Adrien had told her that the house had been built piecemeal, with each generation adding whichever extra space they needed. On the outside it was not so clear—all the walls had been built in the same local stone and then whitewashed, and the various wings made a melodious whole to the eye. But on the inside she discovered a jigsaw puzzle of rooms and spaces. The original house had burned down in the eighteenth century, with only the central block surviving. This now housed the library, the morning room, and the dining room on the ground floor, with the Long Gallery above, and included the original tower from which Adrien had said the light was kept burning at nights to light the way home for his ancestors. There were uneven passages with steps up or down, showing where new building had been joined with old, and myriad dark corners and unexpected cubbyholes. Floors changed from ancient stone to wide, dark boards to rough slate, and she realised quickly that watching the changes was the best way to see where the different ages of the house were.
She wandered around from one end of the house to the other. The kitchen and scullery she knew already, so she avoided those, and instead looked into the library, warming herself at the enormous fire and gazing at the rows and rows of books. There were ancient tomes, spines cracking and flaking on the dark oak shelves. Atlases, books of maps, folios of architectural drawings, of boat designs, tidal maps and navigational aids. Books on nature, on geography, on history, on politics. A case of novels, well-read and with worn covers. And on a low table between two fat armchairs were magazines, a goodly mixture indicative of a mixed household.
Warmed by the fire, she continued her exploration through the morning room, now without a fire and darkened as the sun made its way around the horizon. There was the dining room and Adrien’s study, on the opposite side of the hall, and the passageway she had found that morning, leading to the scullery door on one side. Another door opposite concealed a set of stairs which led first to the bedroom floor, and then rose again to another hallway, where she found a couple of locked box rooms and several smaller bedrooms that appeared to be in use.
One held a pile of books beside the bed, and a desk with a typewriter upon it, the accompanying chair back hung with a green hand-knitted pullover. There was a hook behind the door, from which hung a plaid dressing gown. The room next door had a dressing table by the window, with hairpins in a glass dish and a bottle of perfume, nearly empty. On the bed was an elderly satin doll, much worn, the kind with space inside for a nightgown, and hanging behind the door another dressing gown, a blue Jaeger one this time.
Juliana was puzzled, then realised that these rooms must be kept for Fancy’s children; they had the look of much-frequented rooms. They were part of the old nursery suite, and shared another huge bathroom, this one with an old enamel tub that bore evidence of much use, and a window that looked out onto an immense oak tree. There was a celluloid duck, new looking, on the edge of the bath, a huge sea sponge, and a bar of Pears soap.
Back on the first floor she checked out room after room, avoiding the suite she knew belonged to Fancy, and finally found herself in what Adrien had called the Long Gallery. It ran over the library and dining room below, and was panelled entirely in ancient oak and hung with a great many paintings.
At the far end, once past rows of family portraits, hung an enormous studded door, black with age, that Juliana realised must lead into the tower. She tried to open it, but her efforts were to no avail. Whatever key was needed to unlock it was nowhere to be found, and she finally left it, hearing gravel crunching under wheels outside. Feeling oddly like an intruder, she ran downstairs and then stood well back in the shadows as Fancy appeared on the stairs and the front door was flung open. She watched as a young man loped cheerily across the hallway, taking off his wet mac, which he dropped over his case. He stepped forward eagerly to hug Fancy, his face beaming as he saw her waiting.
“Hello, Mums,” he said, and attempted a kiss on her cheek as he put his arms round her.
Fancy recoiled, holding herself stick straight.
“Good gracious, Jamie, let go at once! You reek of that dreadful place,” Fancy snapped, stepping quickly out of her son’s embrace. “Go and wash immediately. You too, Damaris. Try for once to smell of something other than carbolic!”
Jamie flinched visibly and turned to go, his eyes on the floor, like a small boy who had been pushed out of the way of a treat. He had missed Juliana standing nearby, instead intent on murmuring an apology to his mother, but was distracted by someone who had to be his sister, given their similar colouring. She had followed him in through the front porch and, ignoring her mother completely, walked quickly over to where Juliana stood.
