Three Graces

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘Think you can make yourself at home here?’

  It wasn’t in Carys’s nature to brood over such trifling things and so she’d beamed him a smile.

  ‘Good,’ he’d said before running out of the door to begin another frantic day of trying to make the estate pay for itself.

  And that’s when Carys decided to pay a visit.

  She bolted down the rest of her breakfast and headed down the stairs, collecting Mungo and Badger on the way. The other dogs, it seemed, had already found somebody to take them out.

  It was a bright summer’s morning, the shadowed grass still drenched with dew. Casually glancing up at the sky to check for rain clouds, she saw that it was a peerless blue, dazzling the eyes and making you believe that grey days were but a myth. The air was soft and sweet and full of birdsong as Carys led the dogs down the driveway until they came to a footpath. It wasn’t the most direct route, she knew, but it was the most picturesque, skirting the beech wood before crossing the open fields which afforded unrivalled views of the Cuthland countryside and Carminster Cathedral’s proud spire in the distance. She could, if she looked hard enough, just make out where her old street should be and liked to imagine her old house smiling back at her. It was rented now, to a young couple and no longer felt like her home at all which was just as it should be. Amberley was her home now and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the world.

  She strode through the golden-green fields, her bare limbs warmed by the sun, her strides slicing boldly through the grass. The ground had been baked hard under the spell of sunny weather since the duke’s funeral but the grass remained lush and felt cool against her legs. Badger ran on ahead, his tail wagging furiously like an overworked metronome, whilst Mungo strolled casually behind, stuffing his nose into various plants and holes in the hope of making some great doggy discovery.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ she called, climbing over a stile and taking another footpath which would take them to their destination.

  There were many entrances to the Amberley Estate but the west gate was one of the most impressive. It consisted of one glorious arch topped by a bold relief crest of the dukes of Cuthland, with two smaller arches flanking its sides. It wasn’t used very often so its gates remained closed and locked. But it wasn’t the gate she’d come to look at and, seeing Cuthland House standing before her now, she wondered if it was such a good idea. What was she actually going to say? She didn’t have anything planned. All she knew was that she had to speak to Francesca. She’d looked so pale and fragile at the funeral as if a great chunk of her heart had been chiselled out and carried away. As far as Carys was aware, Francesca hadn’t spoken to Richard or to anyone. Carys wasn’t sure how close she was to her daughters but suspected that they were all so isolated in their own grief that they hadn’t thought to reach out and help each other.

  But what made Carys think she could help? She’d never experienced the pain of loss. There was her father, of course, but that was a different story altogether.

  ‘Mungo? Badger?’ she called behind her and the they trotted towards her obediently.

  There was a little gate which opened onto a path through a pretty garden. Ash had obviously been at work in time for Francesca’s move and it sighed with delicate colour: palest pinks, mauves and silvery whites.

  The front door was large and smart and very blue and Carys reached up for the dolphin-shaped brass knocker and rapped loudly.

  Mungo and Badger were happily sniffing round the garden and a blackbird was singing in an old apple tree. It was rather lovely here, she thought, wondering how Francesca was settling into life away from the big house and if she welcomed the relative compactness of Cuthland House. It was still a large home by any standards. There must be at least five bedrooms over its three storeys, but it looked like a little doll’s house when compared to Amberley Court.

  Carys rapped again. Silence greeted her. She walked back from the door to look up at the dark windows. Pretty curtains had been drawn back to let the sunlight in but there didn’t seem to be anyone at home.

  With her footsteps crunching on the gravel path, Carys walked around the garden to the back of the house. Pots of scarlet begonias and geraniums greeted her and she felt both horrified and amused when Badger cocked his leg, splashing a particularly beautiful terracotta pot. Perhaps it was a blessing that Francesca wasn’t at home.

  But, as she walked away from the house, closing the gate behind her, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched. She didn’t see any curtains twitching or any faces peering out from the dark windows but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house wasn’t empty after all.

