Sky Garden

by Jenny Schwartz

  Apparently, they were both practiced at sliding around discussion of their personal histories.

  He concentrated on driving. The journey wasn’t as bad as it could be. Only two hold-ups for roadworks and a traffic jam for no discernible reason. He liked the car’s responsive surge of power when they were free of entanglements. He could have—should have—hired a greener car, but he enjoyed driving.

  “I should have hired a convertible,” he said.

  “Why?” She stared at him.

  “For your 1950s Hollywood glamour. You could have worn those huge sunglasses, a scarf and—” But she was laughing too much for him to continue. He grinned. He liked her for so many reasons, but laughing at the same things was a big part of the attraction between them. It meant their views of the world meshed.

  As he turned into the minor roads that would bring them to Waterhill, he admitted silently to his own curiosity. How would Lanie react to Waterhill, and to Richard and Chloe?

  He could chastise himself on his bad mood on Thursday, but underneath it all, there’d been worry.

  For Richard to say that Chloe was unwell, meant she was seriously ill. Not that you’d know from her cheerful emails and occasional phone calls. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. It wasn’t fair or right, but it frustrated him that she wasted her energy pretending with him. After all these years, there should be honesty. They should have moved beyond his dad’s betrayal of them both.

  The gates to Waterhill stood open. A cattle grid kept the animals from roaming. Rattling over it was a familiar sensation.

  Nick hated that entering the estate felt like coming home. It always had, and he’d never come to terms with it. His rational soul could not believe in ancestral memory or an ancient tie to the land, and yet, no matter how he’d hated and resented the estate, fought his first introduction to it, and fled it, through it all, Waterhill relentlessly welcomed him. Here, he was home, as he was nowhere else on Earth.

  “It’s lovely,” Lanie said.

  The parkland stretched out either side of the long curved drive, dotted with mature oaks and copses of beech and with the rare breeds of sheep that were more pets than livestock. Elms had survived along the drive itself, stately trees planted generations ago, and allowing only a glimpse of the house until suddenly they were there.

  Nick’s heart kicked.

  The house had stood so long on the land that it seemed part of it; a gray, weathered statement of human endurance.

  He halted the car, the motor idling smoothly. He would park around the back, not in the visitor parking for the craft studios, but on the gravel outside the oak-framed garage. However, his foot was stuck on the brake pedal as he studied Waterhill. He lied to himself that his stop was politeness, a chance for Lanie to see it whole, and at its best.

  Sunshine brought a silver lightness to the gray stone and struck fugitive gleams from its windows. The dark slate roof stood out crisply against the blue sky. Most people thought of Tudor buildings as wooden, but seeing their pattern in stone was right to Nick. The house was large, big enough for a Tudor lord to manage his estate from it, to hear petitions and order justice. But it wasn’t overpoweringly, inhumanly massive. He liked the composed quirkiness of its roofline. Convenience and custom, rather than the geometry of later Georgian design, gave it an independent air.

  Waterhill was what it was, and it endured.

  “It’s a home.” Lanie craned her neck to see it all, twisting to take in its setting, as well. “I thought it would be grand, and it is, but it’s not…showy. It’s real.”

  “Yes.” He drove on around to the garage.

  They got out of the car and stood a moment. The back of the house was different from the formal front. Here a few extensions jutted out and you could see pipework and services. To their left, the converted stable block had a subdued bustle of weekend visitors, potential customers for the craft studios.

  “Just think, Shakespeare could have visited.”

  Nick blinked. “Um.” He couldn’t remember dates, and he didn’t know that Shakespeare had ever visited Hampshire. “Possibly.”

  Lanie smiled up at him, delighted, and linked her arm with his. “I’d like the grand tour, please.”

  He smiled back, his careful emotional distance from Waterhill eroding in the face of her enthusiasm. “As my lady wishes.”

  He ignored the shadows moving behind the white lace curtain in the kitchen window. The staff would be curious. When Richard requested lunch for four rather than two, he’d have mentioned Nick’s return. The long-serving staff were as much friends as employees. The demands of Chloe’s illness and disability broke down barriers. Kindness as well as service were required, and Richard, to do him justice, respected and repaid both.