“I can hardly believe it,” she said with a broad smile, taking Juliana’s hands in her own.
They were the hands of someone who worked hard with them; strong and rough and with, Fancy was correct insomuch as this, the distinct odour of carbolic. She was several inches taller than Juliana, and looked down with a look of genuine pleasure in her round brown eyes.
“Back home, safe and sound,” said Damaris. “Oh, Juliana, we are so very happy to see you.”
She leaned forward and gave Juliana a warm kiss on the cheek, then turned to her brother. He was right behind her, his unhappiness over his mother’s treatment gone, his face alight with mischief. Grabbing her from his sister, he caught Juliana up in a hug. He was taller than Damaris, almost as tall as Adrien, and he pulled her up off the floor with ease, spinning round as he did so. His sister joined in, and their laughter echoed round the hall.
“Better put her down, Jamie,” Damaris said. “The poor thing doesn’t have a clue what’s happening.”
Jamie deposited Juliana onto the floor. He stepped back and gave her a mock bow, brown hair flopping over his face as he did so.
“Sorry, Juliana!” he said with an impish grin. “Bit carried away. Let me introduce myself. James David Evans, and this creature is my sister and companion in crime, Damaris Daphne. Didi, to those that know and worship her.”
Damaris cuffed him round the head not ungently, and Juliana couldn’t help but laugh back at them both, they were so ridiculous and so cheerful. They were as unlike Fancy as it was possible to be. Brown hair and eyes, warm skin, and both tall and long-limbed. The only resemblance between them and their mother was the mouth, small and neat, although in their cases they turned up at the edges instead of down, and ended in dimples.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” she replied, then frowned. “Again, I suppose. I’m sorry, I just don’t remember anything. But I am so glad you could come here this weekend.”
The two were looking at her keenly with their identical round dark eyes, but whatever they thought of her speech it did not show. The doubt she had seen in Margaret’s eyes, the derision from Fancy, none of that was there. Damaris wore a veil of calm that Juliana suspected was inherent to her, and Jamie simply looked happy. They swung her hands like a couple of excited children.
“It will be fun,” said Damaris. “So much to talk about.”
“And you won’t be bored, because you won’t remember us talking about it before,” added Jamie.
Juliana smiled in relief.
“That is what Margaret said, yesterday!” she replied.
They had all forgotten about the other woman in the room, and it was a shock when Fancy’s cold voice cut through the general hilarity.
“Go and unpack, children,” ordered Fancy, walking towards the library without looking at any of them. “Tea is almost ready. And remember, you two, wash properly!”
Juliana felt annoyance at Fancy’s lofty tones, resenting her cold direction of the situation. She opened her mouth to say something more conciliatory to the twins, then paused, realising how awkward the situation would be. A house could only have one mistress, and at the moment this was Fancy’s house, not hers. Jamie must have noticed her confusion, because he gave Juliana a quick wink and a shrug of his shoulders, then obediently began to walk upstairs, taking both cases with him
.
“Come on, Didi. Quicker we get washed up, quicker we get something to eat. I’m ravenous!”
Damaris scowled in her mother’s direction but held her tongue and picked up the macs, carrying them along to hang them up before she followed her brother upstairs.
“Don’t eat all the shortbread, Juliana,” she said from the top of the stairs, then turned and ran off with a shriek. “Me first, Jamie! You’re not to hog the hot water.”
The sound of them running along the corridor and turning up the back stairs made Juliana smile. She had worried about meeting these cousins, but their warm greeting had soothed her fears. Whatever they felt about her return, it seemed that they were ready to make the best of it and accept her back into the family bosom without much fuss. And it would be fun to have some more youthful company around. This house had been made for a large family. It cried out for footsteps overhead and doors opening and laughter. It needed laughter more than anything.
