Three Graces

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘And that’s not good?’

  Carys shook her head. ‘It’s terrible. He’s a pig and a bore.’

  Richard nodded. ‘Too many of those around.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ she said philosophically, her teeth pulling at a strip of cheese the length of an anaconda.

  ‘And have you a pig and a bore of your own?’

  Carys smiled. ‘I’m not seeing anyone, if that’s what you mean.’

  The sunset was deepening into a soft, shadowy mauve and the valley was slowly disappearing behind a veil of night.

  ‘We’d better get back,’ he said, wiping his fingers on his paper napkin.

  ‘I suppose we should,’ Carys said, feeling somehow flat that this was how things were ending. She’d been so hopeful for Solworth Hill.

  ‘Unless-’ he stopped.

  ‘What?’ she said, a little too eagerly. She mustn’t sound too eager!

  ‘Unless you want to go for a walk.’

  ‘But it’s getting dark,’ she said and, as soon as the words were out, she could have kicked herself. Why had she said that?

  She sneaked a sideways glance at him. He was disappointed, wasn’t he?

  ‘We could, though,’ she added tentatively.

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’re right. It’s getting late,’ he said, chucking his pizza box onto the back seat and starting the car.

  Chapter 3

  Carys groaned. She’d screwed up. If she hadn’t been so stupid, she might have been wonderfully seduced under a summer oak tree in the darkening shadows of evening. And heaven only knew that she could have done with some of that to liven up her world at the moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed properly.

  So why had she turned down the possibility of passion tonight? She couldn’t deny that Richard Bretton was a very attractive man. He was also very respectable. He’d probably meant nothing by suggesting a walk at dusk at all. He may only have wanted to hold her hand. But she couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if she’d only got out of the car and taken his hand as he’d led her through a shady grove of oak trees before stopping to kiss her neck, luminous in the gathering dusk …

  Shaking an image of passion in the undergrowth out of her mind, Carys went upstairs and switched on the lamp at the side of her desk and turned on her computer. As she spent most of her working days gazing at a computer, the one at home was only occasionally used but it was handy to have access to the internet and this was one occasion when it was most welcome.

  For a moment, she wondered if what she was doing could be classed as stalking but shook the idea from her mind as she typed Richard Bretton into a search engine. She’d never gone out with anyone who’d had an internet presence before. It was quite exciting, really, seeing page after page on the man who’d abducted her.

  She hit the images button and bit her lip as the photographs downloaded. There he was. Richard Bretton, Marquess of Amberley, opens a new wing at a children’s hospital in Carminster. Richard Bretton with Lady Electra Hewett at the summer ball. Richard Bretton with a boring line of dignitaries. Richard Bretton with Eustacia Viner, daughter of some lord or other. Richard Bretton with the Honourable Miranda Selby.

  Carys frowned. He seemed to spend half his life with a beautiful girl draped over his arm, and they were all strikingly similar: willowy tall with costly manes of hair and clothes which Carys had always referred to as the unimaginative designer look: clean lines, neutral colours and showing absolutely no individuality.

  Well, if that was the type of woman he went for, perhaps it was a good thing she’d nipped things in the bud before they’d really begun. It would only have ended in disaster, with her flowery, flouncy wardrobe of rainbow-coloured dresses in cheap fabrics. She’d never be seen dead in beige or wishy-washy pastels. She loved sherberty yellows, cornflower blues, deep lilacs and poppy-bright reds. Her job in the office, of course, frowned upon such displays of vibrancy so she toned it down by wearing close-fitting skirts and neat jackets, but there was always the hint of the rebel about her: a beaded hemline, an embroidered waistband or a stunning piece of silver jewellery to defy the dullness of office life.

  So, what on earth had attracted Richard to her? Perhaps it was because she was so different from the women he normally mingled with. They wore pearls; she wore marquisate. They bought from boutiques; she bought from the market. They were expensive; she was ch- - no, not cheap - just not so high-maintenance as they were.