  To Nick, the staff were long-term acquaintances rather than friends. He knew their first loyalty was to Richard and Chloe. Nonetheless, they took an interest in Nick, and definitely in Waterhill’s future. They’d be curious about Lanie, the woman who accompanied him.

  So he avoided the kitchen and led her to the Steward’s Door. It was the entrance to the back rooms where the business of the estate was conducted. The estate manager and his assistant had rooms, as did the head gardener, forester, game keeper and general handyman. The estate was a substantial business operation.

  The hallway was made narrow by the row of coats hanging on hooks, with boots stowed beneath them. Waterhill could outfit anyone for any weather. Beyond the entrance, doors stood open along the corridor, showing offices, break rooms and a storage area.

  Nick set a slow pace, letting Lanie look around as the corridor dog-legged. “Your era.” He grinned at her. “Nothing’s really changed from the 1950s.” Clear away the modern paraphernalia of computers, phones and a coffee machine, and the clean lines and practicality of the rooms was from half a century ago. It worked and it appealed to the people who used it, so no one bothered to update the rooms to twenty first century edginess.

  “I never thought how much work running a place like this must be.” Lanie was obviously imagining the rooms filled with weekday activity.

  “Diversification—forestry, farming, rare breeds—adds to the chaos. And then there’s the maintenance of the house itself.” He paused with his hand on the door that marked the end of the converted servants’ quarters and the beginning of the house’s original public rooms. “Ready?”

  “For what?”

  He pushed open the door. “The Great Hall.”

  The hall had been built to be the heart of the house and of the estate. It was here that the original lord of the manor would have heard petitions and ordered justice. The room was high and vast with an imposing hearth to match. Stonework was exquisitely carved with forest creatures and woodland foliage. Expensive reproduction tapestries covered the uncarved stone walls and helped to muffle the echoes of the vast space. The furniture in it was set out in conversational groupings with plenty of room for Chloe to navigate her wheelchair across the worn flagstone floor.

  “Chloe!” Nick jolted, unprepared to see her waiting in a patch of sunlight from the high windows, and looking as she did.

  Richard rose from a chair near her, but Nick barely noticed. Shock gripped him because Chloe didn’t appear merely sick. She looked deathly.

  He kissed her cheek, trying to hide his appalled reaction.

  Chloe smiled up at him. “We’ve spoiled your surprise, but Richard thought I’d want to be up and dressed to meet you.” Her confiding smile included Lanie who stood to Nick’s right, and a step behind. “I’m a dreadful lazybones.”

  Nick performed introductions automatically. Chloe was so much more than a stepmother. He loved and respected her. Normally frail, now she looked translucent. Blue veins were prominent in her thin hands as they rested in her lap.

  Over her head, he met his dad’s watchful, sad gaze, and looked away. Too much pain. Nick struggled with himself. Richard had warned him, and he hadn’t listened. Not properly, or he’d have been prepare
d. And this wasn’t about him.

  Chloe would hate a fuss.

  He had to match her gallantry and pretend that this was a casual weekend visit, no matter that the world had rocked under his feet.

  Lanie tucked her hand into his arm, and her voice was warm and friendly. “You have such a beautiful home, Chloe. You must tell me its history and how on earth you’ve furnished it to feel homely when it’s so grand.”

  Nick squeezed her hand against his side, fiercely glad for her presence.

  It was difficult to chat naturally, but having observed the tense encounter, compassion meant Lanie couldn’t leave her hosts to struggle alone. She’d felt the jolt that went through Nick at the sight of Chloe, and she guessed the reason. The woman looked devastatingly ill, but she was trying with all she had to pretend that everything was well.

  The reason for Mrs. Smith’s respect for Chloe Tawes became obvious: courage.

