Finding Home (16 page)

He sighs. Fundamentally, I have him pegged as a nice man who doesn't want to see the house gutted any more than I do. But he has a job to do – and so do I.

‘I can keep the wolves from the door for now,' he says. ‘But not too long. I'll ring you again when I hear from Ms Flora.'

‘Thank you, Mr Kendall, for giving me this opportunity.'

‘Goodbye Miss Wood.'

The line clicks off.

*

When I return to my desk, everyone is looking at me. ‘What?' I say to the collective – they've obviously overheard the entire conversation. Jonathan smirks and shakes his head.

Claire's smile seems forced. The unspoken word seems to reverberate around the office: sticker… Sticker… STICKER.

My face is hot as I sit down, turn the glass slipper clock face down on my desk, put on my telephone headset with a flourish, and continue my cold calls. I leave more messages, talk to a host of people who, despite my hyperbole, are not interested, and two people who ask me to email them the details. No one schedules a viewing. The lie I told Mr Kendall seems to have poisoned my efforts. I take off my headset, my shoulders drooping.

‘Fancy a quick sandwich?'

I look up. Claire's face is sympathetic across the low wall that separates our desks.

‘I don't know…' I hesitate. ‘I doubt I'll be much company.'

‘All the more reason to get some fresh air.'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘That does sound good.'

We put on our coats and leave through the back door. We walk to the main street and buy turkey and cranberry sandwiches at Pret. The town is buzzing with Christmas shoppers, carollers, and tourists traipsing in and out of the Pump Rooms. We find an empty bench and sit down.

‘Do you want to talk about it?' Claire coaxes, like I'm a reluctant witness.

I give a little laugh. ‘It's so stupid, I know. But it's just that, I gave up a lot to do this job. Well…' I catch myself, ‘not gave up exactly. More like lost – or gave away.' I sigh. ‘And then when Rosemont Hall came along, I thought that maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.' I smile sadly. ‘I didn't get my happy ending, but I wanted one for the house. But obviously, that was ridiculous. If the American heirs, the solicitor, my boss, and the 102 people I've phoned don't care about Rosemont Hall, then I have no business doing so.'

‘Except, you do.'

‘Yes.'

Claire takes a thoughtful sip of her coffee. ‘Do you want some advice, Amy?'

‘Please.'

‘It sounds to me like you've got two options. One is to forget about Rosemont Hall. Do your job, make your calls, and let the heirs sell it for a golf course. Focus on reality, move on.' Her smile is brittle. ‘Because let me tell you, in this job, your dream is not going to happen.'

‘But…'

‘We sell houses, not happy endings. Semis-, flats, new-builds, terraces – bricks and mortar. To people who want normal lives with a mortgage, a mini-van, kitchen diners, and bi-fold doors onto the garden. We deal with our shitty boss, and make our shitty commissions. Most of us dream of doing something else. And that's what you need to focus on.'

‘Hmm.' I eat my sandwich in silence for a moment. ‘You mentioned a second option?'

She laughs. ‘Well, Amy, in my professional capacity, I really can't advise it.'

‘What?'

‘Well,' she lowers her voice, ‘you could get creative. You're into books, right?'

I nod.

‘Then stop thinking Brontë and start thinking Jilly Cooper. There must be loads of country busybodies around there looking for something to do. Start a
Save Rosemont Hall
Campaign. I'm sure people do that kind of thing all the time. Get the nutty housekeeper to rally the troops of local grandmothers – they can fix the place up in exchange for a free venue for bridge night. Ring English Heritage and tell them about the nefarious plot to turn it into a golf course. Write an article about the house for
Country Life
. There's loads you can do. In your spare time, of course.'

‘Of course.' I can't mask the excitement from my voice. Claire's words are magic – suddenly the air seems alive with possibilities.

‘And if all else fails,' she smirks, ‘you can lay naked in the path of the bulldozers.'

I sputter with laugher. ‘But I'm supposed to be—'

‘Selling the house for the highest price? Then it seems you have a conflict of interest.'

‘Yes, it does.' Smiling, I crumple up my rubbish. I can't wait to get back to the office and get started. The job is just a job, but Rosemont Hall needs me. ‘Thanks Claire,' I say, ‘that makes things a lot clearer. I'll take it all under advisement.'

Letter 5(?) (Transcription) (undated)

My dear H

I have a birthday present for you that I think – I hope! – will make you happy. I came to see you but you weren't at home. I managed a peek into the ballroom, and you are right about the change that has come over the place! It is as sparkly and shiny as a jewel; I have never seen anything so magnificent!

When I turned around, a shadow fell – your father was standing there, watching me. The look he gave me – I felt like my heart might freeze mid-beat. ‘You?' he hissed, like he guessed our secret. I'm ashamed to say that I turned and fled.

