Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  She couldn’t go back downstairs until Prue had simmered down. Instead she wandered into her grandmother’s old room.

  Margaret had been busy here too. The half-tester bed with its ornate carvings had been polished, the drapes cleaned. The mirrors on the dressing-table sparkled and each dainty brass handle gleamed. Even the old-lady smell had gone, replaced by a faint whiff of lavender.

  Charity sat down on the stool in front of the dressing-table, picked up one of the silver-backed hairbrushes and ran it through her hair, absent-mindedly. She was thinking of the day Uncle Stephen sent her up here to get Grandmother’s jewellery box. It was in the bank vault now. What would they do with them? She couldn’t see either Prue or herself decking themselves out in such valuable things.

  ‘Perhaps Prue and I could have one of these each, though,’ she murmured, studying the intricate design on the brush. Like the sapphire earrings, they came from Grandmother’s family, possibly made by the silversmiths Grandmother had told her about.

  Charity’s mother had been conceived and born in that bed. Was she kept by her grandmother’s side in those early days, in the ancient rocking crib she’d seen years ago in the nursery? Or did Grandmother pass her over at birth to a nurse and only look at her once she was fed and changed?

  Charity smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She had put on the few pounds she’d lost after the accident and her skin had a rosy bloom which owed nothing to makeup. Her breasts were fuller too, pushing out her cream sweater. Turning sideways she studied her stomach: it was as flat as a board now; hips as narrow and boyish as always in her tight jeans, but inside a tiny life was growing by the hour. She hadn’t even told Rob yet. For now, it was just the most delicious secret to be savoured by her alone.

  Charity had felt the moment of conception even though she knew most people would laugh at such a claim. Rob had taken her to a remote cottage in Wales for a weekend six weeks ago and they’d made love on a rug in front of a log fire. There had been so many memorable nights of love with him, but that had been the wildest, the sweetest of them all. A storm broke while they were lying in each other’s arms and although the tiny cottage was quivering with the force of wind and rain she had never felt such perfect peace or safety as she had that night. Rob had carried her into the bedroom later because she’d laughingly claimed she couldn’t move.

  ‘I’ll allow you to be idle tonight,’ Rob said, tucking her in with such tenderness it made her want to cry. ‘But don’t make a habit of it.’

  Now she knew why she hadn’t wanted to move. That microscopic sperm was swimming towards its goal, maybe even at that moment it had fused with her egg, creating the greatest gift of all: their child.

  The elation had grown daily since that night, blissful hours spent dreaming of what was to come. This child would be the distillation of everything they felt for one another.

  She turned on the stool, reminding herself that maybe it was only a nesting instinct that made her so adamant about not living here, and studied the room carefully.

  Setting aside the fact that this room was Tudor, the oak panelling and the tiled fireplace both original, there was the furniture to consider. If the house was sold, what would become of it? It was all too big and ornate to put in a smaller place. Yet could she really face seeing it auctioned off? To see family history wiped out at the drop of a mallet? She might not care personally about any of these pieces, but Prue and James might come to resent her cavalier attitude in years to come.

  ‘Americans would love to stay here,’ she mused, imagining the room made more sumptuous with fitted carpets and an en-suite bathroom fitted into the closet that led off it.

  An image of Bermuda-shorted people made her smile. They would be clicking their cameras non stop, asking if there were ghosts and secret passages, and ‘Did Charles I really stay here? In this bed?’

  She thought of the library, the drawing room with its magnificent fireplace and Gothic ceiling, the gracious dining room, all crying out to be used and seen. Then there were the north wing, shut off for so many years, the octagonal chapel, the outhouses, the stables which hadn’t seen a horse for over thirty years.

  An idea was coming to her, images jumping into her mind so fast Charity felt a surge of excitement. She jumped up and ran out of the room, wanting to tell Prue and James straight away, but knew she must think it through first.