  Despite her evident weakness, Chloe’s hair was a perfect shade of fine golden blonde and carefully styled. Her expensive make-up disguised something of her gauntness and sunken eyes, and her pale blue cashmere twinset had been chosen to match those eyes. Most of all, she was happy. Her smiles at Nick were loving, her reliance on Richard dignified and appreciative, and she made certain that Lanie knew herself welcome.

  A woman of courage deserved support, and Lanie gave it. She would have sat, uninvited, to bring herself to Chloe’s seated height, but Richard forestalled her.

  He apologized perfunctorily, but said they’d be eating early. The intent was obviously to conserve Chloe’s energy.

  Nick and Lanie said hurriedly that they were hungry, talking over each other in their need to be convincing and polite.

  Chloe’s small smile held a tinge of sadness that indicated she saw through the ploy, but she swiveled her electric wheelchair and led the way to the dining room; Richard walking beside her and stepping aside at the door for her to enter first. The wheelchair’s rubber tires were nearly silent on the flagstones.

  In the few seconds of privacy, Lanie studied Nick, wincing at the stricken expression in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be.”

  They walked into the dining room and he seated her opposite him.

  Richard sat naturally at the head of the table and Chloe sat at the end, with the table height exactly adjusted for her wheelchair.

  Three substantial windows heavily framed in dull red velvet curtains commanded a view across the parkland, but Lanie had her back to them. Not that she minded. She forgot to be calm, considerate or polite, or to worry about Nick and Chloe. Her voice squeaked. “Is that a Constable?”

  Everyone looked at the large painting hanging on the wall behind Nick.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.” Lanie stared at the painting of a country scene, the river gentle through it and the cloudy sky dominating everything. “Wow.”

  The first course, smoked trout with a citrus salad that contained crunchy lettuce leaves, was served while she marveled.

  “Are you a fan of Constable’s work?” Chloe asked the obvious question.

  “I love their drama.” Lanie tore her attention from the painting. “And that he seems to have captured a snapshot of life. Some people think he was the inspiration for the Impressionists.” She blushed. “Sorry. Tour guide mode activated.”

  “You’ll have to see our Monets.”

  Lanie stared at Richard. He’d said Monets, plural. Her gaze went to Nick.

  He grinned at her. “But don’t touch.”

  “As if I would!”

  Nick looked at Chloe. “The rule at the Horry Museum, where Lanie is curator, is that visitors may touch the exhibits.”

  “How splendid.”

  “Yes, but we don’t have Monets.”

  “Personally, I prefer Pissarro’s work.” Richard ate his trout with swift efficiency. “You’ll have to show her those, too,” he told Nick.

  His casual ease with such astounding wealth shocked Lanie. She struggled to control an incredulous giggle. That would definitely not be cool. But her gaucherie had achieved one unexpected result: everyone relaxed.

  Chloe said placidly. “The thing to remember is that those paintings weren’t so expensive when Richard’s great-great-grandmother bought them on her holidays in Paris. And the family never had to sell them to pay bills.”

  “So they’re just granny’s postcards?” Lanie ventured.

  Richard snorted a laugh.

  Nick laughed flat out.

  Chloe smiled. “Family memories.”

  Conversation shifted to the architecture and history of Waterhill.

  “It started as a fortified manor house and we’ve pretty much kept it true to those beginnings.” Richard’s pride in his heritage was subtle yet real. “It’s Tudor, and if subsequent generations felt the urge to grandiose architecture, they fortunately confined it to other houses that have come and gone.”

  “The London house is a Neo-Gothic monstrosity,” Chloe contributed. “Anthony Tawes, who commissioned it, was an admirer of Horace Walpole.”

  “I’ve seen Walpole’s house, Strawberry Hill.” Lanie ate braised chicken in a light tomato and basil sauce with chickpeas. “It’s incredible.”

  “You’ll have to see the London house one day.” Chloe pushed around her food, not quite disguising how little she ate. “It’s currently rented to a CEO of a multinational corporation, someone in frozen foods, I think, or Nick could take you through. Working at the museum, you must be keen on old houses?”

