by Lulu Taylor
‘So,’ Aunt Geraldine said, after they’d drunk their tea. ‘Caitlyn – that’s a pretty name – do you live in this country?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good. Nicholas’s last lady friend lives in America. I’m glad that you don’t.’
Caitlyn felt her cheeks burst with colour. ‘Well—’
‘Caitlyn’s a lady and a friend – but not a lady friend in the way you mean,’ Nicholas said with a laugh. ‘She’s married for all you know, anyway!’
Aunt Geraldine looked at her. ‘Are you married, dear?’
‘I . . . no. Not any more.’
‘There you are – she’s not married. So one can always hope.’ Aunt Geraldine smiled at Caitlyn. ‘I don’t like to see him alone, and he’s going to need someone to help him take this place on. It’ll be his in a year or two.’
Nicholas said, ‘Oh, I hope not, Aunt Geraldine. You’ve got some years ahead of you yet.’
‘I’m eighty-five, and let’s not pretend that’s young. Someone called me late-middle-aged the other day. Can you believe it?’ She pealed with laughter. ‘I’m old, and that’s a fact. And we might as well prepare ourselves for the inevitable.’
‘Don’t get morbid on me, now. I’m easily depressed.’ Nicholas stood up. ‘I’m going to give Caitlyn the tour. She’s looking for somewhere to live and I thought this might be the place.’
Geraldine looked interested. ‘A new tenant? That’s a nice idea. This house always thrives on young blood.’
‘Like a vampire,’ Nicholas murmured with a sideways look at Caitlyn. ‘Bleeds you just as dry financially too.’
‘What did you say, dear boy?’
‘Nothing, Aunt. We’ll come in and say goodbye before we go.’
‘Do. Enjoy your look around.’ Geraldine waved them off.
Nicholas went over to a door near the fireplace and opened it, turning to Caitlyn. ‘Excuse my aunt, she’s not very subtle in her old age. This way.’
She followed him into a large long hall with a flagstone floor and a staircase to an upper landing. Now she could see the front door and realised that they’d passed from the west wing into the central hall of the house. It felt quite different: the cosiness and warmth was gone. Now it felt cold and uninhabited, despite the furniture.
‘Oh, I see how it fits together.’ Caitlyn gestured to the door they had just come through. ‘So your aunt lives in that wing?’
‘Yes – the smaller part, designed as a complete house when this one was built, but for the younger branch of the family. This bit is empty now. No one here.’
‘And you’re really going to inherit it?’
‘That’s what Aunt has threatened.’ Nicholas looked around. ‘She’s about to sign it over to me in the hope that she’ll stay alive long enough to avoid the inheritance tax. I’d have to sell it then, no question. But’ – he shrugged – ‘the chances are it’ll have to be sold anyway.’
‘Really? But it’s so beautiful!’ Caitlyn looked around, wondering what it must be like to live here.
‘It costs a bomb to run a place like this. There’s no family money, there never was all that much. The estate relied on farming and tenancies, and the land all got sold over the years. So it’ll have to be bought by someone very rich as their country retreat, or turned into a hotel or something.’
Caitlyn looked about. The hall was not so large as to be imposing but full of grace and the grandeur of age. ‘It seems a shame. It feels like it should have a family in it.’
‘There’d only be me – and maybe Coco in the holidays. It needs more than I can give it.’
‘I see that. I do.’ Caitlyn’s attention was grabbed by a large painting hanging in the shadows on the back wall of the hall. ‘Goodness, look at that.’ She walked towards it, staring. ‘That must be the painting you told me about.’
‘According to family lore, it’s by Gainsborough himself.’
Caitlyn stood in front of the painting, enraptured despite the gloom in the hall. ‘It’s beautiful. She’s so sad. A real Gainsborough?’
‘Apparently.’
Caitlyn laughed. ‘I can’t believe it’s hanging here in this deserted room. I hope you’ve got a good alarm system!’
‘It’s pretty secure here. The doors are thick, the windows are leaded, so very hard to break. And Renee sets the alarm every night. But you’re right, it’s a bit ridiculous to have it here.’
