous encounter when she and her dog ran me off the property, and then she called the solicitor to complain about me. But I remember my resolve – she’s an old woman going through a difficult time, and I’m going to be polite.
‘Hello, Mrs Bradford. It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Is it?’ she says. Her blue eyes look hollow and haunted.
‘All the cleaning you’ve been doing is really making a difference. The house is really starting to scrub up well.’
‘Well it’s high time,’ she says. ‘Now that she’s finally gone. Out with the old and all that.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The thinly veiled reference to Arabella’s passing is somewhat disturbing.
‘I hope you’re not tiring yourself out, Maryanne,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘After all, it’s a big house.’
‘Pah,’ she says. ‘I’ve never felt better.’
She starts to drag her trolley towards the kitchen stairs. Mr Kendall and I exchange a look.
‘I think the power is still off,’ I say. ‘In case you were planning on doing any cooking.’ I point to the trolley.
‘Well you would know, wouldn’t you,’ she says snippily. ‘Since you’re always here snooping around; poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’ She looks smugly at my shocked face. ‘Taking a few souvenirs for your trouble?’
‘Really, Mrs Bradford—’
Mr Kendall steps forward and cuts me off. ‘Amy and I are here to do our jobs,’ he says gently. ‘And Ms Flora had a removals van around to take away some things. But everything that belongs to you is still here, so don’t worry about that—’
I purse my lips guiltily, keeping shtum.
‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ With a pointed look at me, Mrs Bradford chuckles, and keeps plodding onwards. At the ed
ge of the great hall, she trips on a cracked tile. Her stick quavers like she’s about to go down. I run over and help to steady her.
‘Here, at least let me help you with the trolley,’ I say.
I expect her to lash out and tell me where to go. So I’m surprised when she leans on my arm and says: ‘All right.’
She regains her balance and lets go of my arm. ‘Hand me that bag, will you,’ she says, pointing at the top one.
I do so. Immediately I see that it’s not, in fact, groceries in the trolley, but cleaning supplies. She takes out a can of Mr Sheen and some old rags. She sprays some on a rag, and leaning on her cane, begins going up the steps one by one, dragging the rag over the banister.
The whole thing is ridiculous to watch on one level, and heart-breaking on another. Instantly, I grab another rag out of the bag, spray on some Mr Sheen, and begin polishing the white marble balusters.
‘Uhh… Amy,’ Mr Kendall says, ‘I think we should go now.’
‘I’d like to have a word with Mrs Bradford first, if you don’t mind.’ I set my chin firmly. ‘Alone.’
He raises an eyebrow and checks his watch. ‘I have to be back at the office for half six,’ he says. ‘So you’ve got five minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you out by the cars.’
*
I continue to polish as Mr Kendall walks out the front door. The only sound is the thud of Mrs Bradford’s cane as she makes her way up the stairs, and the swish of the dust rags.
‘They’re going to turn Rosemont Hall into a golf course,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t find a buyer to save it. So it will go to Hexagon.’
From above me on the stairs, Mrs Bradford tsks. ‘A house is just a house,’ she says.
I steel myself, determined to find a chink in her armour. ‘Is it? So you don’t mind leaving here for good?’ I shrug. ‘I’m glad to hear it – because I was worried you might be upset.’
I can feel her looking at me, but I focus intently on the baluster I’m working on. I’m aware that she’s reached the top of the stairs, and has stopped polishing.
‘What does it matter what I want or don’t want?’ she says. ‘I’m just an old lady who was looking after another old lady.’
‘Good. So you don’t mind having to relocate? Silly me…’ I give a deliberate little laugh, ‘I was worried that Rosemont Hall might feel like home to you.’
She mutters something under her breath. It sounds like ‘more than you know’. Her knuckles are white as her hand reaches for the banister. She strokes it like the smooth cheek of a baby. And that’s when I know that I’m right. Mrs Bradford does care about the house.
‘Anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew what was happening. Once the probate decree comes through, things are bound to happen pretty quickly.’
‘I did everything I could,’ she says. ‘But I knew in my heart that it wasn’t meant to be.’
I glance at her. Her eyes are clouded over. She’s not answering me but talking to herself.
I keep silent.
‘And the worst part was all those years of nothing. Not a letter or a how d’ya do.’
She wheels around suddenly to face the painting. My heart almost stops as she brandishes her stick at the girl in the pink dress.
‘Stupid, that’s what she was. Stupid.’
‘Oh,’ I say, alarmed. ‘Why was she stupid, Mrs Bradford?’
‘She fell in love with the wrong person.’
‘Oh.’ I consider this.
‘And who is she?’ I ask.
Mrs Bradford ignores me and turns away from the painting. A moment later, it’s as if the demon has passed. She begins polishing the dado rail like nothing is amiss.
‘My daughter thinks it’s a good idea that I won’t be able to come here anymore.’
I stop polishing and look at her. It’s hard to know if she’s speaking to me or not. I contemplate the fact that Mrs Bradford has a daughter. She seems like such a lone, stalwart figure that I hadn’t even thought of her as having family other than the sister in the village.
‘She thinks it was a bad idea that I ever came back here at all. But then again, what does she know?’
‘Your daughter?’ I say. ‘Is she local?’