  She paused, staring at Richard’s face which gazed out at her from her computer screen. She should stop this right now, she thought. Switch the computer off and go to bed. Forget she’d ever met him. But she couldn’t resist looking for more. Her fingers tapped effortlessly over the keyboards as she confided her nosiness to Google, wondering how on earth the world had managed before its creation.

  Amberley Court.

  It was the first website to come up and Carys clicked on the link and then her eyes widened at the site that greeted her. It was one of the worst websites she’d ever seen: unimaginative, unattractive and - well - amateur. It was obviously done on the cheap, Carys thought. But there was no getting away from the fact that Amberley was beautiful. All mellow red brick and barley-twist chimneys, it looked straight out of a children’s fairytale book. No wonder Richard felt so passionate about it. A house like that got into your blood whether you owned it or not. She could imagine how hard it would be to think of leaving such a place to the ravages of time and how hard you would fight in order to save it.

  The house was photographed from the driveway, peeping shyly through an avenue of brilliant green trees. It was pictured from the rose garden with blushing blooms making the prettiest of foregrounds. And it was pictured from the wood on the hill, making it look tiny and vulnerable as if the merest puff of wind might blow it away.

  There were photographs of the interior too: the rooms looked sumptuous but slightly shabby around the edges. The colours were extraordinary: wine-red carpets, gilded ceilings, floors of multi-coloured marble, brilliant chintz bedding with flowers bursting in bright blooms, and curtains of every imaginable colour from brightest yellow to darkest emerald. Then there were plates and bowls, chandeliers and chaise longues, cabinets and candelabras, and things Carys couldn’t even begin to name. And, everywhere, there were portraits: the Bretton family peered down on the unsuspecting visitor from almost every wall in the house. Centuries of eyes - some looking stern and severe as if they were trying to frighten the visitor away; others looking kindly, perhaps curious at their new home in cyberspace.

  Carys was in love. She’d never seen such an incredible place, and to think that this was the very place that Richard Bretton called home.

  Open: Wednesday - Sunday; Grounds: 10:00 am - 17:00 pm; House: 11:00 - 16:00 pm

  Tomorrow was Saturday. She could go there tomorrow. Richard had told her she should go. But would tomorrow be too soon? Would that make her appear too keen? Hang that, she thought. She couldn’t wait to see it. It was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen and she probably wouldn’t even run into Richard anyway. She could sneak in and out without him ever knowing.

  Chapter 4

  It was ten o’clock on Saturday morning and there was only one car parked in the visitors’ car park at Amberley Court and that was Carys’s Marlva Prima. She’d paid her £4.50 to a little old man who sat in a hut inside the gate.

  ‘I’d like to go inside the house too,’ she’d said.

  ‘That ticket will get you into both,’ he’d explained.

  Four pounds and fifty pence. No wonder the estate was short of money, Carys thought, leaving her car and taking a footpath towards the walled garden. It was a long time since she’d visited an historic house but she was sure it should cost more than she’d just paid.

  It was a beautiful summer’s morning. The air was cotton-soft and filled with the delicate perfumes of flowers as she entered the walled garden. The walls were a rosy red, like those of the h
ouse, and had the mellowed look that time and weather bring. There were a few low-lying box hedges and a token bed of vegetables and a few fruit trees but, overall, it had the look of somewhere that could do with an extra gardener or two.

  As Carys wandered around, she started trying to picture the garden as it should be: bursting with blooms: great fat roses launching their perfume into the air, rows of neat cabbages in the beds whose borders would be neatly trimmed with box hedgerow which didn’t look as if a pack of Jack Russell Terriers had been playing hide and seek in them. There’d be bucket loads of apples and pears, and gooseberries - fat and crunchy - would glow greenly. It would be the perfect kitchen garden: a blend of the pretty and the practical.

