by Lulu Taylor
‘Let’s take our coffee through and I’ll show it you.’
They took their mugs into the drawing room and Buttercup led him to the portrait over the fireplace. He stared at it, shaking his head.
‘That’s the one. Wow. Now I can appreciate who she was.’
They both stared for a while at Natalie’s portrait, thinking of her chin held high, her eyes haughty, her arrogance and beauty.
‘How long did you live here?’ Buttercup asked.
‘About four years. Then my mother developed arthritis and couldn’t work any more. My father started caring for her, and the collective came to an end. We moved to the seaside after that. Not long after we left, my mother was diagnosed with motor neurone disease and she died a few years later.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Buttercup said sympathetically. ‘And about your father too.’
‘Thanks.’ Gawain smiled at her. ‘It was going through all his stuff that made me think of this place. I suddenly thought that there might be a book or something in this old house – the work my parents did here, the life of Natalie Rowe. I thought I might be able to do a kind of double biography of them and the overlap here at Charcombe.’
‘You’re a writer?’
‘Journalist. I write features, some TV criticism, an occasional column. But I’m always looking for that book project that means I can retire from the freelance rat race and get my head down for a year or so.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘You’re very nice to say so, but I wish it were.’
A thought occurred to Buttercup. ‘If you’re interested in the house, then you should see the Redmain Room.’
Gawain looked quizzical. ‘The what?’
‘Come on. I’ll show you.’
She led him upstairs to the first floor and led him into the tiny museum, telling as they went some of what Charles had told her about Captain Redmain and his exploits.
‘I had no idea about this.’ Gawain went to the first display cabinet and studied the contents. ‘Captain Edward Redmain, captain of HMS Cymbeline. This is great. I mean, he’s not exactly famous but everyone loves the story of Trafalgar.’ He looked over at Buttercup, his eyes bright. ‘This could be another angle on the story I’m thinking of. It could be a triple biography.’
‘Or the story of the house,’ Buttercup suggested, ‘and the extraordinary people who’ve lived here.’
‘Yes.’ Gawain nodded, looking back at the bust of Captain Redmain. ‘Great idea. It brings it full circle that it’s now in Redmain hands again as well. Maybe that means a change in fortune for the old place. Perhaps it’s happy again.’
‘What do you mean?’ Buttercup asked, puzzled.
‘Nothing . . .’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Just that – well, the sad story of Natalie, and Xenia, and my parents’ project failing and Mum getting ill . . . it’s all a bit grim, isn’t it?’
‘Do you mean there’s something wrong with the house?’ Buttercup asked, alarmed.
‘Oh, don’t listen to me. I’ve got a vivid imagination. They’re all old stories, they don’t matter now. Listen, I’ve booked a room at the pub tonight and I might stick around a bit longer to do some research. Would you mind me coming back sometime?’
‘Of course not. You should probably talk to the princess as well, I’m sure she’d love to see you.’
‘Xenia? She’s still alive?’
‘Yes, she lives in Hooke House, just near the gates. She’s getting on and a bit eccentric, she sometimes shouts at the locals, but she seems okay.’
Gawain looked astonished. ‘I assumed she’d be dead by now. I never even looked her up. I’ll definitely call in and see her.’ He laughed suddenly, throwing back his head. ‘She really was frightening. What a temper! She was cross with everything and everyone, angry at the world, I think. I avoided her. I’d run away, go off to play. My parents were kind to her, though. Later, she softened up completely. Once Harry came.’
‘Harry?’
‘Oh, just someone who used to live here when we did. Can I take your email or something? Then we can keep in contact.’
‘Yes, sure.’ She gave him her address, reminding herself that she should switch the router back on.
‘Thanks for the tour,’ he said, putting his phone away once he’d loaded her details. ‘I enjoyed it a lot.’
‘You’re welcome. I hope they’re treating you well at the pub.’
‘Spoiling me rotten!’ he said with a smile. ‘Just the way I like it. Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter Thirty-One
When Carol came in the next morning, Buttercup was already up and dressed, and had finished her breakfast. Now that she knew what was going on, she wanted to have as little to do with her as possible.
