Finding Home

by Lauren Westwood

  By Friday morning, the week is almost over, but I’ve made very little progress getting Rosemont Hall and Jack Faraday out of my mind. I’ve tried everything – even attempting to raise the ghost of what I once thought I felt for Simon – in the early days, at least. But all I can muster up is a feeling of annoyance with myself that I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. What I feel for Jack is totally different – and totally pointless. There’s only one thing for it – I must banish Jack Faraday from my head. At my desk I turn on my computer and answer a few emails and enquiries. Jonathan rolls into the office late, gloating about a big sale he’s made of a new-build mansion in Cheddar. I ignore the chat around me and print out some documents related to the sale of the Bristol flat.

  THIS IS MY REALITY.

  By late morning, I’ve had it.

  I grab my handbag and mobile and sneak out the back door to the car park. I sit in my car, bite my lip, and dial the number. His number.

  On the third ring, the dashboard clock catches my eye – it’s 11:30 a.m. UK time, which means that in California it’s—

  I fumble frantically to hang up the phone, but it’s too late. A groggy male voice answers: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Uhhh.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Jack?’ My voice is a squeak.

  A long pause.

  ‘Amy? Is that you?’

  ‘I’m so sorry Jack, I didn’t realise that it’s the middle of the night there. I’ll ring back. I’ll—’

  ‘Amy, why didn’t you return my calls?’

  I hear movement like he’s sitting up, then a click – a light switch? Just hearing his voice makes me dizzy with desire. Which is stupid. Stupid.

  ‘I didn’t know you were going back to America so soon.’

  ‘Yes – but I did try to call you. Something came up here in connection with work. I had to get back immediately. Otherwise, I might have stayed a few more days.’

  A few more days. But then he would have been gone just the same. In a way, I’m probably lucky. Except, I don’t feel lucky – not one bit.

  ‘I wanted to apologise.’ I limp along. ‘I heard about the inheritance tax. Of course you couldn’t keep Rosemont Hall with so much debt hanging over it. I was vain and naïve to think otherwise, I’m sorry.’

  ‘The inheritance tax? Yes, the solicitor did phone about that. Great business for the state, or the queen, or whoever. But how did you find out?’

  I launch into an account of my meeting with Mr Kendall, our conversation, and the newfound cleaning proclivities of Mrs Bradford.

  ‘I didn’t realise that she was your grandmother,’ I say. ‘I mean you didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I just assumed you knew. But anyway, the truth is, we’re far from close.’ He sighs. ‘I never really understood her obsession with Rosemont Hall.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m a little worried about her,’ I say. ‘I think she’s more upset than any of us realise. Change can’t be good for her at her age.’

  ‘She’s moved in with her sister,’ he says. ‘Aunt Gwen has a very nice cottage in the village. When I last talked to her, she seemed fine.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’m being stupid. You know best about her, I’m sure. And besides, no matter who you sold the house to, she’d have to leave, wouldn’t she?’ I laugh sadly. ‘Vacant possession and all that. And as it stands, the sale is all going ahead as you planned. Mr Kendall has the draft contracts drawn up for Hexagon. I met Nigel Netelbaum briefly – that man you were in contact with. I’m sure your grandma will be all right and I’ve bothered you for nothing—’

  Jack begins to laugh softly. ‘Amy Wood, I must say – you’re so different to anyone I’ve ever met before.’ His voice is warm, like a purring cat. ‘The night we had dinner, I felt very strange – like I’d known you for a long time. Seeing you, it was like a door was open before me. To some imaginary place that’s totally different from my real life. A place full of passion and mystery – and just a little bit of the – what was your word? – “barmy” about it.’

  I don’t dare to breathe.

  ‘For a minute I thought that maybe things happen for a reason – that to get on with my life I had to travel halfway around the world to a crumbling old house in England. That maybe some things aren’t rational, but we still just have to go with them.’