  ‘I thought you might like to see your office, your grace,’ Mrs Travis said, leaping on Carys as soon as she returned.

  ‘Office?’

  ‘Yes, your grace. It was his grace’s mother’s and will now be yours.’

  ‘I see.’ Carys bit her lip as she remembered how wonderfully free she’d felt striding across the fields just moments before and thinking how lucky she was not to have an office.

  ‘Perhaps now?’ Mrs Travis said. ‘It’s just along here and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to make a start on the paperwork.’

  Carys tried not to flinch at the word paperwork. Nor did she want to show her ignorance in asking what paperwork?

  They left the hallway and walked down a dark panelled corridor Carys hadn’t explored before. She’d been aware that it comprised of offices of some description but she had been rather lax in finding out who did what in them. Several doors led off the corridor but it wasn’t until they reached the end that Mrs Travis opened a door on the left.

  ‘This is your office, your grace,’

  Carys turned round to face Mrs Travis. ‘Please, call me Carys,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, my lady, I couldn’t do that.’

  Carys bit her lip. She didn’t feel comfortable being called your grace all the time: it sounded so dreadfully archaic, but it obviously made Mrs Travis uncomfortable to call her by her Christian name.

  ‘How about a compromise?’

  Mrs Travis gave a small smile of encouragement. ‘Well, we were permitted to call her grace, Lady A before she became the duchess.’

  ‘Lady A?’

  ‘That’s right, my lady.

  ‘So I could be Lady C, could I? I think that will probably do nicely,’ she agreed even though she was secretly thinking that it made her sound like a character from a James Bond movie. ‘So, tell me about this office,’ she said, peering in to the bright room which looked far too pretty to be a place of work.

  Mrs Travis brightened. ‘Well, it’s known as the Old Sitting Room but nobody can remember who actually used it as a sitting room.’

  Carys smiled. One more mystery of Amberley Court.

  ‘It’s been used as an annexe to the library too, which explains the shelves of books. We can have them moved if you need the space for your own things.’

  ‘Oh, no. Please, leave them here,’ Carys said. ‘They look so at home and I’m sure I’ll have fun reading them.’

  ‘I think they’re just old books on gardening and such. They should probably be given to the local scouts to sell but the Brettons do believe that once something finds a home here then it stays. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve tried to persuade them to have a good sort out but they won’t part with anything.’

  ‘I’m the complete opposite,’ Carys said. ‘If something isn’t earning its keep, out it goes.’

  Mrs Travis nodded.

  ‘This really is a lovely room,’ Carys said walking over to the window and gazing down the driveway at the front of the house.

  ‘I’ve always liked it too,’ Mrs Travis said. ‘It has that feminine touch which I often find lacking in some of the other rooms, if you don’t mind me saying, Lady C.’ Mrs Travis managed to control her blushing before continuing. ‘I’m afraid the women of the house have very little say when it comes to décor. They make suggestions but
it really isn’t their place to make alterations on a grand scale. The private rooms are an exception, of course.’

  ‘And is this classed as a private room?’

  Mrs Travis’s mouth tightened. ‘Yes and no. The wallpaper is quite old and I believe his grace would not want that changed but you’re welcome to hang your own pictures and place your own ornaments here, if you wish.’

  Carys thought of the few decorative objects she’d had around her home and which hadn’t yet been unpacked at Amberley. A pretty Victorian vase painted with flowers, a blue and white bowl in which she kept a handful of sherbet lemons, her collection of liberty photo frames and some bright glass figurines bought on a holiday in Venice. It wasn’t much of a contribution to such a grand house but it would be enough to make the room feel like her own.

  For a moment, she wondered what Francesca had placed on the shelves and mantelpiece. What had she taken with her on departing?

  ‘You must try to make yourself at home here,’ Mrs Travis said as if reading Carys’s mind. ‘One of the curses of belonging to a family like this is that each death brings a great shuffling of people and roles. It’s very unsettling. But this room belongs to the lady of the house so do make it your own, my lady. Her grace always spent her mornings here: writing letters and so forth,’ she continued.