‘You’re up and about early,’ Carol said cheerfully, going over to the dishwasher.
‘I’m going out for a walk with Tippi. I might be a while.’
‘Any preferences for dinner?’
‘No. Whatever.’
Carol frowned, pushing back her light brown hair behind her ears as she bent down to pull out the dishwasher shelf. ‘Is everything all right, love?’
‘Yes, fine, thanks,’ Buttercup said coolly.
‘You seem a bit . . . not yourself.’
‘Oh? You know me so well, after all.’ Buttercup smiled sweetly. ‘I can’t imagine what it would be like here without you.’
Carol’s expression grew concerned. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’
‘No. Everything’s just the same as ever,’ Buttercup said, forcing herself to sound normal and fighting the impulse to tell Carol exactly what she knew. Something told her to keep her cards close to her chest for now. Anything she said would go straight back. It was hard to hide her feelings, though, which was why it was best to avoid Carol if she could.
‘All right,’ Carol said slowly. She started bustling about in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher. ‘Oh, I got a message from Mission Control last night asking if everything was all right with the internet service here. Apparently the house went offline for a bit.’
‘Oh yes, it went a bit funny, so I turned it off and rebooted it.’ Buttercup put down her coffee mug. ‘It seems fine now.’
‘Good. I’ll see you later then. Will you be back for lunch?’
‘For God’s sake, Carol, I don’t know. I can look after myself, okay? Just leave me alone.’ And she marched out of the kitchen.
So much for staying completely normal.
She turned and looked back at Charcombe Park, golden and beautiful against the winter sky, smoke trailing up from one of the chimneys. The old house looked inscrutable, her windows reflecting the pale sunshine. Buttercup thought of Gawain Ashley and his life at the house.
We’re all just borrowing our time here. We move in, live our story, and move on. The house stays, changing with the owners but always here.
She turned back and strode on down the driveway, glad to be away from it and free. Tippi strained at the lead that Buttercup clipped on her just before they went through the gates and out onto the lane.
‘Come on, girl, you have to be on the lead here. Won’t be for too long.’
A gust of wind buffeted her for a moment, freezing her cheeks and biting her fingers, and Buttercup shivered as they went along the muddy lane, past Fitzroy House. She couldn’t help looking at it as she passed, but no lights were on and there was no car in the driveway. Ingrid must be out.
The strangeness of the proximity of her husband’s ex-wife hit her anew. But where she’d once resented Ingrid’s insistence on staying so close, she now saw that the other woman had not had a choice.
All along it was Charles who made her do it. And he’s still controlling her. She remembered the lawyer’s letter, demanding the return of photograph albums and property. Where could they be? I’ve never seen anything like that.
More secrets. More things hidden away, out of sight, so they wouldn’t cause any problems.
Not for much longer. I’m going to bring it all out into the open.
The pub had just opened when she reached it, but she went around the back, ringing the intercom that connected to the upstairs flat.
‘Hello?’ It was Cathy’s voice, fuzzy over the wires.
‘It’s Buttercup.’
‘Come up!’ The buzzer went and Buttercup pushed the door open. Inside, she hooked Tippi’s lead to the stairs, gave her some treats and said, ‘Wait here, Tippi, I won’t be long.’ The dog obediently curled up at the bottom of the stairs to gnaw her treat while Buttercup went quickly up to where the door to the Tranter flat stood ajar. She pushed it further open and went inside. Cathy came out of the sitting room, holding a white blanketed bundle that she was jogging gently.
‘Hi!’ she said, in a half whisper. ‘Lovely to see you! I’m just getting this one off to sleep after her morning feed.’
‘Oh!’ Buttercup cooed quietly. ‘Let me have a look? Oh, she’s gorgeous, look at that face! She’s almost asleep already.’
‘I’m going to put her down and I’ll be right with you.’
‘You bet.’ Buttercup went into the sitting room, messy with toys and newborn equipment – a baby gym, blankets, a feeding cushion and muslins. When Cathy joined her, she said admiringly, ‘You’ve got her well trained! Down for a nap, just like that?’