  “The interest grows on you,” Lanie admitted. Now that she’d gotten over her shock at the Constable so casually displayed, she’d had time to observe the other features of the dining room. What struck her most about the difference between the Horry Museum and Waterhill was the latter’s air of settled occupation. It even differed from the National Trust houses she’d visited.

  Waterhill was the product of one family living in it, taking it for granted and adapting it to their needs for centuries. It was grand, but its grandeur was at the service of its inhabitants. They hadn’t pickled it in time, trying to conserve an era or restore it to some golden age of their imaginings. The strapwork wood paneling in Waterhill’s dining room was probably original Tudor work, but the decanter on a Georgian sideboard was unmistakably Art Deco and the chandelier above the table had to be, in its absurdity, a Victorian interpretation of Rococo. Long familiarity brought it all together.

  The privileged setting could have been off-putting, but it was impossible to over-value their wealth when Chloe’s state—and Richard and Nick’s concern for her—was so obvious. Money meant they didn’t struggle to meet the demands of her disability or to live in comfort. But money couldn’t buy health, happiness or hope.

  “We successfully avoided ennoblement through the centuries,” Richard said. “Why invite publicity?”

  A sentiment Lanie violently agreed with. She contented herself with a nod.

  Nick, though, added a sardonic comment. “The Tawes still ensured that they moved in the top circle. They married into the best families, and did business with them.”

  The Tawes, not his family.

  She wondered what it would be like to live somewhere, so connected to it; knowing his ancestors had been born, lived and died here. Was it a gift or burden?

  Dessert amid the splendor was a simple trifle made of almond meringue, berries, cream and a splash of “strawberry liqueur,” Chloe said when Lanie asked. It was delicious.

  Chloe sipped her tea and watched the two men discuss some agricultural problem at Valley Farm. She looked wistful. Whatever her dreams, they centered on Richard and Nick.

  In fact, Chloe’s aching sorrow was so blatant that Lanie flinched from it. She’d looked too deeply into Chloe’s soul. Hastily, she tuned into Nick’s conversation.

  “They ought to grow there. The land’s marginal, but they’re a hard-scrabble crop.”

  Lanie scooped up a strawberry. Its bubble-gum flavor hinte
d that it was the wild variety. She decided that Valley Farm was part of the Waterhill Estate. As for the crop, she had no idea. She’d missed its name, and she wasn’t terribly interested.

  But Nick was. For a man who lived a world away from Waterhill, he knew its land and potential. He and Richard were about as engaged and relaxed as she’d seen them together.

  Richard scraped up a last spoonful of dessert. “Drive down to the farm with me and see it for yourself.”

  Nick nodded. “If the leaves are yellowing…” He paused and shot a glance at Lanie.

  She smiled. “Go to the farm.”

  “I promised you a tour of the house.”

  “I could show Lanie around,” Chloe offered.

  The two men frowned at her.

  “You should rest,” Richard said.

  “Honestly, Nick, I show people around a house all week. I wouldn’t mind a lazy afternoon staring at the Constable here.” Half-truth, half-lie. Lanie loved the Constable, but she was dying to see all of Waterhill. But it was obvious that father and son needed time together.

  Nick raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “You could join me in my sitting room upstairs,” Chloe said. “I don’t have a Constable, but I think the view from the windows is every bit as delightful.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Lanie’s spoon tinkled as she dropped it into her dessert bowl. Oops. “You go tramp vigorously through the fields, and Chloe and I will chat. She can show me your baby photos.”

  Her dessert spoon had rattled, but her little joke thudded. Talk about falling flat. Somehow she’d stuck her foot in things, and she’d been trying to help. She wondered whether to attempt to squelch out of the quicksand or just flounder.

  Chloe rescued her. “There’ll be time after visiting the farm to show Lanie the house, if you hurry.”

  Richard frowned. “If you’re sure you’re not too tired.”

  “Darling, I’m fine.” Chloe reversed her wheelchair back from the table.

  Nick and Richard stood.

  Nick looked a question at Lanie, and she nodded. She was fine with this re-arrangement of their afternoon.