“I wasn’t looking back,” said Gina, crossly. Nobody likes to be told they’re backward-looking.
“Yes, you were. Dreaming of happier days. No point, always best to assume the best days are ahead of you. Who knows what the day may bring?”
Who knows, indeed? thought Gina, trying to cover her knees with a large linen napkin and wishing that Victor would concentrate on his paper. The day might bring discovery, her unmasking as an impostor. Or it could, terrible thought, bring Popplewell or one of his colleagues; maybe his office was filled with Popplewell clones, all going about the country doing their duty. Gina took another unenthusiastic mouthful of muesli.
“Don’t know how anyone can eat that rabbit’s food,” said Victor, crunching into a piece of toast with his excellent teeth. “Not enough to keep body and soul together. Makes you fart, too.”
“Victor, that’s enough,” said Hester. “Gina, what would you like to do today?”
Harry answered for her. “Can you be a sweetie and show Gina around the house and so on this morning, Aunt Hester? I’m going to be a bit tied up until lunch. This afternoon I might take her over to the vineyard. You’ll enjoy that, Gina. Then we could have a swim.”
There was nothing Gina could say. She couldn’t claim she had work to do or letters to write; in fact, it was very strange, having nothing to do.
“You’ll want to drop a line to your grandparents, I expect,” said Hester. “Leave the letter on the hall table and I’ll see it goes with the rest of the post.”
Another trap. Gina shot Harry a look of mute appeal, which was wasted; Harry was sliding out of the room, giving Guy’s shoulder a quick caress as he went past.
“I don’t know if Aimee’s in her room,” said Hester, giving a tap on the door. “You haven’t met her yet, have you?”
A soft, low voice called for them to come in, and Hester opened the door into a room that could only be described as a bower. Light, silvery green muslins and gauzes fluttering gently at the windows and around a huge four-poster bed. The walls, Gina saw with astonishment, were decorated with more exquisite tapestries. The artist had once more chosen classical themes, all to do with love in this room, and Gina blinked as she took in what the nymphs, satyrs and assorted Grecians were up to.
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
Aimee was reclining on her bed, her dark hair tumbling over very white shoulders, while a filmy wrap did little to conceal her beautiful breasts.
“Cousin Georgiana, isn’t it?” Aimee said with an inviting smile. “Come and sit here,” and she patted the bed, “and tell me about yourself. Are you in love? I can see you are. It isn’t Harry, is it? Of course we all long for Harry to fall in love, but women aren’t entirely his thing. Not at present, anyhow.”
“Aimee,” said Hester, quite sharply for her. “It’s time you were up. Mrs Slubs will want to do your room; you know she wasn’t able to get in until the afternoon yesterday.”
Aimee stretched her arms gracefully and yawned. “Yesterday was wonderful, Aunt Hester. Do you know, last night...”
Hester cut her off at once. “I don’t think we want to hear about last night, thank you. Gina can’t stay, I’m just showing her around the house.”
Aimee’s almond-shaped eyes danced. “Dear Aunt Hester, weren’t you ever young and in love?”
“No, I wasn’t, as you well know, and thank goodness for it.”
“But don’t take Gina away,” Aimee pleaded. “I can see, she’s in love with a man who doesn’t love her, and then there must be someone in love with her; you couldn’t be so pretty and not have a lover, could she, now Hester, admit! I want to hear all about it.”
Hester made a disapproving clucking noise as she put a hand on Gina’s arm. Gina left the scented room reluctantly, her senses spinning. Just looking at Aimee and being in that room was enough to make one feel that any passing man would hardly be safe; pull yourself together, Gina said to herself, trying to get a grip on her feelings.
“I expect Aimee’s changed a lot since you last saw her,” said Hester. “She would only have been a baby then, although even then she was a most attractive and charming child; everyone adored her.”
I bet they did, thought Gina, coming to a more normal frame of mind and body as Hester led her along the passage.
“It’s Aimee’s twenty-first birthday on the twenty-third of June,” Hester went on.