‘Why don’t you sell it? It would be worth millions. You’d be able to secure this place.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘True. But I’m keeping it as a bargaining chip just in case I get hit with the death taxes. The revenue might accept it in lieu.’
‘Oh yes. I see. Not a bad plan.’ She looked over at Nicholas. ‘Are you fond of this house?’
‘I love it. My mother loved it too, though she said it could be deathly cold, and they all suffered freezing hands and feet all winter long. She ended up living in Cyprus where it was always warm – I’m sure it was because of this place – but she came back often. She couldn’t stay away for long. She died a few years back. My uncle Harry was in line to inherit it but he died quite young, with no family of his own. Geraldine has been here forever. She taught French at Spring Hall for years and then became headmistress of a local girls’ school. Somehow she kept this place going. And then she told me that I was the one who’d have to take the house on after she died. I know she wants me to keep it in the family – but I don’t want to saddle Coco with it. The chances are that it’ll be sold to a developer or something, and the money will get divided up between all the cousins that are left.’ Nicholas shrugged. ‘Sometimes things come to an end. I think maybe my family’s time here is up, after six hundred or so years.’
‘It seems sad somehow.’
‘Do you want to see the rest?’
‘Yes please.’
They spent an hour wandering around the rooms, most emptied of everything but their basic furniture. Nicholas told her that there were boxes and boxes of things in the attics. On one of the landings, Caitlyn stopped, her attention caught by some unusual plasterwork. Going up to examine it, she saw that it was a pattern of circus figures and dancers among swirls and dashes of decorative work. From a distance it appeared almost Jacobean but close up it was clearly more modern.
‘Look at this, it’s fabulous!’
‘Oh yes. The result of boredom, I think. Apparently there’d been a fire and the old plaster was destroyed. This was done for fun during a very long and dull winter. It wouldn’t be allowed now – just dolloping what you fancy on a wall. The conservation people would be right after you.’
‘It’s lovely. Very Bloomsbury.’ Caitlyn examined the intricate figures, entranced by the details and the energy in them. There was a ringmaster, and a strongman holding his weight, and an acrobat on a wire. A seal balanced a ball on his nose and a lion sat on a little dais. Ballerinas spun and jumped. ‘This is quite a treasure.’
‘Do you think so?’ Nicholas was surprised. ‘I don’t suppose it’s by anyone famous.’
‘I’m interested.’ She took out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures of it. ‘Do you know who did it?’
‘No. But Geraldine might.’
Nicholas showed her the bathrooms and kitchen, apologising for their old-fashioned appearance. ‘They haven’t been done up for years. They function – they just don’t look very smart.’
‘They look amazing,’ Caitlyn said, entranced by the huge old baths with their copper taps, the high-cisterned lavatories, and the old range in the kitchen, next to a newer electric stove. ‘I really love it. I mean, it’s huge and impractical but . . .’ She looked at him with excitement. ‘Would it really be possible to live here – even if just for a while?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure it would. But take your time. Don’t rush into anything. Think it over first. You’d be out here on your own, you know, with only a nonagenarian for company – don’t believe Aunt’s nonsense about being only eighty-five!’
When they went back to the old lady’s sitting room to say goodbye, she was sound asleep so there was no asking her about the frescos. Renee showed them out, promising to give her their farewells.
‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving,’ said Nicholas as they stepped out into the open air. When she heartily agreed, he said, ‘Good. Let’s go to the pub in the village.’
They were finishing up their lunch when Nicholas said, ‘You haven’t really told me yet why you came to Oxford. Is it because you and Max’s dad split up?’
Caitlyn had been enjoying the tales of Nicholas’s life at the college, and was taken by surprise. ‘No, not exactly. I should have said before . . . my husband died.’ She smiled at him, to balance the look of concern that immediately crossed his face. ‘I didn’t mean to say it quite like that, but that’s how it is. He was killed suddenly in a car accident. Max was already at Spring Hall, and I didn’t want to move him. So I moved me instead. And it was a good thing to do. I had had enough of London. We needed a change.’
