She finally comes to and snatches the message out of my fingers, immediately reading my translation out in a lowered voice. Her voice colours with each development – first, surprise, then reserved approval, then outright shock and outrage. When she’s finished, she tosses the postcard into the air, glaring at it so intensely I expect it to burst into flames.
‘Polly was right about Oliver. He’s moved quickly too. That’s good,’ she says, pointing her finger at me. ‘But Alastair’s ambivalent attitude is insulting. He intends to visit, does he? Oh ho! He’s got another thing coming, namely a good boxing of the ears.’
The postcard lands at my feet. ‘Did you read the postmark? He sent it from Yorkshire yesterday. Maybe he returned to the estate.’
‘What?’ Oh yes, the countess is enraged. Forget fatigue – she’s definitely awake now. It’s like poking a sleeping dragon in the eye or, in this case, pulling out one of her rollers.
‘I don’t suppose it’s worth giving Father another call?’
‘No. For all we know, it’s a mind game. I have no doubt Al is the author, but perhaps he forwarded it on for posting. He’s always thought himself clever like that.’
I kick at the piece of card, only now registering that the graphic on the other side is an illustrated scene from La Bohème. Oliver must’ve been forthcoming with details. Either that, or Al’s connections extend to within Tilton & Bree – something quite unlikely.
‘This week’s events are too much for my emotional range.’
‘Give yourself some credit, dear. I’m surprised you haven’t been angrier. We’ll just wait one more day and then make a plan once we know what we’re up against.’
I nod. ‘Okay.’
‘Now, let’s finish our tea and scones inside – in the conservatory, perhaps. I’m ravenous when outraged.’ She takes two steps forward before halting and levelling a dark look at the portrait. ‘Oh, sod off! Mark my words, I will replace you with the First Earl.’
All right, perhaps she’s not completely back to normal. I mouth ‘sorry’ to the portrait and usher my mother out of the room before she starts threatening the furniture.
Just another day in the Pembroke household.
***
At nine o’clock on Thursday morning, I join my mother in the main hall, a sense of renewed solidarity silently shared between us. Waiting around for the men in our lives is a role both of us seem to resent at the moment, no matter how necessary or understandable the reasons may be. In this case, the reasons are all a bit of a mystery. My father has also insisted on taking a taxi from the train station and, while it relieves Blair from having to pick him up, who’s to say he won’t take the long way from the station? Kings Cross to Kensington via Vladivostok/Timbuktu/Antarctica. He’s always been a sucker for the scenic route. All aboard the Procrastination Express!
Blair stands by the front door, his composure a stark contrast to the restlessness of his employers. While my mother taps her foot in impatience, I shuffle about like an awkward schoolgirl who doesn’t know how to dance. I don’t know what to do with myself. Do I start off with anger or understanding? Does my father even deserve the benefit of the doubt? Is milling about like this going to seem intimidating to him when he gets here? I’m going to have to wing it, which isn’t exactly ideal when I’m as hot-headed as I am.
‘Let’s talk about something so I don’t go insane,’ I say, planting my feet on the spot. I literally need to ground myself.
My mother holds onto the bannister of the staircase. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’ I glance at Blair, thinking he might be able to help. ‘Care to share some interesting news about… sports?’
‘Sports, m’lady?’ There’s a smile tugging on his lips, but he manages to suppress it.
‘Yes, like cricket or football. Isn’t there a football thingamajig going on at the moment? Euro something or other? UEFA?’
My mother rolls her eyes. ‘What do you take him for? Does he look like someone who cares deeply about that?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Men like sports, don’t they?’
‘Why are you asking me? I married a man who doesn’t even watch television, let alone leave the house. Tell him “the Ashes is on” and he’ll probably think you’re talking about cremation.’
Blair chuckles. ‘Not until next summer, m’lady.’
‘What? The cricket? Or my husband’s cremation?’
I clear my throat. ‘I ask for conversation and we end up talking about death.’
