Once the door had shut behind him, I stood in the middle of the shop and hugged myself with pleasure. This was better than I could ever have envisaged. An entire weekend – two nights – in my dream surroundings.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the ceiling of the bookshop. ‘Thank you.’
The train to Ashford was packed and there were even people standing in our first-class carriage. Thankfully, Orlando had refrained from bringing his picnic hamper, swapping it for a battered leather suitcase and a canvas bag full of supplies, from which he produced a half-bottle of champagne and two flutes.
‘I always celebrate the end of the week like this. To your health, Miss Star,’ he toasted as the train pulled out of Charing Cross.
Once Orlando had drunk his glass of champagne, he crossed his hands over his chest and fell asleep. My mobile pinged suddenly and I saw it was a text. I presumed it was CeCe, who had been disgruntled when I said I was going down to Kent again for the weekend with my employer.
But the text was from an unknown number.
Hear you are coming down to High Weald with my brother. Hope we can arrange a time to meet and discuss Flora MacNichol. O.
I pondered the initial at the end, fascinated that both brothers’ names began with the same letter.
Just over an hour later, we emerged onto the station forecourt. Orlando headed towards a taxi and we drove along the pitch-black country lanes towards High Weald.
‘Lando! Staah!’ Rory was waiting to greet us.
With his nephew hanging like a chimpanzee from his neck, Orlando paid the driver. I turned to see a figure on the doorstep, already jangling his car keys.
‘I’ll be off then,’ Mouse said as Orlando and I trundled towards him with our overnight cases. ‘I fed him what Marguerite had left, but I’m afraid he didn’t eat much. I’m sure he’s glad you’re both here. Anything you need, you know where I am,’ he said to Orlando. To me he said, ‘You have my number, contact me when it’s convenient. If it ever is.’ With a curt nod, he walked to his car, climbed in and drove off.
‘Goodness, I feel that we are parents,’ whispered Orlando to me as he lugged both his suitcase and Rory inside and I brought up the rear with the supplies and my holdall.
‘Do you like pancakes?’ I tried to sign. Orlando chuckled as Rory looked at me uncomprehendingly. So I finger-spelt the letters carefully.
Rory nodded eagerly. ‘Chocolate and ice cream with them?’ he added, spelling the word out patiently for me before wriggling out of Orlando’s arms and taking my hand.
‘We’ll look for some. You go and unpack,’ I suggested to Orlando over Rory’s head, knowing how he liked to be organised.
‘Thank you,’ he replied gratefully.
There was no chocolate sauce, but I sourced a Mars Bar from the pantry and melted it down to put with the ice cream on the pancakes. Rory wolfed them back as I explained to him slowly that he would have to help me with signing because I was far behind him. Once I’d wiped him clean of chocolate smears, he yawned.
‘Sleep?’ I signed.
He frowned reluctantly in reply.
‘Shall we go and find Orlando? I bet he tells the best bedtime stories.’
‘Yes.’
‘You will have to show me where your bedroom is.’
Rory led me up the grand staircase and down a long, creaking corridor until he reached the door at the end.
‘My room.’
As he led me inside, the first thing I noticed amid the football posters, bright-coloured Superman duvet and general clutter were the paintings stuck haphazardly with Blu-Tack to the walls.
‘Who did these?’ I asked him as he climbed into bed.
‘Me,’ he indicated with his thumb.
‘Wow, Rory, they are fantastic,’ I said as I wandered around the room studying them.
There was a brief knock before Orlando entered.
‘Perfect timing. Rory wants your best story,’ I told him with a smile.
‘Then I will gladly oblige. Which book?’
Rory pointed at The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and Orlando rolled his eyes.
‘Again? When can we move on to the rest of the series? I’ve told you many times that The Last Battle is perhaps my favourite book of all time.’
Not wanting to intrude on their bedtime ritual, I headed for the door, but as I passed Rory’s bed, he opened his arms wide to me for a hug. And I responded.
‘Nigh, Stah.’