  ‘Is there a lot of correspondence to handle?’

  Mrs Travis nodded. ‘Her grace dealt with a lot of the general enquiries about the house: film crews wanting to visit, historians asking questions, and charities getting in touch. You’d be surprised what gets sent our way. Her grace was also responsible for running the household staff and the collection, and took a great interest in overseeing the estate shop too. Then there was her charity work which, perhaps, you’d like to think about, and there will be the fund-raising events to take care of too.’

  So, Carys thought, she might have some useful role in the running of Amberley after all. Her leisurely stay so far had been but an interlude. They had obviously been breaking her in gently.

  ‘Sounds like a full time job,’ she said.

  ‘And then some,’ Mrs Travis laughed. ‘Mrs Franklin comes in for two mornings a week to help out. She was her grace’s secretary and is happy to stay on if you need.’

  Oh, I need, Carys said to herself, knowing, instinctively, that there was no manual for this job. She needed all the help and guidance she could get.

  ‘The desk has been cleared for you,’ Mrs Travis said. ‘You’ll find headed paper in the top drawer and there are always envelopes and stamps there too. There’s an electronic typewriter in the cupboard.’

  ‘And the computer?’

  ‘Her grace never liked computers. She said they filled the room with an unnecessary hum.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it would look right either,’ Carys said, looking towards the enormous mahogany desk. It was a piece of sturdy Victorian furniture that commanded respect rather than love. It gleamed darkly in the light from the large window, its many drawers set with decorative brass handles and its surface covered in a forest-green leather. A shapely wooden chair with balled feet stood close by. It looked very stately and very uncomfortable. That was the problem with these old houses, though. They were, invariably, built to impress rather than to comfort.

  Carys turned back to her new old desk. There was no computer or printer; no in trays or out trays but there was a small mound of post waiting for somebody’s attention. It was as far away from her work station in her old office as anything could be. But she loved the room. The bookshelves heaved with colourful spines and she couldn’t wait to rifle through them.

  Candy-striped chairs clustered round a tiny fireplace on which was perched a sweet wooden clock and two Staffordshire pottery spaniels. An enormous mirror hung above it, covered in bunches of thick gilded grapes. The walls were covered in a pretty wallpaper of cream with a burgundy print of roses and berries, and the carpet was a rich red like those in their private apartments which gave the room a cosy warmth.

  Lamps were dotted around the room on occasional tables and there was a two-seater sofa resplendent in gold and pink and heaped with cushions. It was, Carys thought, the kind of room you could shut yourself away in and forget about the outside world. She could imagine curling up on the sofa, sinking back into the cushions, her feet tucked under her bottom, a hot cup of tea steaming on the table beside her and a good book to read and nothing to disturb her but the gentle chime of the clock on the fireplace.

  ‘I think I’m going to be very happy here,’ she said.

  Mrs Travis smiled. ‘Don’t forget, there’s the telephone. There’s a list of extension numbers for the house if you need anything.’

  Carys nodded. So ropes with bells on the end had lost favour, had they?

  ‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea before you begin?’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Carys said.

  As Mrs Travis left the room, Carys looked around, wondering if there was a socket and table where she could keep a secret kettle and supply of teabags. She so hated being reliant on staff for the most basic of things.

  She walked round to the chair at the desk. It looked so austere as if it were daring her to sit on it. Carys trailed her fingers across the green leather top, wondering how many letters had been written there and how she was going to take over that role now. Could she do it?

  She cleared her throat, pulled out the chair and sat down.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t so hard.’ And the chair didn’t feel that hard either. Although she could probably do with a couple of cushions for reassurance.

  She looked around the empty acres of desk. She would buy herself some nice desk stationery. Yes, that was it. A nice pot for her pens and a letter rack. A cheery coaster or two for the cups of tea she was going to need. Maybe even a mouse mat if she was daring enough to introduce a computer to the world of Amberley.