  She opened the doors of all the bedrooms, viewing them as dispassionately as a tourist would. They all had attributes of one kind or another, whether it was sloping floors and beams, amazing old beds fit for royalty, or just stupendous views over the surrounding countryside.

  Closing the doors she walked down the corridor, past the spiral staircase which led to the attic rooms once occupied by servants, and opened the door that led to the north wing.

  She paused, hands sliding over the massive oak-framed doorway. It was icy cold here and smelt musty. Someone had put in electric light, but the naked bulb overhead was dim, making the passageway almost ghostly.

  For a moment she was deterred, especially when the door swung to behind her with heavy finality. Her feet echoed on the uneven stained wood floor, which creaked ominously as she attempted to soften her step. The first two rooms she came to had no light bulbs and all she could make out was old-fashioned bedsteads, the mattresses long since thrown out.

  The time warp was complete. These rooms were unchanged since this part of the Priory was added in 1666. She could imagine little maids scurrying in and out, helping their mistresses to arrange their hair, lace up their stays; she could even see men in velvet doublets with huge lace collars.

  Another staircase led down to the chapel and all those other rooms untouched for years. Once when this was a nunnery a church and cloisters had stood down below, but these had been demolished during the dissolution of the monasteries and the buildings converted to a manor house.

  Charity stopped in the passage where oil paintings were stacked against the wall, and tentatively lifted the layers of sacking and newspaper. When she had come here all those years ago she hadn’t had even a shred of interest in all those gloomy pictures of previous owners of the house, but now she wanted to see them. As she pulled back the covers and found a severe-looking military man staring disapprovingly back at her, she laughed aloud.

  ‘Thank goodness someone had the presence of mind to take them down and protect them,’ she said aloud, her voice echoing in the dusty passage. The gilt frames were undamaged, and though candlelight and big fires had dulled the colours, she knew a restorer could bring them back to life.

  Finally the nursery wing right at the end. An old rocking horse, a wooden cart big enough to be harnessed to a small pony, a tiny table and minute chairs made with love stood in the playroom. Next door in the schoolroom, where the young Stephen and Gwen had had their lessons with a governess, the small lift-top desks were still in place, dust almost concealing the gouges made by pen nibs. Someone, perhaps Toby, had drawn a smiling face on the blackboard, there was a huge globe, an old piano and an ancient sewing machine, but perhaps a more poignant reminder of how these children were brought up was the thin, smooth cane still lying on the governess’s desk.

  Charity felt cold now and she turned back without bothering to look in the night nursery or the room that had presumably belonged to the nursemaids. The distance from here to the main part of the house told of parental neglect, and in her present state she didn’t want to dwell on it.

  Once back in the warm main wing, she heard Prue and James’s unexpected laughter wafting up with a smell of roast beef. She stopped at the bathroom to wash her hands. This and the new kitchen installed below were really the only evidence that they were in the 1970s. The old kitchen with its black range and huge pots was still there, shut up for years along with the laundry, stillroom and buttery, all still equipped, unless Margaret had taken it upon herself to have a clearout.

  A bang on the gong startled Charity and she smiled at the pretentiousness of being ca
lled for dinner in such a way. Uncle Stephen had insisted on it, even when he was the only person being summoned, because it had been used when he was a boy.

  As Charity walked down the stairs, James and Prue were coming out of the drawing room. Prue looked up at Charity and smiled bleakly, as if she felt she ought to apologise but didn’t know how.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Charity beamed reassurance at them. ‘I’ve had a brainwave. I’ll tell you over dinner.’

  On top of all Margaret’s other talents she was a marvellous cook. The roast beef was perfect, pink and tender, the Yorkshire pudding light as a meringue, the vegetables from the garden.

  The dining room was at its best at night. Heavy curtains covered the windows on to the garden, and the high ones at the front of the house twinkled in the light from the candelabra placed on the Jacobean sideboard. The heavy old table squeaked with polish, silver from four generations was burnished to a mirror finish; each crystal glass spread prisms of light around it.