‘Night, night, Rory.’ With a smile and a wave, I left the room.
With Orlando and Rory happily occupied, I went downstairs and wandered into the dimly lit sitting room where I paused to look at the pictures dotted on side tables around the room. Most were grainy black-and-white photographs of people in evening dress, and I smiled at a colour photo of Rory sitting proudly on a pony, with Marguerite standing next to him.
Exploring the house further, I walked along a corridor to a room that appeared to be a study. An ancient partner’s desk was strewn with paper, books were piled up on the floor, and an ashtray and an empty wine glass sat precariously on the wide arm of a worn leather sofa. Various prints hung on the walls, whose faded striped paper told me it was a long time since this room had seen refurbishment. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a beautiful blonde woman in Edwardian dress. I stepped over an overflowing wastepaper basket to take a closer look, then jumped as I heard the tread of feet on the stairs above me and scurried out of the room to the kitchen. I didn’t want Orlando to know that I had been snooping around the house.
‘One nephew tucked up safe and snug in his bed. Now . . .’ He proffered me a bottle of red wine and six eggs. ‘I can see to one, if you can turn the other into an omelette for us.’
‘Of course,’ I said, and, already knowing my way around the kitchen, it was only fifteen minutes before we were sitting at the table eating companionably. Just like an old married couple, I thought. Or perhaps brother and sister might be a more appropriate analogy.
‘Now, tomorrow, Rory and I will give you a tour of the estate. Given your professed penchant for botany, you will almost certainly gasp in horror at the state of the gardens. But I find their muddle rather beautiful. The remnants of bygone days, et cetera,’ he sighed. ‘And at the root of it all – to use an appropriate metaphor – lies the lack of funds.’
‘I think this house is perfect as it is.’
‘That, my dear girl, is because you don’t have to reside in it or pay for its upkeep. For instance, the Great Hall of High Weald, once the setting for elegant society gatherings, has been closed off for years due to lack of funds to restore it. And I am sure that after a weekend of a lumpy horsehair mattress and the lack of hot water to cleanse yourself, plus the fact that the bedrooms are toe-curlingly cold due to the absence of a modern heating system, you will perhaps alter your opinion. Aesthetically, I agree, but practically, the house is a nightmare to live in. Especially in the winter.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m used to roughing it,’ I shrugged.
‘That was in hot countries, which, I can assure you, is an entirely different matter. The truth is, after the war, like so many families, the Vaughans fell on hard times. I find it rather ironic that little Rory will one day become a “lord”, when he has only a decrepit and ailing manor to preside over.’
‘A lord? I had no idea. Who will he inherit the title from? His father?’
‘Yes. Now’ – Orlando swiftly changed the subject – ‘What can we dig out of that pantry for dessert?’
I woke the next morning in a room I felt I had seen before in a period drama on television. The bed I’d slept in was made of brass and every time I turned over, the knobs on the four posts rang like Christmas bells due to the rickety construction, and the mattress was as lumpy as Orlando had warned me it would be. The patterned wallpaper was peeling back in places, and the curtains shielding the windows had tears in the fabric. Climbing out of the bed, even my long legs dangled a few inches above the wooden floor, an
d as I tiptoed across it to go to the bathroom, I looked longingly at the cast-iron grate and wished I could light a fire to ward off the chill.
Last night I’d been plagued with odd dreams, which was unusual for me. I normally slept peacefully, remembering nothing of my brain’s nocturnal machinations when I woke. Thinking of CeCe and her own nightmares, I dug out my mobile to tell her I’d arrived safely, then realised there was no signal whatsoever.
I looked out of the window, seeing the delicate fronds of frost that crept across the small square panes, through which glimmers of early morning sunlight heralded the dawn of a bright autumnal day – just the sort that I loved. I dressed in as many layers as I’d brought with me and went downstairs.
By the time I reached the kitchen, a yawning Orlando was already there, wearing a paisley silk dressing gown with a woollen scarf wound round his neck, and an outrageous pair of peacock-blue silk lounge slippers on his feet.