  ‘Yes?’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘And then you ran off and slammed that door in my face.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I lament. ‘I didn’t mean it like that— really. I guess I was just… I don’t know. Overwhelmed. Scared too. I just wasn’t expecting anything like that to happen. I wish… well…’ I can’t bring myself to say what it is that I wish.

  He’s silent for a few seconds, and I wonder if I’ve revealed too much. ‘I thought a lot about things while I was on my way to the airport and on the plane back to California,’ he says. ‘I thought how much I’d like to experience more of the world, get outside the sunny little bubble I live in. I had this crazy fantasy that you and I could go around and explore England together – maybe in one of those nippy little English cars. What are they – Minis?’

  ‘Yes.’ I whisper, bubbling inside. ‘And?’

  ‘And… part of me wishes that things had turned out differently.’ He sighs (or maybe it’s a yawn). ‘But coming home, reality hit pretty hard. I realised that my life may not be extraordinary, but at least it’s familiar. My only regret is that I didn’t get to know you better.’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s like I’ve been slapped in the face. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Well…’ he gives a forced laugh, ‘I’ll deal with Gran. You don’t have to worry about her. And I’ll call you, okay – next time I’m in town. I’ll plan a longer trip – maybe in the summer.’

  ‘Okay, Jack. I’ll… I’ll talk to you. Sometime.’

  ‘Goodbye, Amy.’

  I turn off the phone and sit there staring at nothing.

  - 31 -

  The devil makes work for idle hands (or in this case, it’s Mr Bowen-Knowles masquerading as said demon). The next morning I arrive late at the office (terrible traffic, and long line at Starbucks), and find a stack of papers on my desk. My boss is hovering in the waiting area, straightening the home decor and Country Life magazines on the table – my job. As soon as I sit down, he comes over to me.

  ‘Amy…’ his tone is brusque, ‘I need you here at 9am – not ten past.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I take a long sip of my latte, hiding behind the cup,

  ‘There’s a couple who want to view some properties this afternoon. Everyone else is busy, so you’ll do it.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘The details are there.’ He indicates the papers on my desk. There are two brochures, and two Google map printouts. Like a proverbial bad penny, both of the properties are in villages within a few miles of Rosemont Hall.

  I manage to get through the morning occupying myself with trivial things like returning phone calls, typing up client intakes, managing the online listings – all of which I can do in my sleep. Before I know it, it’s well past noon. I gaze at Cinderella’s glass slipper on my desk, and calculate that I’ve survived three more hours of life-without-Jack. Only a countless number left to go.

  Mr Bowen-Knowles comes out of his office and checks the gold watch on his wrist. ‘You still here?’ He frowns. ‘You’d better get your skates on.’

  ‘I was just leaving.’ I grab my coat and my handbag and head out the back way, a sickly smile on my face.

  Just out the door in the car park, I run into Claire. ‘Oh Amy, I think I’ve just sold a whopper of a flat.’ She grins from ear to ear. ‘This could be the one I’ve been waiting for. The mortgage is already in place and they want to exchange this week!’

  I give her a quick hug. ‘That’s great, Claire. I’m so glad.’

  ‘Do you want to have lunch? On me?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m off to do some viewings. Mr Bowen-Knowles is alread
y growling at me for running late.’

  ‘Well, you go knock ’em dead. The market really is picking up.’ She beams. ‘Maybe it’ll be your lucky day too.’

  ‘Maybe. Thanks, Claire.’

  I don’t spoil her mood by telling her the truth – it would take more than luck to turn my day around. It would take a miracle.

  *

  Things do not improve when I get to my first viewing and realise that the house-hunters are my old friends the Wakefields: Mr & Mrs ‘Thatch-costs-too-much-to-insure’, from the ill-fated visit to the Chip cottage.

  When I get out of the car, I’m about to make a joke about main roads and thatch, but it’s clear from Mrs Wakefield’s expression and her husband’s handshake, that they don’t even remember me. I don’t bother to remind them of our previous encounter.

