Despite the image she tried to present to the world, Edwina had grown up in more modest, though to my understanding still well-to-do, circumstances and had inherited the bulk of her money from an uncle who had become rich from inventing some sort of glue. She would have been considered new money, but she’d leveraged the capital she had into a very good marriage and respectability with Lord Preedy, who came from a very old family whose finances were distinctly threadbare and in need of cash to fund the upkeep of the family home.
Arthur was gentle and softly spoken, and I’m not entirely sure he was all there, so to speak. A few sheep may have been missing from the top paddock, to use a distinctly Australian colloquialism. Still, he was perfect for Edwina as he didn’t seem to mind being bossed about continuously. There must have been some deep seated insecurity in Edwina to need to control everyone, but she made a particular effort to punish me for the crime of marrying her son. I think she had decided the way to do that was to appear to the manor born by continually implying my inferior status, having come from the colonies. I just kept the smile on my face, and focused on being sunnily charming, which unsettled her more than allowing her to see that she bothered me, which I’m sure she would have enjoyed.
Still, she had helped us buy our house when we married; otherwise there was no way we would have been able to afford an admittedly run-down terrace in Chelsea. A ridiculous amount of time, love, and money later, we had something truly beautiful to live in, and it gave me pleasure every time I walked in the door. I just had to remind myself what I was grateful for when she became particularly painful.
Mind you, there were times when I wished we could have just bought what we could have afforded at the time and not had to owe her the money. Any time she came to visit, she would run a proprietary hand over the woodwork and tell me what I needed to change. I had to try not to throw myself in front of her to stop her molesting my house.
It’s hard to enjoy Christmas when someone is hissing at you that you are devil spawn at least once a day. I’m not sure exactly what I’d done to become evil incarnate, except marry her son, thereby cutting back the thorny tangle of the umbilical cord. I’d say it was my career, but she was like that from the beginning. At first, I took it to heart, but after being nothing but pleasant and accommodating, I’d had to conclude that it wasn’t me. Still, I kept giving in to all but the most ridiculous requests, but her playing the “it is her last Christmas” card was wearing a bit thin, given she looked in the pink of good health and it had been ten years since she’d first tried to convince us she was on death’s door.
So, there we all were, sitting around this draughty old pile, pretending to enjoy each other’s company and that there was nowhere else we would rather be. Our boys, being teenagers, were masters at wriggling away, and I hadn’t the heart to subject them to more of it than absolutely necessary. I would have escaped if I could too. The immaculate house was more museum than comfortable retreat, and it was too cold and miserable to go out. I pretended to be engrossed in my book and drank a lot.
On the morning of Boxing Day, I gently pulled the long floral curtains back so they rested behind the brass circles beside the window, unbarred the wooden shutters, and opened the room to the gray light of a winter morning, relieved that Christmas was over once again and we would be going home today. Jack had already left to go down for breakfast, and I had a few minutes of peace to myself before continuing the happy family farce.
I watched the river flow silently on the far side of the open fields which lay beyond the formal gardens. Sheep grazed in the distance, unaffected by the cold, their black faces impassive. The view was distorted slightly as I turned my head, the glass so old it was pooling slightly at the bottom and creating small ripples in the middle of the panes. I looked at the flocks of gray and black birds wandering the sky, silhouetted against the streaky clouds. I had no idea what they were called, whether they were pests or helpful to the farmers.
I couldn’t imagine ever being more than a stranger here, in this house that was built before Australia had even been founded. The foundations the house was built over were even older, the stone floors concave with the passage of feet and time. As beautiful as it was, I had never found Clouston Hall mentally comfortable. There are too many memories here, and they are not mine in any sense. Paintings of angelic blond children hung in hidden corners, no names or dates to identify them to outsiders. They freaked me out a little, not knowing what had happened to them. Were they represented in paintings somewhere else, grown to adulthood? Or were they reminders of tragedies that had befallen my husband’s ancestors? Had their mothers stood before these paintings and cried, or had they looked on them with nostalgia and pride at the men and women they had become? I don’t think Jack would have understood my discomfort with the paintings, and one crazy lady in the house was more than enough.
When I first came to this house, I thought I was entering the world of Austen, but it only took a few years to recognize that it was more Brontë. The melancholy and madness barely suppressed that came with this ancient, isolated house made me want to run screaming back to the comfort of the city with its perpetually renewing youth and bright lights and availability. The stillness and quiet that I thought I should enjoy was just a little too complete and serious. I was not bred for this. Maybe if I’d been brought up somewhere less sunny, where old didn’t mean something from the sixties, I would have loved it unconditionally rather than ambivalently.
Still, there was no certainty I would ever have to live here. Edwina was forever changing who she was leaving the money to, and without the money, there would be no hope of keeping the house. Jack was the elder son and, without a major trip off the rails, could not be prevented from inheriting the house and the title. However, Edwina held the purse strings, savvy enough to have kept control of her money in the marriage. She was just mad enough to not care what happened after she was gone and vindictive enough to make life difficult for Jack, if the mood struck her on her deathbed. Jack was attached to the house, and it would kill him to have to sell it. At least it would be protected and not demolished, but like so many of the stately houses, it would lose something by no longer being a family home if he was forced to give it up.