  Charity waited until they had almost finished the first course. Margaret had left an apple pie and cream on the sideboard and they could make coffee themselves later. She had made small talk so far, waiting for the right moment.

  ‘Come on then, sis!’ James sounded so much like Toby, full of impatience.

  ‘Suppose there was a way we could keep a bit of this place, but have none of the headaches …’ Charity looked at both of them in turn. ‘Would that satisfy you?’

  ‘Don’t even suggest turning it into flats,’ Prue said dismissively. ‘That would be an abomination!’

  ‘Not flats.’ Charity smiled at her sister’s description. ‘We could sell a lease on the house to a company that wanted to make it into a country house hotel. That way it would still be ours, but with rent coming in and a hefty lump sum.’

  Prue’s face wore a guarded expression, but James’s face broke into a wide grin.

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ he agreed. ‘We could always get it back if we wanted to.’

  ‘But no one would want it like that,’ Prue snorted. ‘They’d be too scared of investing in something they didn’t own outright.’

  In Charity’s talks on salesmanship one of the things she had always stressed was that counter-argument was the first step to winning a sale. All she had to do now was show Prue she was mistaken.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Charity said evenly. ‘A renewable lease for, say, ten-year periods is enough security. Aside from adding a few home comforts to the closed-up wing, redecoration and stuff, it’s in pretty good shape. It only needs someone with a bit of imagination and flair to make it work. Can’t you imagine Americans just falling over themselves to stay here? Stephen’s room would make a wonderful bar, the drawing room would be perfect for a residents’ lounge. The scope is enormous.’

  ‘Maybe. But how would we find someone like that?’ Prue smirked, as if wanting to shoot the plan down in flames.

  ‘I bet they’d be coming to us in droves once I put the word out,’ Charity said confidently. ‘I know dozens of businesspeople who’d jump at the opportunity.’

  This was a white lie, but she did know how to go about advertising in the right quarters.

  ‘But I’d hate not being able to come here,’ James said quietly.

  Charity was chastened. She often forgot that Prue and James had spent many an idyllic holiday here and they had been indoctrinated by both Grandmother and Uncle into loving the Priory as they had. She had no wish to spoil their memories, or to harp on about the negative attributes of the family. Yet she had no intention of martyring herself either.

  ‘There’s nothing to stop us converting one of the stables into a holiday home for us to share,’ Charity dropped in, picking up their empty plates and stacking them on the trolley. ‘Now wouldn’t it be nice to have a smaller place where we could all be together, or share with friends? None of the hassle of mowing lawns, doing the garden or thinking about staff. A place we could bring our children in years to come.’

  She dished out the apple pie, waiting for a response. Once they’d bitten the cherry she could illustrate her idea more fully, talk of the paintings and furniture being restored, inventories made and how the business side of it would be conducted. But for now she only wanted enthusiasm.

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ James burst out, his eyes sparkling. ‘Especially the idea of a holiday home.’

  ‘What about you, Prue?’ Charity laid one hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘We have to be in complete agreement or it’s a non-starter.’

  When she didn’t answer immediately Charity felt certain she was planning a hostile reply. But to her surprise Prue lifted her hand to cover Charity’s and stroked it almost tenderly.

  ‘It is a good idea,’ she said slowly, her wide mouth moving into a real smile. ‘I can see a great many flaws in it, but no doubt you’ll work on those.’

  Charity hugged her sister impulsively.

  ‘We’ll iron them all out in time,’ Charity said gleefully into Prue’s hair. ‘We’ll have to speak to the trustees and get legal advice, but time’s on our side and we’re three very rich people already.’

  Prue was silent as she ate her pudding, unaware of James prattling on about how great it would be to see the whole house open, or how even Uncle Stephen might actually applaud this plan.

  ‘What is it?’ Charity said at length. ‘Tell me, Prue?’

  ‘I was just thinking about how it was back in Greenwich.’ Prue’s eyes held a glint of tears. ‘In those days we only cared about having a few sweets – now, we’ve got so much.’