  For a moment, she just sat, staring at the room around her. Then she cleared her throat again.

  ‘How do you do? I’m the Duchess of Cuthland,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Do sit down. Now, how can I help you?’ she said, her mouth suddenly full of plums and her eyebrows rising in a haughty manner. ‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t possibly agree to sell these books. You see, they’ve been in my husband’s family for generations. They’re heirlooms. Priceless, don’t you know.’

  She paused, her head cocked to one side as if listening to somebody. ‘That’s an extraordinarily generous offer. Yes, I’m quite aware we could replace the entire roof for that amount but, and I think I’ve said this before, the contents of Amberley remain at Amberley.’

  She gave a coquettish laugh. ‘My dear man. Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’

  Suddenly, the telephone rang, making Carys jump.

  ‘God!’

  What was she meant to do? Was that an internal call or not? If she picked it up, it might be a real person - from the outside world.

  ‘Keep calm,’ she said. Hang on a minute. It was an internal call, wasn’t it?’

  Her hand reached for the receiver and she picked it up. ‘He-hello?’ she said, not sounding like the over-confident, flirtatious duchess she’d portrayed so beautifully just a moment ago but more like an office junior on their first day.

  ‘Lady C?’

  ‘Mrs Travis?’ she cried in delight.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my lady, but did you want Earl Grey or camomile?’

  ‘Earl Grey,’ Carys almost laughed in relief.

  Once her heart rate had returned to normal, she did as anyone who takes possession of a new desk does: checked the drawers. It was a pedestal desk with two columns of four drawers and a long horizontal drawer in the middle. Being right-handed, Carys began with the top drawer on her right-hand side. The ornate brass handle pulled the drawer away smoothly and it was so wonderful to observe its neat emptiness. In the past, when she’d inherited a desk, it would invariably be full of out-of-date memos, bent paper-clips and a bottle of congealed Tipex. N
o such tat in this desk. It had been loved and respected. Its owner had taken pride in its use. It wouldn’t be a chore to sit at a desk like this, Carys thought, even though the job might seem strange to her at this moment, she felt that it must be made easier by being surrounded by beautiful objects. The aristocracy knew that, didn’t they? They knew that the long passage through life was made all the sweeter by having lovely things around them. Not that a Queen Anne walnut chair could mend a broken heart, and a Chippendale bureau might not be able to chase the blues away, but they could make you feel a little happier by just looking at them.

  Carys was enjoying this. She’d never been able to afford beautiful furniture before. Her pieces at her old home were cheap and functional and not many of them were made out of solid wood either. They had a wooden veneer or were made from the dreaded MDF. Was that her generation’s gift to the world? Was this where the glorious timeline of wood end? Oak, walnut, mahogany, pine - and MDF? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine the antique collectors of the future sweating with enthusiasm over a piece of MDF.

  Ah, yes. That’s a very early piece. Look at the craftsmanship.

  MDF just wasn’t the sort of thing to make record prices at auction houses, and she doubted very much that there would ever be books lining the shelves of Amberley’s library entitled: A History of MDF.

  There was a polite knock on the door and Mrs Travis came in, placing the cup of tea on Carys’s new old desk.

  ‘Everything in order, my lady?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Just call if you need anything.’

  ‘Thank you. I will,’ Carys said.

  No sooner had Mrs Travis left than the phone rang again. This time, it was definitely an outside caller.

  ‘Hello,’ Carys said tentatively.

  ‘Is that Carys?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carys said, not recognising the lady’s voice at the other end.

  ‘Good. This is Valerie,’ the lady said, pausing as if expecting Carys to recognise the name. ‘Valerie Buckley Stewart - the Countess of Eastmoreland.’

  ‘Hello,’ Carys said again, remembering that she and her husband, the earl, had been at their wedding but not actually remembering what they looked like.