“Midsummer Eve. The Feast of St John,” said Gina without thinking.
Hester shot her a surprisingly astute glance. “Very appropriate, one might say. We’re giving a ball for Aimee on that evening. You’ll still be here, of course, you’ll enjoy that.”
“No way,” Gina was about to say, but she stopped herself in time. “I hadn’t expected a ball.”
“No, I noticed you hadn’t brought any cocktail or long frocks; I was surprised. There are a lot of parties at this time of year, even in the country, surely you entertain on Uish?”
“No, no,” said Gina hastily. “My grandparents are old, and . . .”
Hester looked puzzled. “How strange you should say that. I’m sure that when Cousin Jack last wrote, he mentioned quite a number of festivities.”
Curse Cousin Jack and his busy pen, thought Gina. “I’m working now, in Oxford, you see, so I don’t get to so many parties.”
Hester laughed confidently. “Now, I know that’s not true. You must send for some more clothes, or if you want a shopping spree, Bath has some excellent shops and I’m sure Harry will take you over there. He goes quite often, on business.”
And what do I use to buy clothes with? thought Gina. I’ve hardly got any money left. And I must find out, quickly, what Harry’s business is before I put my foot in it. Georgie had been maddeningly vague when she’d asked about Harry. “Oh, he’s in messages,” she had said. Gina could hardly ask Hester what Harry did; never mind, she would have some time with him this afternoon and find out more about him.
Now I understand how people can fall in love with a house, thought Gina, as she succumbed to the enchantment of Heartsease Hall. It’s a work of art, not a place to live.
“I have never, ever seen such a beautiful, magical house,” she cried, as Hester led her through one superb room after another. The Chapel, with its high-beamed ceiling, the Great Hall, the Little Hall, the courtyards, which led to the Jacobean Tower, the kitchens, the Dance Room. The wide, polished wooden stairs in the oldest part of the house, the room King Charles II slept in, the Red Room, the Library, the Sun Room, so-called because of the great sun painted on the ceiling. Tapestries everywhere, treated in those happier days like wallpaper, cut round doors, curved round cupboards and corners.
“All this is the old part of the house,” said Hester. “It was started in about 1370, and the Great Hall was built after the Battle of Bosworth, in 1485. The family did very well under the Tudor kings; they had a knack of being on the right side at the right time. They rose in the world, and in the seventeenth century took off to build a huge mansion on the other side of the county. That’s why so little of this part was changed. Tenants and minor members of the family lived here, and it wasn’t until the end of the eighteenth century that one of the countesses came to live here. I believe she and her husband agreed to live apart, for various reasons which it’s best not to go into.”
Hester led Gina through the kitchen, and out into the gardens. “The countess decided she needed more room, but by that time, of course, Gothic was fashionable, so instead of pulling down the old house, she built alongside it, in the Gothicke style. That’s why when you look at the house from where the front is now, it all looks so harmonious.”
Gina wandered in a happy daze through the formal gardens at the rear of the house, and then round to the orchard, where large sported pigs grazed happily under the trees.
Another Eden, she thought. I can’t leave this, go back to America, where a house a hundred years old is considered ancient.
Hester was pleased to find Gina so appreciativ
e. “Of course, it will all be new to you; you were so small when you were last here. Your parents loved it here, you know.”
Lucky Georgie, thought Gina. To have even a slight connection with all this, the right to come and be part of it; not as a visitor, but as one who belonged here.
Gina wandered idly through the gardens, supposedly helping Hester to pick flowers for the house, but mostly just looking and marvelling as each turn brought a new prospect of the house, or a new and wonderful view. It was late on in the morning by the time Hester looked at her watch and said they had better be getting back; Harry would be waiting for Gina.
He wasn’t. True to form, there was a message instead. “Held up, postpone vineyard, meet you downstairs at five for swim.”
Gina didn’t mind having an afternoon to herself. She assured a concerned Hester that she would be quite happy on her own.
“Aimee’s vanished, of course,” said Hester with a worried frown. “You could spend the afternoon with Prim, but I’m afraid you’d find you’d have to work very hard, she always makes people help. And you look a little frayed, if you don’t mind my mentioning it.”