Unfortunately, Edwina picked this morning to corner me and confide her intentions, almost like she was trying to reassure me—or win me over. God knows why, though. There was no possible way that I would take her side over Jack’s.
“I will leave Clouston Hall to you and Jack,” Edwina said solemnly, grabbing my hand and giving it a pat as we sat at breakfast. Unfortunately, we were alone as the menfolk had already left to look at a horse or a ewe or something. Edwina’s words would have meant more if I hadn’t known she had said exactly the same thing to Crispin, who had revealed her intentions when drunk last night.
“Thanks?” I said, not sure exactly how to respond to that. If you were too enthusiastic, surely that implied to the person you would be happy when they were dead. But if you responded in the negative, then you were dismissing their gift. Hmm, tricky. Crispin was her favorite and unmarried as yet, but once he had children, I don’t know if she would be able to help herself, whatever she had said before. As long as Crispin didn’t marry someone as unsuitable as me. She was even more protective of him than Jack and her reaction likely would be worse. Only an English princess would be good enough for her darling, not that he would even be in the running. Still, we all have our fantasies.
“Jack is my son, so I love him because I have to, but I don’t like him very much,” she confided in me to my unbridled horror. The inappropriateness of telling me that, as well as the sentiment, was appalling. This was what Jack had grown up with? No wonder he had intimacy issues.
“Excuse me, Edwina. I need to talk to the boys about something.” I could barely restrain myself from telling her exactly what I thought, but I knew Jack wouldn’t appreciate it. I rose and left as fast as possible, deciding to start packing for an early trip back.
IT WAS WITH A SIGH of relief I turned the key in the door of our house and returned to our sanctuary. This Christmas with Edwina had been worse than usual. Next year, I don’t care what happens, I’m taking the boys to Australia, I swore to myself.
After a good night’s sleep in my own bed, I felt restored. The next week flew by in a rush, as I tried to organize two absentminded teenagers to get back to school. I love them dearly, and it is always so quiet when they are gone, though that is when I start breathing again, becoming aware that I stopped while they were home.
“How do you feel about going skiing in France three weeks from now?” Jack asked over breakfast the morning after the boys left. I think he was still trying to make up for our boys no longer living in the house and my loneliness without them here.
“That would be great. I don’t think I have any meetings scheduled. Just us, or should we see if anyone else can come too?” I asked.
“I’ve spoken to Michael and Edward, and they’re keen too,” he replied. I tamped down on my reaction to the fact that he’d spoken to his friends before he’d thought to mention it to me.
“Great. Just the six of us then?” I answered, trying for cheeriness. It wasn’t like I was objecting to the group holiday—Jane and Fiona, their wives, were lovely, and we had been on skiing holidays with them before. Everyone’s children were away at school now, but for many years we had gone on skiing holidays with our whole families.
“Yes. I’ll make the arrangements.” He snapped his paper shut, drained his tea, and, with a quick peck on my cheek, left for work.
With not much else to occupy me, I was able to pack and do the necessary last-minute tasks at a leisurely pace. In seemingly no time, we were touching down in Grenoble and driving to Val d’Isère. A light snow started falling outside Albertville, and by the time we were driving on the road that swept around the lakes of Tigne, it was snowing heavily. Thick flakes played in front of the headlights, seeming to go in almost every direction but down. It was almost mesmerizing, watching chaos in action.
Night was falling when, after two hours, we pulled up outside the chalet to drop off our bags. Jack took the car to the car park across the road where we had reserved a spot for the week, while I waited on the pavement with the bags. I looked around at the village, fairy lights decorating the bare trees, and inhaled the Frenchness of it all: the patisserie across the road and the busy bar next door to it, après-ski patrons getting rowdy, still wearing their ski boots. Possibly Swedes by the look of them, I deduced.
The village had obviously started in the valley and then spread up the sides of the mountain at the back. The general impression it gave was a gingerbread village, dusted with icing sugar, as even the few concrete bunkers didn’t look too bad with a covering of snow. Most of the buildings were a contrast of warm wood and gray stone with sharply pitched rooves, the chairlifts like black webs going up the mountains.
Ladies of a certain age bundled in furs walked past, while children encased in puffy clothing were pulled around on precarious plastic sleds. Skiers tramped in heavy boots along the treacherously icy footpaths and wandered into the path of slow moving vehicles. Quite a few dogs, both large and small, were being walked, and in the true manner of the French, the feces remained on the footpath and slowly froze solid. I looked away quickly to focus on something else.
It was just starting to get uncomfortably cold when Jack returned, and we hauled our bags up to the reception. The chalet was the same one we always stayed at, a typical seventies building recently remodeled into mountain chic, which involved wood with traditional heart shapes cut out in random places like the backs of chairs and doors. We were the first to arrive, so we were told by the hostess, and dinner was at seven thirty. After a leisurely shower (it is amazing how dirty you can feel after just sitting in a plane and a car for a few hours) and change of clothes, we headed back down for a pre-dinner drink in the lounge area. A fire crackled in the corner, so we headed for the closest armchairs to enjoy its warmth.
