Country Plot (8 page)

The dogs by this time had left her and gone off on their own business, and she stood for a long time, enjoying the sunshine and the sweet air, and wondering what the name of the range of hills was. On the other side of the hedge there was evidently a track or footpath of some kind, because at one point she heard two people coming along it, talking quietly, though she couldn't see them because the hedge was six feet high and dense. But just as she became aware that she was hungry and thought it was about time to go back and get ready for breakfast, she heard hoof beats, and a moment later saw the ears of a horse and the top half of his rider coming along towards her.

Always interested in horses, she looked around for something to stand on for a better view, and spotted a tree stump a little further along. Balancing on it, she could just see over the hedge. The horse approaching was a very handsome black, groomed to swooning-point, walking collectedly on the bit. The rider was even more perfectly turned out, which struck her as odd at this time of day – who poshed up for the early morning hack? She was slim and looked as if she would be tall, wearing immaculate breeches and boots, tweed hacking jacket and black velvet crash-cap. Her corn-blonde hair was confined as if for the showground in a net, and her face was fully made-up, beautiful in a rather enamelled way. She looked hard as nails, like a professional showjumper: just by switching to a black jacket she could have gone straight into the ring at Hickstead or Olympia. One of the posh locals, Jenna thought: a County Tough. She was about to jump down, so as not to attract attention to herself, when the woman spotted her.

‘Who are you? What are you doing there?' she demanded in ringing, authoritative tones. ‘That's private land. Don't you know you're trespassing?' The horse passaged about a bit, upset by the sudden voice, and she checked it with a firm hand.

Jenna saw no reason to explain herself to a complete stranger; but on the other hand, this
was
the countryside, and the woman was probably just looking out for her neighbour, which was the decent thing to do. So she stood where she was and said, ‘I'm staying with Mrs Everest.'

The fact that she had pronounced the name correctly perhaps weighed with the horsewoman, for she frowned at Jenna with slightly less hostility; but she said suspiciously, ‘I've never seen you before. And I didn't hear she had anyone staying with her.'

This Jenna thought was just rude; and besides, she had tired of the game. She said, ‘Perhaps she doesn't tell you everything,' and jumped down and walked away.

‘Stop!' the woman called after her; and when Jenna didn't, she said, ‘I don't know what you're up to, but I shall check up on you, you know. And I have a photographic memory.'

Jenna gave her an insouciant wave of one hand without turning round, walking briskly towards the house and breakfast, heard the hoof beats resume, and thought no more about it.

Kitty was in the hall when she went back into the house, and said, ‘Ah, there you are! Did you have a nice walk? Are you ready for breakfast?'

‘Yes, it's lovely out. I'd just like a quick shower first, if you don't mind.'

‘Of course. We'll eat on the terrace at the back – straight through the conservatory when you're ready. And do you like tea or coffee?'

‘Tea, please.'

Ten minutes later, freshly washed and clad in a soft chambray shirt and stone-coloured cotton trousers, her feet in comfortable coral-coloured suede sandals, Jenna ran downstairs, through the crowded sitting-room and the airy conservatory and out on to the terrace, where one of the conservatory tables and two chairs had been set up facing the view, and the dogs had assembled already in a hopeful row. Kitty was in one of the chairs, and a pleasant-faced, comfortably-figured, grey-haired woman in an apron was putting things on to the table from a large tray.

‘Ah, Jenna,' said Kitty, ‘this is Mrs Phillips. Mrs Phillips, Jenna Freemont, whom I told you about. She's a cousin to some degree of removal, and she's kindly come to stay and help me sort things out.'

Mrs Phillips gave Jenna a careful look, as though memorizing her, and then smiled and put out a civil hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,' she said in a local accent. ‘Mrs Everest said you'd not been well lately, and I must say you do look a bit peaky. Never mind, you'll soon feel better, what with our good air and our good local produce. It's the minerals in the soil or something, so they say, but it's that healthy round here, nobody ever dies!'

‘I like the sound of that,' Jenna said. ‘And I certainly had the best night's sleep of my life last night.'