Lunch, fortunately, was an informal cold meal laid out in the smaller dining-room, and Gina found herself eating alone with Hester. Viaor had driven to Bristol, it was Julia’s day at the hospital, and Prim had taken a picnic into the fields.
Hester apologized for the lack of company at lunch; Gina could hardly say that she was much relieved to be spared the full force of the family for a few hours. She was to be spared further; Guy, who kept the social calendar, reminded Hester that Victor and Julia were dining out at Heartsbury. “Prim says she’ll eat at the cottage, Aimee’s got a hot date as usual, so I expect it will be one of Maria’s experimental nights.”
“Nothing sinister,” Hester assured Gina. “It’s just that when there are only one or two of the family here, and particularly when Victor isn’t here, Maria tries out new dishes. It has to be perfect for Victor, you see.”
“Is he very fussy about his food?” asked Gina, surprised. He seemed to her to be a man of large appetites in every sense; she wouldn’t have put him down as a gourmet.
“No, Victor loves his food and will eat almost anything. But Maria feels that he’s the head of the house and needs to be treated with special respect.”
“Quite right, too,” said Guy. “Victor’s marvellous; it’s no wonder people want to please him.”
“Hmm,” said Hester.
Gina felt she’d escaped from prison as, wheeling a bike which Esme had cheerfully found for her, she headed for the gates.
“There are lots of bikes around,” Esme had said. “Lots of everything with this family, I tell you that for nothing. Here’s one, hold on, I’ll pump up the tyres for you.”
Gina protested; she could perfectly well pump up the tyres for herself.
Esme waved her away. “No, no, you look bushed. I like doing anything physical. And I don’t blame you, wanting to get away from this place. I mean, I know they’re your family and all that, but cripes, they aren’t half a bunch of weirdos. There!” She gave the back tyre a good squeeze to make sure it was firm - Gina was surprised it didn’t burst on the spot - and then said she was off to have a couple of sets of tennis with Jarvis. “He does the gardens, when Prim lets him, but it’s his afternoon off. See you later.”
At least there’s one uncomplicated being in the house, thought Gina as she reached the bottom of the steep drive and mounted the bike.
Gina was used to cycling; she went everywhere by bike in Oxford. As she pedalled along the leafy lanes, her spirits rose. It was surprising, but she had to admit that some of her panic had subsided. It must have something to do with the feeling of remoteness here; Popplewell seemed a world away. This was an ancient place, people had roots here, this was the kind of countryside she had dreamed about when she first came to England. Settled, belonging to a large clan, rich; the Cordovans were the family she had never had. It must be so different, not being an only child, Gina thought, as she toiled hotly up a small hill and then whooshed down the other side. Imagine having all those brothers and sisters, as well as numerous uncles and aunts, and cousins and in-laws... Lucky Harry.
She had brought her map with her, but wasn’t heading anywhere in particular. When she reached a crossroads, she took the direction with the most appealing name. Oath’s Sluice turned out merely to be a cottage and a water mill; Utter Oath had several very pretty thatched cottages and a village shop. Gina bought a can of Coke and a postcard of the village, although there’s no one I can send it to, she reminded herself as she got back on her bike.
After several miles more of meandering about the countryside, being passed by the very occasional car, and herself passing several lumbering tractors, she stopped and consulted her map. She had actually travelled in a large circle, and was back in what she suspected was Heartsease territory. She looked up at the signpost. That way were Long Ease and Little Ease. The road opposite was signposted to Heartsease and Heartsbane. She’d come from Corda Episcopi, so it would have to be the fourth way. It was only a pretence; the minute she saw ‘Heartwell, 1’ on the arm, she knew that was where she was going.
Heartwell was charming. Like Heartsease, it had a central green, but this was much bigger than Heartsease’s tiny triangle. This was large enough to boast a duckpond, complete with ducks, a maypole, and an uncomfortable-looking iron bench with a plaque on the back saying it had been put there in memory of the Rev. Gartsop, Vicar of Heartwell 1921-7.