  Remarkably, the viewing goes off without a hitch. The two cottages I show them both have solid slate roofs and substantial front gardens on quiet country lanes. Mrs Wakefield makes the appropriate noises that she’s pleased, and her husband seems happy enough to follow her lead. By the time we leave the second property, I even find myself thinking that if the job was like this all the time, it would be almost enjoyable.

  Feeling brave, I invite them for a cup of tea in Little Botheringford – walking distance from the second cottage. We stroll together down the tiny high street.

  I smell the ‘Cup o’ Comfort’ tea room a half a block before we reach it. Home-made bread, a touch of cinnamon – scones fluffy and thick with strawberries and mounds of fresh cream. After days of not feeling very hungry, suddenly, I’m starving.

  A bell tinkles on the door as we go inside. There’s a nice big table by the window, and we sit down. The curtains and tablecloths are matching chintz, and little doilies nestle underneath the willow-patterned cups. Only two of the other tables are occupied. The white-haired proprietress takes her time sauntering over to us, and we order tea and scones all around.

  The Wakefields are quite familiar with the local area. I take out a map and have them point out their search radius. Mrs Wakefield points to a few neighbouring villages that they like. I promise to keep my eye out for new properties coming to market.

  Then, Mrs Wakefield points to a big green patch on the map: one that I know all too well.

  ‘There’s a big country estate here,’ she says. ‘The owner’s widow died a few months ago. Winford? Winslow? – something like that. Maybe it will open up to the public – it looks like a great place to walk the dogs.’

  I don’t even bat an eyelid. ‘It’s Windham, actually. The house is called Rosemont Hall. Unfortunately, it’s destined to become a private golf course – unless you can find a Good Samaritan with a spare million or four…’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Mrs Wakefield sips her tea.

  ‘Hey, I know that place,’ Mr Wakefield says. ‘I’ve been in insurance for forty years, and so was my father before me.’

  ‘Really?’ I act surprised.

  ‘Dad worked for Lloyds in their Bath office. He investigated all kinds of claims – flushed out fraudsters like a flock of grouse.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He always said that Sir George was one of the worst.’

  ‘Sir George Windham?’ I lean forward in my chair. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was a war hero, so no one was going to doubt his word in any official sense. But it was common knowledge that he was a wily old bastard. Dad couldn’t prove it, but he always thought that Sir George set that fire himself.’

  ‘The fire in the East Wing?’ I breathe a little faster.

  ‘You know your stuff, don’t you?’ He takes a bite of his scone. ‘Sir George tried to pin the blame on some poor servant. But no one believed that.’

  ‘Why would he set fire to his own house?’

  ‘The house wasn’t insured but some painting was. A Renoir, I think.’

  ‘A Rembrandt?’

  He shrugs. ‘Maybe. It was the only one he’d kept when the rest of his collection had to be sold off. The painting was destroyed in the fire – so he said anyway. He made a hefty claim under the insurance.’

  ‘What do you mean by “so he said”?’

  His wife checks her watch. ‘Peter, we should be getting home to the dogs.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says to his wife. ‘But it’s not often I get a captive audience.’ He smiles at me.

  ‘But what about the painting?’ I ask quickly. I grip the edge of the tablecloth. The puzzle pieces swirl around in my head faster and faster, refusing to come together. Sir George planning something. Henry and Arabella assuming it was the ball and unveiling Henry’s portrait. But what if it was something else entirely?

  Mr Wakefield chuckles. ‘Search me. The funny thing was – no one at the party remembered seeing it hanging in the ballroom that night.’

  ‘The Rembrandt wasn’t in the ballroom? Well, I suppose that makes sense. I mean, I saw an old picture of the great hall. That’s where it usually hung… right?’

  ‘Sorry – I don’t know.’

  I think aloud. ‘I suppose the Rembrandt might have been moved out of the great hall, if that’s where Henry’s portrait was supposed to go. Except, there is no portrait of Henry. Just the girl in the pink dress.’