‘I’m so sorry, Caitlyn,’ Nicholas said in a low voice. He put down his fork, as though eating was now in bad taste. ‘What an awful thing to happen. When was this?’
‘Just over six months ago.’
He looked bewildered. ‘So soon . . . ? You moved here in that time?’
She laughed lightly and said, ‘London houses sell quickly.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I mean . . . I don’t know. You changed your life so fast.’
‘It had been changed for me. Nothing could be more elemental than losing Patrick. Moving house was child’s play after that.’
‘Of course.’ Nicholas shifted a little awkwardly and bit his lip. ‘Well. I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you.’
She could tell that he was uncomfortable now. She wasn’t a divorcee on the lookout for another relationship – if that’s what he’s been thinking – but a widow reeling from her recent bereavement. It put a different complexion on things, she guessed. She wished she could have kept it secret, she’d been enjoying the light-hearted chat that Nicholas now probably thought was inappropriate.
Despite her efforts, they couldn’t get back the easy companionability of before. They paid the bill, going halves, and went back to the car. Once they were on their way back to Oxford, the engine was again too loud for conversation, and she was grateful for it.
‘Thank you for today,’ she said as they pulled up outside her house. ‘I enjoyed it a lot.’
‘Me too.’ Nicholas smiled at her, his brown eyes warm. He seemed to be over the awkwardness of lunchtime.
‘I’m sorry that things got a little gloomy.’
‘Don’t be. And it’s hardly your fault.’
‘I know but . . .’ She sighed.
‘What is it?’ he asked softly.
‘I wanted this to be . . . well, not overshadowed by what’s happened. I carry it round with me all the time. And sometimes it feels good to put it to one side, just for a while.’
‘I understand.’ He smiled at her again. ‘I want you to know that it would be great to see you again – as friends. We were friends once, weren’t we, in the third year . . . remember?’
The words triggered something and a rush of memories descended on her, fluttering images that she’d thought were gone forever.
How could I have forgotten?
For the first two years of their time in Oxford, their paths had hardly crossed. They weren’t tutorial partners; they didn’t go to the same parties or do the same activities. Nicholas rowed for the college and that kept him busy on a different schedule to hers. She remembered going up to the college boat house to watch the races, sipping on Pimms and seeing him go past, his face a picture of intense concentration as he pulled on the oars in perfect time with his crew, their muscles hard and rippling. It had been the first time she’d thought how attractive he was.
‘God, dishy rowers,’ Sara had said. ‘I’m on the pull later, definitely.’
Of course. Sara was there too.
Then, in their third year, living back in college, Nicholas had given up rowing to concentrate on his finals. They’d started to see each other in the library, sometimes sit together at lunch or dinner. Nicholas began coming round to her room after dinner, and she’d make coffee or open a bottle of wine and they’d talk for ages, and she’d feel herself sparkling under his attention. She would wonder if he was going to make a move on her, but nothing ever happened. After a while, he’d gather up his gown and say, ‘Back to the grindstone!’ and head off to his rooms. And she’d think, Oh, he doesn’t really like me. Not like that.
But each time he came back to her room, she’d feel that hum of possibility, the sparking attraction between them.
Where was Sara? Why wasn’t I with her in the evenings then? We were usually together. The thought floated through her mind, distracting her for a moment. Of course. Sara wasn’t there because she didn’t do her finals. She didn’t finish. She dropped out.
‘Caitlyn?’ he asked, prodding her out of her reverie. ‘We were friends, weren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘of course we were.’
‘Good.’ He paused as though on the brink of saying something else, but changed his mind and said briskly, ‘I’ll drop you a line. And let me know what you want to do about the house when you’ve had the chance to think it over. I’ll speak to Aunt Geraldine.’
‘Okay.’ She hardly saw him as she climbed out of the car, her mind was flooded by the rush of images. The memory she had suppressed was suddenly loud and clear in her imagination. ‘I’ll wait to hear. Goodbye, Nicholas.’