She made for the tea table with a smile on her face and a renewed appetite, which was echoed by the twins when they reappeared. Both of them ate an enormous meal, although where it all went she was unsure, as both of them were slim, with Jamie verging on skinny, if she was honest. Despite the rather chilling presence of Fancy, their chatter made the meal bearable, and afterwards she lay down on her bed with her book, relieved that this first meeting had gone well, although still worried about the rest of the hordes she had to meet over the weekend.
Late afternoon found Juliana increasingly anxious about dinner. She had not seen Adrien since luncheon, and had hoped that he would return in time to talk again. The short conversation that morning had raised other questions in her mind. It had occurred to her that despite all the enquiries made by the police, her disappearance here had not raised any alarms, although she supposed that no enquiry ever obtained complete results. There would be records that were not properly filed; messages that would be lost; sometimes matters would simply be pushed to one side and left for so long that their memory would fade.
With time on her hands, she took a long bath, using some of the scented bath salts in the bathroom. Filled with hot water, the tub was vast enough for her to float in, and she felt like a child as she splashed about and scrubbed herself with the sea sponge that sat next to the salts. She decided that she would purchase a duck, like the one in the nursery bathroom. It would be something to converse with in this huge, echoing chamber of a room. The thought, ridiculous though it was, cheered her up.
Getting dressed afterwards, Juliana was pleased that she had the velvet to wear, and sent up a silent vote of thanks to the Costelloes. They had been correct about needing a good frock. It was not something she would have thought of, and she knew that being properly dressed would make the evening easier. At any rate, Fancy Evans would not be able to belittle her over her clothing. She made a special attempt with her hair, finding plenty of hairpins in the topmost drawer of the dressing table and achieving a credible knot which she fastened with a black silk ribbon she took from the neck of one of her blouses in the absence of any other ornamentation. The exercise outdoors from earlier on had combined with the hot bath to bring roses to her cheeks, which Adrien pointed out when he met her at the foot of the stairs.
“You’ve got some colour in those pale cheeks, emmett,” he said, holding out his arm, his eyes appreciative. “That was quick!”
He looked good in evening dress and she found herself a little surprised at how she had managed to attract such a man. Juliana had no illusions about herself. She did not consider herself beautiful. Her eyes were too large for her face, with shadows underneath, her mouth too wide, and her skin, although smooth and unlined, was rarely anything other than pale. But she smiled up at Adrien nonetheless, pleased at the admiration, and was warmed to see an answering spark deep in his eyes. She slipped her hand through his elbow, feeling shy as she saw the look of gratification on his face as she did so. He had not returned to the house until past six o’clock. She had heard him bathe after she had vacated the bathroom, listening to his splashing as she sat on the window seat and drank in the cool air. It had finally stopped raining, but the air still smelled of it, as if the sea itself had been given a bath, and every tree and shrub glistened with raindrops.
“I know,” she replied. “All that lovely walking this morning. It’s ages since I was in the country.”
Adrien stopped by the fireplace and selected a flower from the vases there, breaking it off carefully and tucking it gently into the knot of her hair. It was a sprig of mimosa, and she could smell the delicate powder of its scent. It must have come from one of the glasshouses in the garden. The vibrant yellow pompoms had been clear through the glass when she was exploring that morning. She wondered how he had known that it was one of her favourite flowers, and then kicked herself. Of course he knew. He knew all about her, although she knew so little of him.
“There… perfect!” he said, looking down at her with contentment. “So, what did you do this afternoon? I’m sorry I wasn’t here to entertain you, but there’s a lot going on at the moment around the estate and I’m afraid I shall be busy for a while. We are renovating some of the workers’ cottages, among other things, and I want to get them right. I was later than I thought because we have a problem with some drainage.”
“I explored, indoors this time,” she told him, touched by his determined explanations and tempted to reach up and brush back his hair, which had flopped over his forehead again. “I think I’ve seen everything, now, except the tower. The door was locked and I didn’t know where the key was.”