  As it was, it looked as if somebody had thrown a couple of packets of wildflower mix across the soil and hoped for the best. It was very pretty but it wasn’t fulfilling its potential. It was like a supermodel before make-up and Carys felt desperate to get going with a bit of foundation and blusher.

  As she turned a corner at a bed of flowers that looked as if they could do with a good sorting out, she saw a dog hurtling towards her, its long ears flapping and its tail rotating like a mini windmill

  ‘Hello, there,’ she said, bending down to ruffle the silky-soft head. ‘What’s your name, then?

  The bright chestnut eyes peered up at her from a brown and white face.

  ‘You’re a beauty, aren’t you?’ she said, smiling at the cheeky freckles. ‘Is this your garden, then? You lucky dog. I bet you have fun in here, don’t you?’

  ‘Carys?’

  Carys stood back up to full height and turned round, seeing Richard walking towards her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked and she couldn’t tell if he looked happy or perplexed at seeing her there.

  For a moment, she was tongue-tied. She felt like a thief that had been caught red-handed.

  ‘You told me I should visit so here I am,’ she said, managing to keep calm.

  ‘I didn’t think you would. But I’m glad you did. You didn’t give me your phone number.’

  ‘You didn’t ask for it,’ she said and then wished she hadn’t. It sounded as if she’d minded that he hadn’t asked for it which wasn’t true, of course.

  ‘You gave me the impression that you wouldn’t have given it if I had asked.’

  ‘Did I?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  The brief exchange dried up and both seemed at a loss as to what to say next.

  ‘She’s a gorgeous dog,’ Carys said at last, bending down to ruffle the long fur on the top of her head.

  ‘She’s Phoebe’s. My sister. One of my sisters, I should say.’

  ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Two: Phoebe and Serena. There’s a brother too: Jamie.’

  ‘You’re lucky. I’m an only child.’

  ‘I think you’re the lucky one.’

  They smiled at each other and the tension was instantly dispelled.

  ‘You should have told me you were coming.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know myself. It was kind of a spontaneous decision,’ Carys lied.

  ‘You didn’t pay, did you?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Then we must get you a refund.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she argued. ‘You’re charging little enough as it is, by the way. You really should think about increasing your entrance fee.’

  Richard frowned. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Absolutely! You can’t buy anything for four pounds fifty any more.

  ‘The only thing is, Barston Hall only charges £6 and they have a lot more to offer. More rooms, grander gardens, an animal park, a playground for the kids-’

  ‘So? That’s their business.’

  Richard smiled. ‘You’re very-’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Direct.’

  ‘No point being indirect, is there?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there is,’ he said.

  They began to walk towards the arch in the wall which would lead out into the main gardens.

  ‘Dizzy!’ Richard called, as the spaniel hurtled towards the exit. ‘Wait.’ The dog came to a halt and looked round, tongue flopping pinkly out of the side of her mouth.

  ‘Dizzy?’

  ‘That’s Phoebe for you,’ Richard explained.

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘She didn’t think how silly I’d feel yelling that name across the estate.’

  Carys grinned. ‘Maybe she did.’

  This made Richard smile.

  They left the walled garden and turned right. There were a few more cars in the car park now but it was still quiet.

  ‘Will you please allow me the honour of showing you the house?’

  ‘Haven’t you got things you should be doing?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be postponed,’ he said.

  Carys looked at her watch.

  ‘Unless you have somewhere else you should be?’

  ‘No,’ she said. She wasn’t sure why she’d looked at her watch. It must have been a nervous reaction because she had absolutely nothing to do with her time other than tidy up and that could wait for another month.

  ‘I’d love to see the house,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll sneak in the back way.’

  ‘The tradesman’s entrance?’ Carys teased.

  ‘The owner’s entrance,’ Richard corrected her. ‘We won’t be told to wipe our feet if we go in that way.’

  They followed Dizzy down a gravelled pathway and Richard produced a key from a pocket as they approached a door.

  ‘This is the private part of the house, of course, so we won’t run into any coach loads of pensioners.’