‘Holtby air,' said Mrs Phillips and Kitty at the same moment, and they looked at each other and smiled.

‘I'll get your breakfasts,' Mrs Phillips said, turning away. ‘Have to see if we can't feed you up.'

Jenna sat, gazed at the view, and said to Kitty, ‘It's hard to remember that I've come here to work, you've made me so comfortable. But we ought to talk about my duties. I mean, you've not invited me here to take a holiday, tempting as it seems.'

‘Oh, no need to start today,' Kitty said, leaning back and half closing her eyes against the sun, like a large cat. ‘You'll want to get your bearings and settle in.'

Jenna laughed. ‘You mustn't encourage me to be lazier than I already am. At least tell me, what am I here to do? Michael said something about correspondence and – was it? – cataloguing?'

‘I have some correspondence to clear up,' Kitty said, ‘because I really can't get on with that wretched computer. Xander made me swap my dear old typewriter for it, and I wish I'd never listened to him. He said it would be easier because everything is stored inside it instead of on sheets of paper that can get lost, but I knew where I was with a typewriter and a filing cabinet.'

‘Xander?' Jenna queried.

‘Oh, sorry – my godson, Alexander Latham. He lives a few miles on the other side of Holtby. You'll meet him soon. He's the nearest thing I have to a son. I'm very fond of him. But I expect you'll be happy with the computer – I dare say it's all you ever use yourself?'

Jenna nodded.

‘It will be useful for the other work as well. You see, the house is crammed with things, as I expect you've noticed – pictures, furniture, china, objets d'art – and there's a whole library of books. They all have to be listed and catalogued in detail. There'll be some research work to be done on the backgrounds in some cases, which I imagine you'll do on the Internet. I'm sure you're an expert on that.'

‘I've done that sort of thing in my other jobs,' Jenna said. ‘I'm sure it won't be a problem.'

‘Good. And then I'll need a brief history of the house to be compiled – just a couple of pages. More Internet work for you, though I have papers and photographs and other documents you can call on. We can do that together – and I'd like some of the photographs incorporated in it, if that's possible. I have a scanner – it came as part of the package when I bought the computer.'

‘That's fine. I'm sure I can do what you want,' Jenna said, and went on, hesitantly: ‘May I ask what all this is for? Are you writing a book or something?'

‘I wish that's all it was,' Kitty said. ‘No, I'm afraid it's all going to have to be sold.'

‘Sold?' Jenna exclaimed. ‘What a shame!'

‘Yes, it is,' Kitty said. ‘It's a collection that goes back through the generations, and every piece has its story. In a way, it's the story of the family itself. But you see, this house takes a great deal to maintain, and my income doesn't rise along with the costs. In simple terms, I can't afford to live here. I'm hoping by selling some of the contents to buy myself some time, so I won't have to sell the house. I'd like to be able to stay on here a few more years – ideally until I die, because it would break my heart to leave Holtby House. I love it so.' Her face was bleak, and Jenna was struck to the heart. Her own problems suddenly faded to triviality.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘How awful for you.'

‘I want to do the right thing by the house,' Kitty said. ‘There are repairs I've been putting off, and that's not fair on the fabric. If there was one big thing like a Titian I could sell, I wouldn't hesitate or repine. It would be worth it to put everything right. But none of the bits and pieces, lovely though they are, is valuable enough to make any difference.'

‘What about taking out a loan?' Jenna said, thinking hard.

‘Loans have to be serviced. I'd just be adding to the costs, and my income wouldn't stand it.' Kitty pulled herself together briskly. ‘Well, let's not talk about it now. How about my giving you a quick tour of the house after breakfast, so that you have some idea of the task ahead?'

She obviously didn't want to dwell on it, so Jenna followed her lead and changed the subject brightly. But the thought of the shadow hanging over this pleasant woman almost spoiled the delicious Full English that Mrs Phillips served up.

‘You're spoiling me,' Jenna told her. ‘If this keeps up I'll be as fat as a pig in no time.'

‘We believe in breakfasts in this house,' Mrs Phillips said comfortably. ‘Best time of day to eat. Fill the tank
before
you drive the car.'