  Mrs Wakefield taps her husband on the shoulder. ‘Peter, I think we should wrap up now…’

  ‘Wait,’ I say holding up my hand, ‘what did your father find? Was there any wreckage – some kind of fragments of the painting?’

  ‘The whole place was a wreck,’ Mr Wakefield says. ‘I do know that they found a gold cigarette lighter. Sir George said the servant used it to start the fire.’

  ‘A gold lighter!’ My mind stops whirling, centring in on the first time I met Mrs Bradford. The insurance people must have returned the lighter to ‘H’, it got mislaid, and ended up woven into a bird’s nest.

  ‘In the end,’ he continues, ‘Dad held things up in red tape. We’re kind of good at that in my business. Heh, heh, heh.’ He winks. ‘Sir George died before anything was paid out. I don’t think the burnt bit of the house ever did get fixed up.’

  ‘It didn’t,’ I confirm.

  ‘The insurance company never did close the case. An open verdict – that’s what it was left as.’

  ‘And what about the servant? Did they arrest anyone? Why would someone do that—? Why would Sir George, of all people, do that?’

  ‘Peter…’ his wife says again. ‘Sorry Ms Wood – my husband can tell his stories all day.’

  ‘Really, I’d love to know more.’

  ‘You’d make a pretty good insurance investigator yourself, young lady,’ he says. ‘Whew, I’m worn out with all those questions.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I am sorry – that I won’t be finding out anything more from him today.

  ‘No worries,’ Mr Wakefield says, standing up. ‘And we’ll ring you about those cottages.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I get to my feet realising that I’d completely forgotten about my ‘day job’ and their property search. ‘And I’ll keep you posted if anything similar comes on the market.’

  ‘Sure, great.’

  We shake hands, and the bell tinkles as they leave the café.

  *

  I sit back down at the table to consider what I’ve just learned. Sir George was planning something – something that involved his Spanish artist friend. It wasn’t Henry’s portrait, because as far as I know, no portrait of Henry was ever done. And the portrait of the girl in the pink dress: Arabella – or whoever she is – I still don’t know for sure if the painting was done in 1899 or the 1950s. Those eyes – they’re familiar somehow. I tap my fingers restlessly on the table. Rosemont Hall hasn’t given up its secrets, and pretty soon it will be too late. I have to find out more. But how?

  The white-haired woman comes back over to my table and I ask for more hot water. I should go back to the office and see if there are any more properties that might suit the Wakefields. But the gas fire is warm and cosy and if I
can just think it all through again —

  ‘I heard what that man was talking about.’

  Startled, I look up. The white-haired woman sets a pot of hot water down on my table.

  ‘He was talking about Rosemont Hall.’ She stacks the plates of crumbs left by the Wakefields. ‘About the fire, and Sir George.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ I stare up at her.

  ‘He doesn’t know the half of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I shift eagerly to the edge of the chair. Maybe today is my lucky day after all.

  The woman puts her hands on her hips. ‘When I was a girl, my mother worked up at the house. Sometimes we used to play there, and when I got older, I worked there when they needed extra help for the parties. They were the most fancy parties and balls you could imagine – Sir George liked to recreate the old days before the wars.’

  She stares at the flickering gas flame. I swallow back a thousand questions, afraid that I might put her off.

  ‘There were so many beautiful people there. My sister and I were mad about the men – ex-soldiers and officers, bankers, politicians up from London. But we were nobody – only the hired help. Sir George ran the house like it was the 1850s rather than the 1950s – everyone in their place.’

  She starts to wipe down a nearby table, but a shadow falls over her face.

  ‘Sir George was a devil.’ She shakes her head. ‘So was his son, Henry. People like us meant nothing to them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The old woman clams up like she’s just remembered she’s talking to a complete stranger. She frowns at me. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?’

  ‘I’m interested in local history, that’s all.’

  The little bell on the door tinkles and a woman with a pram comes inside. Silently, I curse.

  The white-haired woman greets the new customer. They chat for ages about the village school bake sale. I pour more hot water into the teapot, and wait.