‘If your father doesn’t get here soon, I might just die from anxiety.’ She checks her watch before returning her attention to me. ‘Any word from Oliver?’
I freeze momentarily. Breakfast wasn’t exactly a good time to tell Blair about Oliver possibly giving me another chance. To be fair, with my father due at any moment, I’m not really in a position to handle my personal entanglements with any degree of proper focus.
I answer naturally, avoiding Blair’s gaze. ‘It’s nine o’clock in the morning. He’s at work and probably waiting for Al’s funds to clear. I don’t expect to hear anything until next week.’
‘Surely the money has already gone through. He wouldn’t have sent a cheque.’
‘It’s not just the debt, remember? It’s reputation too. Who knows how he’s going to rationalise that one.’
‘Ugh. True.’
When I do steal a glance at Blair, I’m unable to read anything but indifference. I find myself disappointed, as if I wanted him to be visibly jealous. It’s wrong to feel this way – immature too – but I suppose I’ve become accustomed to his strong reactions.
There’s the faint sound of a car door being shut.
Blair looks through the glass pane on the side of the door. ‘It looks like His Lordship has arrived, suitcase in hand.’
My heart skips a beat. ‘Suitcase? He expects to stay then?’ I cast an eye at my mother. ‘As in, he’s confident you won’t kick him out?’
Mother moves to my side. ‘It’s his house. We shouldn’t be confident of anything.’
She gives Blair the go-ahead to open the door, and within seconds I’m met with the sight of my father walking up the path to greet us. It’s a powerful image, one that invokes childhood memories. Al and me running up to him on a summer’s day… I can’t even remember why he would’ve been out for us to greet him in the first place. Perhaps he’d taken Mother to lunch while we were being looked after by the nanny? Or maybe he’d sat through a particularly boring session of the House of Lords, making him understandably eager to get back to his noisy children.
There’s a major difference between these memories and the today’s version of my father, however. The man I’m looking at now seems void of joy: his gait is defeated and his shoulders are slumped. He looks out of place in his light-grey suit, like an impostor stepping foot on someone else’s property. Even Blair looks more at home, and he’s only been here a month.
My mother and I exchange worried looks. No child wants to see a parent in this harrowed state.
He makes it up to the final step, offering the two of us a brief smile before turning to shake Blair’s hand.
‘Ah, you must be Blair Baxter. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like you to take my suitcase up to the green bedroom. Do you know that room?’
Blair accepts the suitcase. ‘Yes, m’lord. I shall take it up this instant.’
‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like some privacy. I hope you’ll be able to busy yourself while I speak to my family.’
‘Yes, m’lord. I have plenty to do.’
‘Good man.’ He steps into the house and closes the door with a gentle thud.
I’m sure my mother and I are thinking along the same lines. He sounds more like a hotel guest than an earl. The mention of the green bedroom doesn’t bode well either – even Blair knows it’s Al’s room.
I think of a thousand scenarios in the time it takes for Blair to disappear up the stairs. The three of us are alone now. Any
thing could be said. Anything could be done.
‘Millie, how lovely to see you,’ he says, some warmth in his voice now.
I wanted to be rooted to the spot before, but now I’m unable to move. He seems frightened of me.
My mother elbows me in the ribs. ‘Don’t be rude. Greet your father.’
‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry.’ I step forward and give him a hug, only to find his grip much stronger than usual, almost vice-like.
He kisses my forehead when we untangle. ‘My, my. You look more and more beautiful every time I see you.’
‘Thanks.’ I then do something I hardly ever remember doing in the past. I look back at my mother for guidance. Her expression doesn’t offer any comfort, nor does it encourage me to act in any particular way, but at least I know she’s still there.
This development is met with a frown on my father’s part. It must be confronting to witness such a thing.
‘Have you seen Alastair?’ I ask. ‘I tried his old mobile number, but of course it didn’t connect. I have reason to believe he might be near home.’