  He opened one of the double doors and Carys followed him inside, her mouth dropping open at the enormous hallway which greeted her.

  ‘You could fit my whole house in here,’ she said, looking round the huge open space, its flagstone floor taking up acres of ground. A long row of boots and shoes stood on sentry duty by the door, quietly flaking mud, and a coat rack was hung with more coats than Carys had ever seen outside a department store. The smell of wax was quite overpowering. There was also a fascinating collection of hats. Most were flat caps in various shades of green and grey but most were woolly, shapeless creations - fiercely practical and terribly unattractive.

  ‘Big family - big hallway essential,’ Richard said. ‘I’m one of four. Dizzy’s one of five. Add parents and other relations and friends and, if you all decide to come in at once, it’s chaos.’

  Carys noticed a huge Ali Baba pot stuffed full of walking sticks of every shape and height. Some were curved, others were dead straight. One looked as if its handle was made of horn and others were carved and painted to look like birds, badgers and foxes. There was also a rifle.

  Richard followed her gaze. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s broken. Father uses it to scratch his back.’

  Carys frowned. That sounded awfully dangerous to her, broken or not, but she didn’t say anything.

  There was a beautiful fireplace and Carys could imagine how wonderful it would be to come home to: to walk through the door, throw your coat onto the rack, kick your boots across the floor and toast yourself in front of a real fire. There were two large, arched windows at the far end of the hall through which Carys could see a small enclosed courtyard and columned walkway resembling a cloister. Was the house old enough to have a cloister? She wasn’t sure about dates and architecture but it was very pretty nevertheless.

  There was also a fabulous barometer in a rich chestnut-coloured wood. Carys had always been fascinated by them even though she wasn’t at all sure how they worked. Something to do with air pressure, she thought. But did they tell you what the weather was like now? Or was it a way of predicting what weather was on its way? Reading left to right, it read: stormy, rain, change, fair and very dry. It was pointing to ‘change’ at the moment, which sounded about right for a summer�
��s day in England. She was tempted to reach out and touch it - it had such a wonderfully curvy smooth look about it but she didn’t want to risk his disapproval by fingering antiques before they’d even left the hallway.

  ‘Should I take my shoes off?’ Carys asked, noticing a beautiful rug in front of them.

  ‘Good heavens, no! Your feet will freeze and you’ll most likely catch a nasty case of carpet beetle.’

  She grimaced. Could you really catch carpet beetle? Carys wasn’t sure what carpet beetles were but imagined something like a cockroach crossed with a dung beetle scurrying up her bare legs.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, leading the way through to a small drawing room which looked like any drawing room in the country but for a collection of spectacular portraits hanging on the walls.

  ‘Wow!’ Carys said.

  ‘Ah! The dreaded relations. I’m afraid there’s no escaping them. Very vain family, the Brettons. Lost count of how many portraits were commissioned down the centuries but it’s enough to fill a hundred country houses and they invariably end up hanging in the oddest of places. There are even one or two,’ he said in a whisper, ‘in the guest lavatories.’

  ‘Most off-putting,’ Carys said with a grin.

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘And this is one of the private rooms?’

  Richard nodded. ‘The Yellow Drawing Room. Reserved for naps after walks and arguments after dinner.’

  There were two large yellow sofas on which sat fat red cushions, squashed and dented by happy bottoms. Newspapers lay scattered over coffee tables and there were neat piles of Country Life, Cuthland Life, Social Whirl and The Field on the coffee tables. It was a cosy, comfortable room. Dizzy certainly seemed to be making herself at home: leaping up onto an armchair and snuggling into a large red cushion.

  ‘That’s the dog chair,’ Richard said by way of explaining why he hadn’t reprimanded the animal.

  As they walked through the room, Carys saw a shoal of silver photo frames standing on a sideboard which looked more Habitat than Chippendale, and herd of wooden deer marched across the mantelpiece of a fireplace.