‘We don't go in for large lunches,' Kitty explained, ‘so you'll find you'll burn it off by supper time.'

Kitty seemed really to have intended a ‘quick tour of the house' but Jenna was so interested in everything that it took some time. On the ground floor were the drawing room and dining room, furnished and decorated like something from the National Trust, except they were stuffed with a great many more of what Kitty called ‘the things' – china, glass, silver, clocks, curios and so on. There were lots of paintings, too: family portraits, which Kitty was very amusing about, landscapes and quite a lot of sailing boats. ‘Peter's father was a keen sailor and he loved nautical pictures, so most of them were collected by him. Oh, look, here's Sir George Everest. I told you I'd show him to you. We keep him tucked away in this alcove because it really isn't a very good painting. It wasn't done from life, but from a photograph, some time after his death, which is probably why it looks so wooden.'

Sir George appeared to be a vigorous old gentleman with a huge beard and wild hair. Even Jenna, who had no expertise, could see that it wasn't a very good painting.

‘Lovely frame, though,' Kitty said, touching it. ‘Probably worth more than the picture. They were so terribly proud of him, you see, that they framed him with no expense spared. He used to hang in the hall in Peter's grandfather's time, but his father moved him in here so as not to frighten the visitors.'

Famous names popped up quite frequently. ‘That's a sketch of Disraeli – he was a frequent house-guest. That pair of vases – ghastly aren't they? – were a gift from Prince Albert after the Great Exhibition. Sir Edward Everest was quite chummy with Albert and helped with the organization. Peter Scott did that painting of pheasants while he was staying here once. That cigarette box was a birthday present from Princess Margaret.'

Kitty's throwaway comments showed how used she was to living with history; yet Jenna felt that dispersing the collection would diminish it, and believed Kitty thought the same, though she would never make a fuss. She wasn't brought up that way.

In the dining room there was a long mahogany table round which Jenna counted twenty matching chairs, and there were more against the walls. ‘It's George the Third,' Kitty said. ‘Lovely piece, but impossibly large. The only people who buy these big tables now are corporations who want them for their boardrooms. And even then, most of them want new. It's been well used in its time. The Everests were always tremendous entertainers. Peter's father, between the wars and afterwards into the fifties, was always having house parties; and his grandfather was one of the Prince of Wales's set – he used to visit quite often. There are presents from him all over the house. He always made a point of leaving something.' She laid a loving hand on the end of the table. ‘I feel I let it down rather. Haven't had a dinner party in years. It does reduce to quite a manageable size if you take the leaves out, but then you've the problem of what to do with them. And if you leave them out too long, the colour of the wood changes and they don't match any more. So I leave it be. I don't eat in here alone, of course.'

Beyond those two rooms was the library – ‘Unusual to have it on the ground floor, but the first owner was an eccentric' – and the passage ended in a small, panelled door. ‘That goes through into the cottage,' Kitty explained. ‘Peter's grandfather had such huge shooting parties, he used to use the cottage as extra guest accommodation. But Bill Bennett lives there now, so it's locked. We both have a key in case of emergencies. You'll meet him later – he gardens for me in exchange for living in the cottage rent-free.'

On the other side of the passage were the kitchen and its attached sculleries, larders and storerooms, and the back lobby through which they had entered, which housed the stairs down into the cellars. The kitchen had been fitted out with modern units and slate work-surfaces, and there was a gas stove as well as an Aga, but there was also a massive old wooden dresser and an old-fashioned scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the stone-flagged floor. It was all spotless, and a rinsed-out dishcloth hung neatly over the edge of the porcelain sink. Mrs Phillips had finished and gone. Jenna would have liked to investigate the complex of rooms and cupboards beyond it, but they didn't linger there. Kitty obviously had no attachment to kitchen regions.

The other two rooms on the ground floor were at the back. Of the sitting room Kitty said, ‘This was the kitchen of the original house, but only until around 1820. I more or less live in here now. There's a gate-leg table I use to eat on in the winter, and in the summer I'm in the conservatory most of the time, when I'm not outdoors.'