Cathy sat down and grinned. ‘I’m still on babymoon. She’s still really sleepy. She’ll perk up soon and then it will be a different story, so I’m just enjoying it right now.’
‘I was hoping for a cuddle . . .’
‘You’ll get one, don’t worry – she’ll be awake in about twenty minutes.’
‘Good, can’t wait. Now . . .’ Buttercup produced the bag she’d brought with her. ‘Present!’
‘You shouldn’t have!’ Cathy exclaimed with delight as she brought out the beautiful baby girl dresses Buttercup had bought in London. ‘These are gorgeous, thank you! I have to admit, I’m loving the girl stuff, it’s so much prettier than boys’ clothes.’
They talked about the birth and new babyhood over cups of instant coffee, and how Cathy was coping with two and a pub to run. ‘Good pub staff,’ she said simply. ‘And Wilf’s brilliant and my mum is staying – she’s out with Olly at playgroup. So I’m fine. Loving it actually, because Bethany’s so easy.’ She fixed Buttercup with an inquisitive look. ‘How are you? You seem a bit down.’
‘Well . . .’ Buttercup knew there was a limit to what she could say but Cathy was so friendly, so easy to talk to. ‘Just a bit of . . . Charles and I are having a difficult time, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Cathy looked sympathetic. ‘If it’s any consolation, we all have our rocky roads, you know. Every marriage is difficult, don’t believe the people who look like they’re having a marvellous time, they’re just really good at hiding the trauma, or they’re having a purple patch. I’ve wanted to leave Wilf at least half a dozen times but never enough to do it, and things always get better with a bit of talking and some give and take. It sounds like a cliché but it works. You two make such a fabulous couple. Honestly, talk to him and see what happens. Have you tried that?’
‘Not really,’ Buttercup admitted.
‘There you are then. Try it, before you give up on it.’
‘You’re right, I will.’
Cathy smiled, then cocked her head. ‘Hello – I think madam is awake. Looks like you’re going to get that cuddle.’
Buttercup unhooked Tippi’s lead from the stairs, deciding to go out through the pub and take a look at what had changed since she was last there. As she walked through with Tippi, admiring the results of the makeover, she saw Gawain Ashley sitting at one of the tables, a black coffee and a plate covered in croissant crumbs in front of him, reading a book about the Battle of Trafalgar. Just as she looked over at him, he glanced up and saw her. A smile broke over his face and he waved at her.
‘Hello! What are you doing here?’
Buttercup went over, Tippi pressing close to her. ‘I was just visiting the landlady. They’ve got a new baby.’
‘I know, I heard all about the birth last night when I was at the bar, being served by the landlord.’ He made a face of comical bewilderment. ‘I mean, I like babies and everything, but I haven’t got one yet and I don’t know if I’m quite ready to hear about the more gruesome aspects of the whole process. I like to think about the bit that involves dinner, moonlight, sweet romance . . . that bit.’
Buttercup laughed.
His brown eyes twinkled at her. ‘Why don’t you sit down and have a coffee with me?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Come on, sit down.’
‘Okay then. Just for a minute.’ She slid into one of the chairs while he went off to order the drinks. He came back with two cups and put a cappuccino down in front of her. Buttercup had picked up his book and was reading it.
‘Interesting reading?’ he asked, sitting down. ‘I’ve never been that interested in it myself, but since we talked, I’ve decided to find out more about that period, Trafalgar, and the people involved. It could provide some interesting background for the biography idea. I’m off to Portsmouth tomorrow, actually, to do some more research.’
‘And have you seen the princess yet?’
‘Not yet. I plan to go there today. I’m looking forward to it, though I’m a bit apprehensive about my welcome.’ He smiled at her again. ‘I appreciated that you let me in yesterday, and showed me round. It was kind of you.’
‘I enjoyed it.’ She smiled back at him, noticing the golden glints in his dark copper hair where the light hit it from the window. He had such an open, friendly face, and she was drawn to the warmth in his eyes. There was a candour in them that appealed to her.