“Hello, my name is Antoine. I run the bar. What can I get you?” A polite and well-groomed man in his twenties appeared at my side.
“Vin chaud, sil vous plait,” I responded, just being contrary. His English was obviously far superior to my French, but part of me just wanted to try anyway.
“Et monsieur?” he responded politely.
“Moi, aussi,” Jack responded. Jack actually spoke flawless French, at a level I envied, though I lacked the natural ability and dedication to emulate it. When we had gone on our first trip to France, I had found it incredibly sexy. That seemed so many years ago now. We sat there in silence looking at the fire after Antoine departed, the trip so far having exhausted all conversation. We remained silent until his return.
“Cheers,” Jack said, looking over his glass.
“Cheers,” I responded absently.
Within a minute, Jack pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it, and I tried to dampen the instant irritation that sprang up. Instead, I strove to think of pleasant things so I didn’t snap at him, but inevitably, they swung back to the times when I was left less than satisfied with my husband.
We were halfway through our largely silent drinks when some of our friends arrived. Immediately, we stood, and smiling hugely, welcoming the interruption and gaiety they provided. The conversation became lively as the drinks flowed. We were all charming and witty and beloved. We were in company that was fun and pleasant, and the distance we held each other at was pushed back, able to be ignored.
Dinner the first night was raclette, which involves a huge chuck of cheese being subjected to a small bar heater. As the cheese melts, it is scraped off with a special knife onto various cold meats and bread and served with boiled potatoes and salad. Vast quantities of red wine accompanied the meal, and we were soon well into the slightly ridiculous typical dinner party conversation.
Michael McGuiness, a spry and energetic man with electrified hair, had been friends with Jack for years since working together in London. His Scottish accent made everything he said even funnier, particularly when accompanied by a big belly laugh or his customary loud hoot, making him not only look but sound a lot like Mrs. Doubtfire. His wife, Jane, was lovely, kind, and gentle, and as a couple, they were full of life and seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company, which was rarer than it should be.
“Charlize Theron,” he said. “She’s my celebrity out.”
“Daniel Craig,” Jane countered with a smile, to the nods of agreement from most of the women.
“Megan Fox,” said Edward Jones-Smythe, a friend of Jack’s from school. I looked at him in surprise. The thought of big, weathered, country squire Edward with such a dainty slip of a starlet was impossible to imagine. He would crush her accidentally with just one of his large paws.
“Claudia Schiffer,” Jack said.
“You’ve been saying that for years!” I teased him. “This is imaginary; you’re allowed to be unfaithful to your fantasy and change once in a while.” He just smiled and said nothing.
“What about you, Katie?” Jane asked.
“Easy. Anders Larsen. Captain Milton from Bad Ways.” I shivered with pretend delight and laughed.
“Never heard of him!” Mike hooted.
“He is divine, but I prefer Peter,” said Fiona, naming Captain Milton’s goody-goody nemesis on the show.
“No way! He’s too vanilla.”
“Too vanilla?” Fiona laughingly asked.
“You know, vanilla ice cream is nice but a bit boring, like you imagine bedding Prince William would be compared to the naughtier Harry. Captain Milton is like…a sinfully rich, velvety, chocolate ice cream, with something swirled through, maybe a salted butter caramel sauce. I like my men and my ice cream just a little bit wicked,” I said with a wink.
“Woo hoo, Jack!” They all looked at him and laughed. He gave a good natured bow but studiously did not look at me.
“Now I feel li
ke ice cream,” said Fiona, forlornly gazing into her black coffee.
Chapter Nine
THE NEXT MORNING, I opened the curtains in our room to brilliant sunshine and clear blue skies. The large windows looked out upon the valley and the peaks dappled with sunshine, their sharp corners leaving cubes of shade down the face of the slopes. The tree line ended around half way up, giving way to the bare white of dusted peaks.
After a quick breakfast, Jack and I hit the slopes. The crowds had yet to arrive, and the groomed trails were hard-packed from the overnight chill. We almost flew, we went down them so fast. The exhilaration was incredible. All too soon, despite my workouts with Bats, my thighs were burning. We had a quick rest on the chairlift or gondola, and then were going again. When it started to get busier, we stopped for an early lunch.
Sitting on the deck outside the restaurant in the sun, I leaned back in my chair with a glass of red wine and realized I felt good, happy. The vague sense of disquiet I habitually felt was gone. I looked across at Jack and smiled. He smiled back, making slightly crazy eyes, and I laughed. All was good in my world. The gray that permeated our relationship was pushed back, even if only briefly, but it showed me what things could have been like, which was so disquieting it was almost painful and took away my momentary joy.
I quickly looked away, hardening my eyes to the burn of tears which threatened. The thought of the black darkness of being alone made me shudder. Surely what we had was better than that, and there were parts of my life that I really enjoyed and took pleasure in, and throwing it all away just because my relationship with Jack wasn’t perfect wasn’t rational. As much as I tried to reason it away, I couldn’t quite regain my sunny outlook for the rest of the day, and my mood remained slightly cloudy as I went down to dinner alone.
Saint Kate of the Cupcake: The Dangers of Lust and Baking Page 7