His frown lines become more pronounced. ‘No, I haven’t.’
I step back, unsure as to whether or not I can trust him. If he’s been withholding information recently, then perhaps he’s comfortable hiding an encounter with Al – the son he disowned.
I take a step to the side this time, allowing my parents to face each other. Father takes his hat in his hand and holds it nervously in his hands, his fingers unable to stay still. In the past, I would peg the gesture as romantic. Now, not so much.
‘Caroline.’
I’ve never heard her name announced with such simultaneous regret and affection. It’s likely she hasn’t either – her hands are clasped behind her back, but I can see her wringing them tightly.
Finally, she speaks. ‘Let’s retire to the lounge. I would offer you tea, but you sent my butler upstairs.’
‘Yes, that sounds –’
He stops talking when she suddenly turns her back to him and walks away. I begin to follow her, but not before seeing the profound sadness in his eyes. It’s a look that haunts me as we walk down the corridor, doubling the trepidation I feel.
The lounge is a windowless, closed-off area with no connecting doors. When its door is shut, it’s just you and whomever you’re with. The walls are a light mint – not as green as Al’s room – and the furnishings made of heavy, dark wood. It’s one of the only rooms in the house that doesn’t bear a family portrait. Instead, there’s a smaller version of the painting up in the mural room, the estate bathed in sunlight.
It’s not quite the focal point of the room, but it hangs there looking impressive, always in the background.
Mother and I sit on one settee, with Father taking the one opposite. It’s not as if she and I are huddled together, yet the implication is the same. We are the ones waiting. We’ve been waiting together.
She’s had enough of the delays. ‘So, what’s going on?’
He flinches, as if her tone has given him an instant headache. You’d think he’d been tortured by the exact frequency and intonation for years, which is of course what he’ll probably allege if they were serious about divorce.
‘I have to admit to some serious failings.’ He leans forward, rocking slightly. ‘I can’t express how sorry I am.’
‘Serious failings?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘What does that mean?’
He sighs, twiddling his hat again. After a few seconds, he casts it aside, resting his hands on his knees instead. ‘I’ve always considered it my duty to provide for you. For all of you – Alastair’s exit the exception, of course. It’s been my job to oversee the estate and to budget what liquid funds we do have.’
The more tormented he becomes, the more sick I feel. It’s akin to falling over in slow motion, when those few seconds between imbalance and impact last for what seems like much longer. I hold onto the underside of the seat in an attempt to brace myself, but the unpleasant sensation remains.
My blood pressure begins to creep up, tension also building in my neck. ‘So there is a problem with our funds?’
He clears his throat. I don’t exactly appreciate the stalling tactic. It only makes me more impatient.
‘Silsbury Hall has always been an expensive property to maintain,’ he says. ‘It’s never been easy.’
‘Yes, we know that. But what’s the problem now? We’ve been breaking even for the last several years. What changed?’
My mother bristles. ‘Watch your tone, Millie.’
I grit my teeth. ‘I am watching it.’
We turn to glare at each other briefly before my father resumes.
‘Well, let’s go back a bit, to five years ago when we needed to invest in all that reparatory work…’ He falters, his eyes darting to the ground, to the ceiling and back to us. ‘Gosh, the council was difficult. We had all those hoops to jump through before they would approve the repairs. Such is the trial of maintaining a Grade-II-listed property.’
Still sounds like stalling to me. ‘What does that have to do with now? We paid for that ages ago.’
‘Millie, please. Let me explain. The repairs were expensive. I took out a private loan to pay for them, expecting cash flow to be much better once business picked up.’
‘A private loan?’
I bite the inside of my mouth, partly to stop myself from snapping again and partly to remind myself that this is real and not a dream. A loan I knew nothing about. What else was being hidden when I was helping to manage the property and business? I spent years helping him, and all along there were debts only he knew about.
Mother is just as alarmed. ‘From whom?’