‘I think I’ll come back here after I’ve been to Portsmouth and have a bit more background for my idea. I wondered if I might be able to take another look around the Redmain Room . . . if it’s no trouble?’
‘I’m sure that would be perfectly okay. Charles loves showing off his collection and he’ll be back by then. We’re having a Christmas party next week, you’re very welcome to come if you’re still here.’
‘Thanks, I’d like that.’
‘I’ll send an invitation here, to the pub.’ She smiled at him again, glad that they were definitely going to meet again. He was interesting – not fizzing and unstoppable like Charles, but more measured and thoughtful.
Not that I’m making comparisons. He’s different, that’s all.
‘Have a great trip,’ she said, and called Tippi to heel for the walk home.
As she headed back, Tippi bounding off the lead once they were through the gates, she checked her phone and found a message from Charles.
Back this evening, darling. Can’t wait to see you. Cx
She put her phone back in her pocket with a sigh. Usually she’d be so happy that he was coming home. Now she was dreading it and the conversation they had to have. But Cathy was right – talking was the only thing to do. She was going to do everything she could to make it better.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Xenia told Agnieska that she should come three days a week, if she could fit it in.
‘Yes, no problem,’ Agnieska replied. She was cleaning the bathroom mirror while Xenia stood in the doorway, watching. ‘I have only you and the Fitzroy House.’
‘You could do the ironing for me, and some other jobs around the house. The under-stairs cupboard could do with a clearout.’ She was only suggesting another day because she’d grown to like having Agnieska around and had woken in the night certain that, without Charcombe, Agnieska might think about leaving the village for a more regular job in Gorston. Panicked, she’d decided to offer the other day. In the daylight, the idea that Agnieska might leave seemed less probable; things were going well and the car arrangement suited them both. She said, ‘If you need more work, you should ask at the pub too, now that they’re open and taking in guests. They
must need a cleaner.’
‘Pub, yes.’ Agnieska nodded. ‘I will ask.’
After a moment, Xenia said, ‘The lady at Fitzroy House – is she there? I haven’t seen her but her car is back sometimes.’
‘Yes, she is home.’
‘Ah. Do you know where she’s been?’ Xenia was embarrassed to seem nosy but she couldn’t help an interest in the woman in the house over the way.
Agnieska shrugged. ‘Away.’
I suppose her lack of language works for all of us: she can hardly start giving away any intimate details when she can barely describe the curtains.
Xenia watched Agnieska polishing until the girl turned around and gave her the warning look that meant she didn’t like being observed and would Xenia please go away, so she went slowly downstairs, looking out in case Petrova decided to dart up and get under her feet.
The fact was that Ingrid Redmain was intriguing: so close and yet remote. Xenia kept an eye out for what was going on, but there wasn’t much to see. Ingrid kept herself to herself. Lights went on, curtains opened and shut, her car came and went, demonstrating that she was about. People appeared at intervals – her friends, her children, the online grocery delivery. And occasionally that man – her ex-husband, of all people – visited, parking up the side lane where his car was not visible and walking down to the back door. Once, Xenia, crossing the road and standing in the lane to pretend to look for Petrova, had heard the woman telling him to go away:
‘Charles, you have to stop coming round. I mean it. I’ll have to get an order out if you don’t. Talk to me through the lawyers, you seem to enjoy that, considering the number of letters I get!’
‘This is my house and I’ll come as often as I like,’ he retorted in that curious, husky voice of his.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have any right to burst in whenever you wish, no landlord does. Please don’t harass me. You can’t stop me living my life, however much you might want to. You don’t control me any more.’
Xenia had hurried away, afraid to be seen. He hadn’t been around since then. That was months ago, in the summer, when the hedges were high and the trees bright with acid-green leaves. Ingrid had been away ever since the autumn. Well, who could blame her? The only surprise was that she had returned just when it was so bitterly cold. The weatherman on the radio had said that more icy weather was on the way from Siberia, bringing snow with it. Thank goodness she had her cosy cottage with its thick curtains and bright lamps.