Gina stopped and leant her bicycle up against a handy tree. Across the green was a small Norman church, and next to it was the St Ogwell’s Junior C of E school. Nearer to her she could see a village shop cum post office, a bakery and a gift shop which also offered teas.
Gina was tempted by tea; she loved a good tea, but then she had had lunch, far more than her usual quick snack. The church, then, she thought.
She wandered round the church and into the graveyard beyond it. The gravestones were old, and most of them tilted slightly drunkenly forwards or to one side. The same names occurred again and again: Heartwell, Gartsop, Slubs. Gina was intrigued; ancestors of hers must lie under the springy turf. Bees hummed and buzzed about the honeysuckle which tumbled over the church wall. How peaceful, thought Gina, relishing an elusive scent of cut grass. How English.
She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into blissful coolness. She could hear the murmur of voices further up the nave, but she paused at the entrance to absorb the musty smell and look at the crusader’s tomb which lay at her feet. More peaceful in the graveyard was her next thought, as she heard voices raised in argument. She moved up the nave, and found herself in a hive of industry. There were several women entangled with wire above the altar, and two more swarming up a stepladder which was propped up beside a broad Norman pillar.
“Flower Festival,” said a voice in Gina’s ear. “An annual event, and one we pride ourselves on. Can I help, or have you just popped in to view our beautiful church?”
It was the vicar. Gina could and did praise the church, although she couldn’t bring herself to praise the ghastly banners and slogans which drooped about the interior, obscuring what was probably fine stonework. She was just cycling through Heartwell, she explained, and had been struck by the beauty of the church. The vicar made pleased vicar noises, and was about to move away, when Gina, on an impulse, asked if she might look at the parish registers.
The vicar looked at her in surprise. “Of course,” he said. “They are open to all, only unfortunately, in these sad times, we have to keep them locked away. I will just tell Mrs Bodkin where I am, and then I will be at your disposal.”
The vicar was obviously quivering with curiosity as to why she wanted to look at the register. Gina felt a version of the truth would be best. “One of my family came from these parts, quite a while back,” she explained. “My own name is Hartwell, only without the E. But I have a friend whose family were here more recently. I sai
d if I was here, I’d look her family up. She’s abroad, you see. Her name is Heartwell, too, spelt like the village here.”
“How very interesting,” the vicar said. “Very interesting indeed. Of course, the Heartwells were squires here, although sadly, few are left, and none of them live at Heartwell House; well, it was sold many years ago. Although the present occupants, albeit recent arrivals, are most um, pleasant people. So this is very interesting. Let me see...”
The bygone Heartwells were fascinating. The names ran through the centuries, reflecting the fashions of the times. Marys and Elizabeths and several Thomases gave way to Charlottes and Jameses, to be followed in due course by Fredericks, Augustuses and Louises. There was even one Algernon Adolphus, Gina noticed with delight, and she was rather taken with an early Puritan ancestor called Pure-of-Heart Heartwell.
“You seem to know your way about old records,” remarked the vicar.
“I’m an historian,” said Gina, her impostorship forgotten.
The vicar was so fascinated by the family ramifications that he didn’t notice that Gina seemed far more interested in her ‘friend’s’ relatives than in her own remote ones.
To her surprise, her mother’s wedding was recorded there. She was about to exclaim that she never knew she had been married in England, but bit her tongue just in time.
“Is that your friend’s mother?” asked the vicar, seeing her interest. “She didn’t marry anyone from these parts, Serge Zandermann, a foreigner, I feel sure.” And he laughed heartily.
Gina was moved, thinking of her parents going through a wedding ceremony here in this small English church, so far in every sense from their subsequent lives. It had been a June wedding; was it a hot day like this? she thought, coming out of the church into the stifling hot air. She was sure the weather had turned even more sultry since she had been in the church. She’d get herself an ice at the shop, and then cycle back to Heartsease. At a leisurely pace; the day seemed even warmer than before.
Wild Grapes Page 7