He grinned.
“The key is on a hook, behind the portrait of my great-great-grandmother. She is the one who looks as if she is about to jump out and start beating you round the head with her stick! Everyone else looks quite placid in their portraits, but not her.”
Juliana thought back to her tour round the Long Gallery and thought that she remembered the picture he meant. The old lady, stiff-necked in her boned damask and lace, had indeed had a vicious look in her dark eyes, and her stick had been well in evidence.
“I think I know the one,” she replied. “She was terrifying. I can imagine she makes an excellent guard for the key. I shall keep my exploring for another wet day.”
“There will be plenty of those, my sweet,” he said, as they entered the drawing room. “Count on it.”
“Count on what?” Jamie asked.
He and Damaris were already in the library, sitting close together on the big settee, and they looked up as they overheard Adrien’s words. They were drinking cocktails and looked very comfortable. Both had changed and bathed and tidied themselves up. Jamie’s suit was old, but carefully pressed and he looked at ease in it. Damaris’ dress was an attractive teal colour that warmed her skin, although the taffeta showed signs of stretching over her shoulders.
“Rain,” replied Adrien. “Now I’ve lured her back, I can admit to her that we get much more rain than London.”
“But it’s nice rain,” said Damaris, patting the cushion next to her. “Do sit here, Juliana. Gosh, what a lovely frock. You must give me some hints, I never know what to wear once I’m out of uniform.”
“I’d be happy to,” she replied. “I’ve had a lot of practice over the last couple of years!”
She wondered suddenly if anyone would bring up the fact that she had been working, when it didn’t appear that she had done much of anything before. But no one did. Jamie just gave her one of his charming smiles and chimed in.
“I never mind getting wet here,” he said. “It’s getting wet in the city, with all that smoke and those everlasting smuts that make everything so dreary.”
Adrien agreed with him, then poured some sherry and handed it over to his wife without asking. Juliana took a sip without thinking, then looked up.
“How did you know?” she asked. “What I would drink?”
He smiled down at her.
“You always took an amontillado. The only on
e in the house to drink it. That’s your decanter there. It’s been empty since you… anyway, I filled it myself this morning.”
He raised his glass.
“Welcome home, Jules,” he said.
The sentiment had just been echoed by the others when a flurry of activity in the doorway announced the arrival first of Fancy, in dark satin, exquisitely made up, and then of Margaret and her mother. The latter immediately made for Juliana and kissed her. Margaret was wearing pale green, a colour that suited her red hair and pale skin, but had apparently rushed through her toilette as she had missed a great smear of engine oil that ran down the back of her right ear and neck. Like her mother, her hair had been pinned up quickly, and yet the simple contentment of the two of them outshone Fancy and her satin and lipstick easily.
“No Geoffrey tonight?” asked Adrien with a look of concern.
He continued to pass drinks around, and Juliana could see that Fancy was put out to be served last. Her mouth pursed as she thanked Adrien coolly and sat on her own, her blue eyes raking over the others in an unsettling manner.
“Unfortunately not,” said Margaret. “He had a bit of a turn this afternoon, so he’s resting and dining off a tray. He wasn’t pleased about it, I can tell you. Mummy wouldn’t let him out of bed—he’s chewing his finger ends off wanting to see you.”
“He asked if you might pop down tomorrow to see him, Juliana,” said Sylvia. “I really couldn’t risk bringing him over tonight. Perhaps you could take tea with him in the afternoon? The weather is looking fair for tomorrow, so I’ll be working on the herbaceous border again. With Margaret and I both out, he can find the afternoons very long.”
“I’d be happy to,” replied Juliana tentatively, remembering Adrien’s championing of Sylvia’s husband. “Is it far?”
“The Island is only minutes away,” said Sylvia with what seemed to be a customary cool briskness. “Take the green gate from the drive, and follow the path. You can’t miss it.”
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 7