‘From friends.’ He clenches his jaw, apparently unwilling to divulge names. ‘Anyway, things got a bit complicated after that.’
She fidgets, uncrossing her legs and crossing them again. ‘Complicated… how? What do you mean?’
‘Yes, what do you mean?’ I repeat, in a firmer tone.
He gestures with his hands – flustered mannerisms that fail to impart any degree of confidence. ‘I panicked when the council delayed approval. I invested a significant portion of the funds in high-risk, quick-return stocks.’
‘You did what?’ Enraged, I jump to my feet and try to steel myself for whatever disaster is sure to follow.
He flinches. ‘I wanted to triple the money – do more than cover initial costs – give us a buffer for the long term.’
‘And how did that turn out?’ I pause for effect, the rage and betrayal egging me on. ‘Let me guess: badly.’
Mother pulls on my skirt as Father’s face crumples in despair. ‘Sit down,’ she says, her voice shaking.
‘I will not sit down! This was kept from me. From us.’ I keep my eyes on my father. ‘How much did you lose?’
Again, he shrinks away, shuffling across the seat when I take a step forward. I bang my shin on the coffee table, causing me to swear. This time Mother is more forceful in her order.
‘Sit down before I force you down.’
‘But this is important –’
‘Sit. Down.’
I sit down, her icy voice chilling my ears. ‘Fine.’
‘What happened, Marcus?’ she asks him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
He swallows, but manages to speak. This time I let him talk. ‘The risk didn’t pay off, and the losses were further compounded by my indecision and the subsequent financial crisis. I’m afraid I’ve lost just over two million.’
My nails dig into the two-hundred-year-old wood of the settee’s frame. Blood rushes to my head and the pounding of my heartbeat echoes in my ears. My vision blurs, focusing and unfocusing on the sight of my defeated father. We’ve lost over two million pounds in a bad investment? And it was borrowed money in the first place? It’s not until my mother’s voice cuts through the din that I realise I’m rocking to and fro.
‘Is that the final figure?’
‘Well, we were already cash poor before
I took the gamble.’ He’s fighting back tears. His bloody pride won’t even let him cry over his mistakes. ‘We’ve had to pay for major expenses, and business hasn’t been going well. Essentially, we’ve been bleeding money… for some time. This house we’re in now – I took out a mortgage on it many, many years ago to keep us going. But eventually I had to take other steps.’
I can feel the fury tingling in my fingers, in my toes, in my chest, like an electric current designed to energise and irritate. ‘You have got to be kidding me,” I say slowly, the shock of it all barely containing my outrage.
A mortgage on the London house? All this time we haven’t been as asset rich as we thought.
Surprisingly, Mother doesn’t echo my sentiment, seemingly keeping it together. ‘But you haven’t lost everything? The debt can be covered?’
He hesitates. ‘In an accounting sense, no, I haven’t lost everything. But in some way, I have. This is the family estate we’re talking about. It was my duty to take care of the place. Unless a miracle happens, our legacy will come to an end. I am deeply sorry. I will never, ever live this down.’
Suddenly, containment is absolutely impossible. I burn with unbridled fury, yelling at him with full force. ‘How could you keep this a secret? We could’ve worked something out! You led us, blind, into ruin!’
‘Emilia, I can’t express how terribly –’ His voice catches, infuriating me further. What happened to my strong father, the one who could do no wrong? The one who never lied to me?
‘You let me manage the business with you, when all along we were never even close to breaking even! Did Al know about this? Did he know to get out while he still could?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
‘That’s my inheritance! You should’ve said something. Stopped me from travelling. Stopped me from studying again. Made it clear I needed to get a real job instead of bookkeeping for an estate that’s about to be sold off due to mismanagement.’
He buries his head in his hands. He’s incapable of facing me.
Tears of anger prick my eyes, feeling like acid when they eventually stream down my face. ‘I trusted you. I’ve always trusted you.’
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