‘No of course not,’ she says sharply. ‘She lives in America. She’s Jack and Flora’s mother.’
‘Their mother?’ I look up in surprise. ‘So you’re their grandmother?’
‘So you worked that one out, did you?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I had no idea. Mr Kendall said that the heirs were distant relatives. I didn’t know you were related to the Windhams.’
She shakes her head like I’m an idiot child. ‘Of course I’m not related to them.’
‘But the house…?’
‘Who else were they going to leave it to? They had no children, and no relatives.’
‘I don’t know. But you have to admit – it sounds like something out of a fairy tale – a faithful servant inherits the castle…’
She wrinkles her nose.
‘I mean… not that you’re a servant…’ I add quickly.
‘It was no fairy tale,’ she snaps. ‘It was payback. And I didn’t inherit it. Unfortunately.’
‘Amy?’ Mr Kendall’s voice is icy as he calls up to me. ‘We need to go now.’
‘Just one more minute,’ I shout back.
‘You heard the man – off with you now,’ Mrs Bradford flicks her dustcloth in my direction.
‘I will, but I was just wondering one more thing.’ I gesture at the painting of the girl in the pink dress. ‘What are you going to do with her?’
‘Nothing.’ She leans against the wall heavily like the weight of her years is suddenly pressing upon her.
‘I suppose she belongs where she is,’ I say with an uncomfortable little laugh. ‘Stupid or not, she fits that spot so well – the spot where the Rembrandt used to hang. Right?’
Mrs Bradford doesn’t answer.
‘Maybe Hexagon will buy her and let her stay.’ I brush the heavy frame with my fingers. ‘But if not, I had kind of a silly thought,’ I say. ‘If you were thinking of selling it, maybe you’d let me know. I have a little money saved up.’ I purse my lips. ‘Not much, and actually, I’m supposed to be using it for a down payment on a flat – or a rental deposit. My boyfriend dumped me, you see, and I’m living with my parents,’ I prattle on, a last-ditch effort to shake some information out of her.
‘Anyway, it’s such a beautiful painting, and you only live once, don’t you? No harm in asking and all that?’ I give an awkward little laugh. ‘Though I’m sure it’s out of my league. I’m a nobody too, you see. And I’ve also fallen in love with the wrong person.’ I can feel myself blushing. ‘Just like the girl in the picture. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to her.’
Her stick is still as she peers at me over the top of her glasses. She doesn’t speak, but I can feel her looking at me.
‘Anyway, I’d better go now.’ I begin walking down the stairs hoping that she’ll stop me. She doesn’t.
Until I reach the bottom step.
‘Why do you care so much?’ she says. ‘What is it that you want? The painting, or something else?’
‘I wanted to save the house,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But I failed. The only thing I still might be able to do is preserve its memories. The girl is part of that, surely.’ I sigh. ‘I thought that maybe, you, of all people, might understand.’
She sucks a breath in through her teeth. ‘All I know is that Rosemont Hall is my home.’
‘Not any more, Mrs Bradford.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m really sorry, but not any more.’
*
The freezing rain mirrors my mood as I close the heavy door to the house behind me. Mr Kendall is sitting in his car, the windows steamed up. He rolls one down and gestures for me to get in the passenger side. I do so.
‘Well, Amy,’ he says, ‘it’s been great working with you. I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted, but…’<
br />
‘…but that’s life,’ I finish for him.
‘I’ll give you a call when the probate decree comes through, and if you can get me your part of the paperwork as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Of course,’ I say. I make a move to get out of the car. But I just can’t let go.
‘What about Mrs Bradford?’ I say.
‘What about her?’
‘Should I come back tomorrow? Check that everything’s okay and that she knows what’s happening? Check that she really has moved out?’
‘No.’
The single word is final; the judgement is passed. My involvement with Rosemont Hall has ended. I turn to him and we shake hands. Bowing my head, I get out of the car. ‘Goodbye, Amy,’ Mr Kendall says, ‘and good luck.’
I open my mouth to speak, but the words are lost on the wind. I get into my own car and follow him down the dark, winding drive. I’m leaving Rosemont Hall…
For the last time.
- Part Four -
Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within --
Oh, give me back my HOME!
~ Anne Brontë – ‘Home’
- 30 -
It’s over. There’s nothing I can do.
Except, there is one little fingernails-gripping-the-edge-of-a-cliff thing that I can do. I can phone Jack. After all, I’ve had three missed calls from him after our… meaningless-and-never-to-be-repeated encounter. He’d tried to talk to me before he flew off into the sunset.
I could phone Jack. After all, it’s rude not to.
But I’m not going to.
This becomes my new mantra each morning as I enter the office, checking my emails first thing to see if there’s any word about the Edinburgh teaching job. Mr Kendall is right: I need to move on. I need to forget all about Jack Faraday and Rosemont Hall, turfed-out old ladies, mysterious paintings, buried secrets, and happy endings. The reality is that I’m a 31-year-old single woman working in the profession that everyone loves to hate. I’ve shown that I can adapt, even excel in a new environment. I’ve ‘earned my spurs’ and proved myself. But I never intended this to be my ‘forever job’. I need to focus on an alternative future.
Finding Home Page 23