‘Goodbye.’
As he drove away, she waved after him, only now able to remember why they had lost touch all those years ago.
Chapter Eighteen
The storm that night was the worst they had ever seen. The windows on the ground floor had new shutters of white, and from upstairs the view across the fields was almost unbroken white as though everything had been swallowed whole by a great white beast.
The wireless, in dramatic tones, reported that the country had been brought to a standstill, that most of England had been swathed in snow and that Scotland was entirely cut off. Temperatures had dropped to record lows, and already there were fears for people stranded in remote villages and hamlets, with plans being made to drop in supplies, for there seemed to be no sign of the cold weather lifting in the immediate future.
Tommy listened, nestling inside her fur coat, keeping as close to the kitchen range as she could while Ada bustled about making breakfast. Tommy had woken to find her bedroom cold, her breath coming out in clouds and the window panes lined with ice. She struggled out, gasping at the chill, and pulled on her clothes before hurrying to find the children.
‘Come on, put on your warmest clothes,’ she urged. ‘And come downstairs as soon as you can.’
Thornton and Ada had not gone home last night as the blizzard had made it impossible so they had stayed over in the old housekeeper’s rooms in Mrs Whitfield’s house.
‘I can’t see us getting back today,’ Ada said, worried. ‘I hope Tatty will be all right.’
‘Tatty?’ asked Tommy, putting a saucepan of milk on the range to heat up, thanking her stars again that the coal had arrived just in time.
‘The cat. She won’t be happy that we didn’t come home.’ Ada shook her head. ‘We shall have to see if we can get back today.’
‘Have you looked outside, darling?’ Tommy asked. ‘It’s got to be six feet deep out there. Thank goodness we got back when we did.’
‘Yes, you were lucky,’ Ada said solemnly, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Any longer and I dread to think . . . Your friend is upstairs, is she?’
‘Yes. I’m sure she and Molly are still sleeping. It was quite a day for them. I put them both in the rose bedroom with fresh hot water bottles. We were all frozen to the bone. I hope Molly has recovered, I was quite worried about her.’ To
mmy looked back at the surface of the milk trembling as it warmed.
‘They said on the news this cold will be here for some time. What on earth shall we do, cut off like this?’
‘I’m sure we’ll be fine, dear, don’t worry.’ Tommy hoped she sounded certain of herself, despite the worry that was eating away at her.
Her mother came into breakfast and announced that she had decided to move back into the main house.
‘It can’t be right, heating my house as well. I know I gave up my evening fires, but if I move across, we’ll save more fuel,’ she said, sitting down at the table, twice her usual size with jumpers, cardigans and a raincoat on. The room was freezing cold, the windows frosted with icy patterns. Tommy wore her fur-lined boots but her toes were still numb and the children wore their outdoor coats and scarves as they munched on toast that had long cooled and gone stiff. Even the boiling cocoa had turned tepid as soon as it came out of the kitchen.
‘Perhaps that’s true,’ Tommy said. ‘But I thought the best thing would be for us all to move into your place, as it’s so much smaller and cosier.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Gerry piped up. She had on a large woollen tartan beret and a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and she held her cocoa mug with fingers wrapped around to extract all the warmth. ‘I keep dreaming of the stove in Mother’s sitting room.’
‘But where would we all sleep?’ Mrs Whitfield asked gravely. ‘I don’t have the room, not with Mrs Hastings and Mr Burton Brown as well. Perhaps we could have made do without them, but as it is . . . and I don’t know when the Thorntons will get back home.’
‘Yes. We’ll just have to cope in here. But . . .’ Tommy frowned. ‘Gerry’s right. Your sitting room is cosier. Let’s close our drawing room and stop trying to heat it when it’s so vast, and we’ll keep your stove going instead. It’s more efficient than the fireplace. It will be a squeeze but at least we’ll have somewhere warm to go. And then you can stay in your bedroom, Mother, it’ll be warmer than any room in this part.’
‘Very well,’ said her mother. She sighed. ‘This weather is astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it.’