‘And here is the cook! Rory and I have sourced some sausages and bacon from the fridge, and of course we have eggs aplenty. How about a full English breakfast to set us up for the day?’
‘Good idea,’ I agreed. We all pitched in, with Rory stirring the mixture for eggy bread – something he said he’d never tasted, and pronounced ‘delicious’ when he did.
‘So, young Rory, this morning we shall take Miss Star on a tour of the estate, or at least what’s left of it, and hope that Sunday lunch does not drop from the skies upon our heads,’ Orlando added.
‘What do you mean?’ I queried.
‘It’s pheasant shooting season, I’m afraid. Mouse is bringing a brace for you to perform your magic on for our lunch tomorrow.’ Orlando stood up. ‘Perhaps while we men perform our ablutions, you would write a list of everything you need to complement the birds, and I will have the local farm shop deliver it. By the way,’ he said, halting as he arrived at the kitchen door. ‘The trees in the orchard still bear fruit that goes to waste on the ground. If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you’d like to make use of some in a pie?’
I found a piece of scrap paper and a felt tip pen in the drawer and sat down to write a list. I’d never cooked pheasant before, so I had a search around the kitchen for some recipe books, but found none and decided I would just have to invent my own.
Half an hour later we were forging across the frost-hardened drive. Orlando had planned a route that would apparently take us to the furthest reaches of the land, and then into what he called the jewel in the crown of High Weald.
‘At least it was seventy years ago, anyway,’ he added. Rory was cycling ahead of us, and as he reached the gate, Orlando shouted at him to stop because of the road, but he didn’t.
‘Good God! He can’t hear me!’ he cried as he went haring off in pursuit and I had a glimpse into the dangers Rory would face as he grew up and the constant supervision he needed now. I ran too, my heart pounding, to find Rory grinning cheekily at us as he emerged from behind a bush on the grass verge along the lane.
‘Hiding! Got you!’
‘Yes, you most certainly did, old chap,’ Orlando signed vehemently, as we tried to recover our breath and equilibrium. ‘You must never cycle on the lane. There are cars.’
‘I know. Mag told me.’
Orlando stowed Rory’s bike inside the gate. ‘Now, we shall cross the road together.’
We did so, Rory between us, holding each of our hands, and I was struck by the fact that Rory called his mother by a shortened version of her name; a truly Bohemian family, I thought, as Orlando steered us through an opening in the hedge on the other side. Endless fields bordered by hedges spread on either side of us and I watched Rory turn his head to take in the sights around him. He spied the late blackberries first, and we picked them together, most of them ending up in Rory’s mouth.
‘This is the bridle path that borders the old estate,’ Orlando said as we walked on. ‘Do you ride, Miss Star?’
‘No. I’m frightened of horses,’ I confessed, remembering my one and only riding lesson with CeCe, when I’d been too terrified to even climb on.
‘Not one for the nags myself either. Mouse rides excellently, of course, just as he does everything else. I do feel for him sometimes, mind you. I’m of the opinion that having too many gifts can be as bad as having none at all, don’t you think? Everything in moderation, that’s my motto. Or life has a way of coming back to bite you.’
As we walked on, I saw the hedges were fluttering with small birds; the air smelt fresh and clear, and I enjoyed breathing in its pureness after weeks in the smoggy city. The sun shone bronze in Rory’s hair, mirroring the trees that were holding on to their last glorious colour before winter.
‘Look!’ he shouted, spotting a red tractor in the distance. ‘Mouse!’
‘And so it is,’ said Orlando, shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting over the fields. ‘Rory, you have the eyes of a hawk.’
‘Say hello?’ Rory turned to us.
‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s tractoring,’ Orlando cautioned as a sudden blast of shotguns rang out in the distance. ‘And the shoot has begun. We should head back. The pheasants will be falling around us hard and fast, and they have a horrible habit of denting anything below them, be it animate or not.’
Orlando set off at a fast pace, retracing our footsteps towards the house.