  In a flash Charity knew just what her sister was getting at. All those other poor children who had no hope of ever getting a taste of good things. Prue had come full circle, as perhaps Charity had too. Having enough money to live comfortably brought peace of mind; too much meant guilt.

  ‘There’s nothing to stop us doing something worthwhile with some of our money,’ Charity said softly.

  Prue’s eyes flashed and for a moment Charity thought she’d read her sister wrongly.

  ‘Like what?’ Prue said. ‘Give it to an orphanage or something?’

  That word orphanage struck a chord in Charity’s brain. Until that second there had been nothing but the need to appease Prue’s conscience and to get shot of the house in a way that suited them all. But now another idea was forming and this time she even felt she would like to take an active part.

  ‘Suppose we started some sort of holiday home for inner city children?’ she blurted out, images rushing into her head so fast she felt almost dizzy. ‘Not necessarily here. Maybe by the sea.’

  A bright light came into Prue’s eyes and Charity saw that for all her past snobbishness, deep down there was a caring, committed woman who loved children.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Prue asked.

  Even though Charity hadn’t had time to consider the idea, one look at her sister’s rapt face told her it was a good one.

  ‘I think so,’ Charity grinned. ‘It would be fun, wouldn’t it?’

  She could see it. A comfortable biggish house with a couple of paddocks and maybe even a small wood. Dormitories for the smaller children, older ones in tents. Young students helping out for the summer, camp fires and picnics on the beach. So maybe they’d have to set up some sort of charitable trust to keep it running, but she could get businessmen to make donations.

  ‘I’d like to run something like that,’ Prue said breathlessly, blue eyes dancing with real pleasure. ‘Let’s make it happen, Chas. Don’t let’s just take, like all the other Pennycuicks. We have a duty to those less fortunate than ourselves.’

  It was on the tip of Charity’s tongue to say that Prue had inherited her father’s pious turns of phrase, but that would demean her sister’s altruistic intention.

  ‘We’ll plan it all together,’ Charity said, taking one of her sister’s hands and one of James’s. ‘Now suppose we go and raid the cellar and find a bottle of the best claret?’

  ‘Rob’
s here!’ Prue yelled up the stairs the next morning. ‘But don’t you go running off with him without making arrangements for Christmas!’

  Charity flew down the stairs. She hadn’t slept well without him beside her and her mind had been churning over the plans they’d discussed the night before.

  She reached the porch just as one long leg snaked out of his green Volkswagen. Rob’s face broke into a wide smile as he saw her.

  On their first meeting in the hospital Charity had been struck by his improved looks since they’d first met as teenagers. She’d been surprised by his height and by his increased confidence. Through all those dark, troubled days he’d been there, listening, prompting and soothing, and his face had grown dearer to her daily. But now, perhaps because of the two-day separation – the first since they’d become lovers – she saw him as others must.

  Frosty sunshine dancing on untidy butter-coloured hair. Speckly brown eyes sparkling with laughter and a mobile, expressive mouth that showed his easygoing nature. But there was more to him than an attractive face and lean, strong body. He was a man with deep understanding of others, warmth and sincerity, mingled with intelligence and wit. She could count on him, build a future with him, and somehow she knew that even when they were old and frail they would be as close as they were now.

  ‘It’s good to hold you,’ he said into her hair as she threw herself into his arms. ‘These two days have seemed endless. How are things here?’

  ‘Good.’ She lifted her lips to kiss him. His worn leather jacket smelt of Albemarle Mansions, his neck and face of shaving soap and a hint of woody cologne. ‘I’ve had a brilliant plan, but I’ll tell you that later. But for now I want to tell you something else.’

  ‘Not that you’ve gone off marrying me?’ He held her at arm’s length, his face taking on a mock-devastated expression. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve decided to stay here and become a spinster?’

  ‘Come round to the Italian garden,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘If we go in, Prue will start on about Christmas again.’