‘So your brother is a farmer?’
‘I wouldn’t define him as such, given the other strings he has to his bow, but due to the constant staff shortage caused by the family financial crisis, he often has no choice but to be.’
‘Does he own this land?’
‘We both do, as it happens. The estate was divided in the forties between brother and sister. Our branch – that of our grandmother, Louise Forbes – got the land on this side of the lane, plus Home Farm. While our great-uncle, Teddy Vaughan, Marguerite’s grandfather, inherited the main house and gardens. And, of course, the peerage. All very feudal, but that is England for you, Miss Star.’
We crossed over the lane and walked back down the drive of High Weald. I wondered which branch of the family had drawn the short straw when the estate was divided, but I knew nothing of the price of farmland as opposed to property round here.
‘Rory!’ Again, Orlando ran to catch up with his nephew who had raced off towards the house on his bike. ‘We should show Star the gardens now.’
Rory gave a thumbs up and careered away again at pace, disappearing down a path to the side of the house.
‘Good grief, I shall be glad when this is over,’ Orlando said. ‘I’m living in fear of something happening to that precious boy on our watch. Awfully glad you’re with me, Star. I wouldn’t have been allowed here without you.’
I was surprised at his comment as I followed him along the path to the back of the house. We emerged onto a wide flagstone terrace, and I drew in my breath as I looked down into the vast walled garden.
It was as though I had landed in Sleeping Beauty’s castle grounds, and now had to fight my way through the forest of thorns and gigantic weeds that enveloped it. As we walked down the steps and along the overgrown paths that wound through the maze of what must have been spectacular shrubbery, I saw the wooden skeletons of pergolas that had once carried magnificent climbing roses. The endless borders and flower beds still held their original pattern, but could no longer contain the plants and bushes that had escaped their confines and whose dry, brown entrails covered the paths.
I stopped and looked up at an ancient and majestic yew tree that dominated the garden, its determined roots having broken through the stone paths that surrounded it. There was a wild yet desolate air of romance about it all. And, I thought, just a whisper of possibility that those specimens which – against the odds – had survived unchecked could be salvaged.
I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of the garden awash with roses, magnolias and camellias, the straight lines of clipped box hedges giving way to powdery blue ceanothus . . . every nook and cra
nny filled with gorgeous, lavish life . . .
‘You can see how glorious it must have been once,’ Orlando said, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Oh yes, I can,’ I murmured. I saw Rory winding his way along the overgrown paths, expertly manoeuvring his bicycle round the overhanging plants as if he was taking some form of proficiency test.
‘I must show you the greenhouses where my great-grandfather grew and nurtured specimens from all over the world. But now,’ Orlando said, ‘do you think there is something that you could perhaps rustle up for lunch? Then for tonight I’ve ordered a tenderloin fillet. The farm shop’s beef is quite the best I know.’ Orlando gave a large yawn. ‘Goodness, that walk has quite exhausted me. Thank God I live in town. There’s little else to do but walk in the country, is there? And one feels so guilty if one doesn’t.’
After lunch, Orlando rose from the table. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me if I take a short nap. I am sure the two of you will muddle along together while I’m gone.’
‘I like your cooking, Star,’ Rory signed as his uncle left the kitchen.
‘Thank you. Help me with the washing-up?’ I indicated the full sink.
Rory pouted at me.
‘If you do, I’ll show you how to make chocolate brownies. They are delicious.’
We set to work and just as I’d allowed Rory to lick the bowl, the back door opened and I heard the footfall of heavy boots outside. Thinking it must be the delivery from the farm shop, I turned and saw the Sewer Rat step through the kitchen door. Rory and I stared at him in surprise.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Rory.’ He nodded at the boy, who waved back, his attention taken by the last remnants of the chocolate mix. ‘Something smells good.’
‘We’re making brownies.’
‘Then I’m sure Rory is in heaven.’
‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’ I muttered, his presence making me nervous.
The Shadow Sister Page 10