A

My new determination lasts the rest of the day and most of the week. In between cold-calling prospective purchasers, I google charities and historical societies in the local area that might be interested in sponsoring some kind of ‘Save Rosemont Hall' campaign. I phone a few of them from the car park and talk to the relevant busybodies. There's some polite interest, but none of them think that they can raise the money. Then I try the National Trust, but they tell me that their budget is already stretched, and any acquisition of the house is unlikely. English Heritage confirms that the house is listed, so any alterations will be subject to a consent process. But while the English Heritage chap is sympathetic to my argument that it should remain a family home, he tells me a few hard truths. There are hundreds of ‘buildings at risk' all over the country and very little money to restore them. In his view, turning the property into flats or a golf club is better than letting it fall into complete ruin. He points me in the direction of a few relevant websites, and wishes me luck.

None of my results are exactly the silver bullet I've been hoping for, but at least I'm doing something. And when one of my cold calls – to a couple with a whopping budget who are looking to move from Wolverhampton to Bristol – finally pays off, I'm over the moon. I schedule the first Rosemont Hall viewing for the coming Saturday!

As soon as I put down the phone, I mentally go over the checklist:

Make sure Mrs Bradford is (locked away in the attic?) managed;

Bring doggie treats for Captain (half a dozen Big Macs?);

Compile interesting historical information on the house;

Obtain quantity surveyor report;

Get there early and do some cleaning.

After lunch, I get started on #3, reviewing the research I did in my first week. I amass a large bundle of (I think) fascinating information, drawing glares from Patricia for hogging the printer. I'm just about to phone Mr Kendall when my mobile rings again.

The name comes up on the screen: David Waters. My stomach flips, and I rush off to take the call in the privacy of the disabled loo. I know I should be happy that he enjoyed our evening (and has sent me several texts to that effect that I haven't replied to) – and I am – of course. It's just... I'm not sure I've got my head around the ‘what next' bit.

‘Hi David,' I say. The door bangs shut and I lock it.

‘Hi. You haven't responded to my texts.'

‘I'm really sorry about that. I've just been in a bit of a flurry over Rosemont Hall. Someone wants to view it on Saturday. This is my first big chance to find someone who might fall in love with the house.'

‘Am I going to see you again?' he cuts to the chase.

‘Oh yes.' A list of ‘buts' flashes across my mind:
but
I'm not ready for a relationship;
but
I think we should take things slower;
but
I've suddenly developed an allergy to dogs;
but
you're into golf… But – then I remember why I can't voice any of those doubts…

‘In fact, I was about to ring you.' I say breezily. ‘It's our office Christmas party – also on Saturday, in fact. Do you want to be my plus-one?'

There's silence for a moment. ‘Well… I guess so.'

‘Good.' I ignore the fact that he sounds like he'd rather be having a root canal. ‘I'll text you the details.'

‘Okey-dokey.'

I cringe. ‘Great.'

‘And Amy…'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm looking forward to seeing you again.'

‘Me too.' I take a breath. ‘And sorry to have to talk shop, but I was wondering about your report on Rosemont Hall – is it ready yet?'

‘I'll email it over later.'

His tone tells the whole story – he's annoyed with me; probably with good reason. We exchange awkward goodbyes and I hang up the phone and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes have dark circles under them from the stress of this job, and my skin seems paler than usual. I'm not getting any younger, that's for sure. I really ought to give David Waters a chance. He's a perfectly nice man, and we had a perfectly nice time. What more can I ask for?

A hard knock on the door alerts me to the fact that I've been hogging the loo for a lengthy amount of time. ‘Sorry,' I mutter to a desperate-looking Patricia, and head back to my desk.

*

By the time I get home, I've had plenty of time sitting in traffic to plan how I can make the most of the Rosemont Hall viewing on Saturday. I'll get there early in the morning and do some straightening up before two o'clock when the clients are due. I also want to have a good look at some of the old photographs, and maybe the books in the library. In the last week, I've read and reread the bundle of letters that I found behind the old desk. I feel I know much more about the Windhams and their life at Rosemont Hall than I did before, but there are some missing pieces and unanswered questions too.

That night, before bed, I take the bundle of letters out and flip through them again. The top few are between Henry and his father, mostly discussing Henry's time at university, and his career plans (or lack thereof). Sir George's final letter to his son has a distinct undercurrent of disappointment in it. He talks of his distress at having to sell off his art collection, and about how he's put some plans in place for Henry. I remember how my mum called up Mrs Harvey next door to get me the details of my current job. Presumably Sir George had similar (if probably more illustrious) strings to pull.

Then there's the letters between ‘H' and ‘A'. The ones in the bundle all seem to be written in the lead-up to the ball that was held for Henry's 21
^st
birthday – the night of the fire, according to Mrs Bradford. The writing is sentimental and old-fashioned – two people expressing undying love for each other, worrying about whether or not their romance will be accepted by Henry's father.

Given the fragile relationship between Henry and his father, it seems somewhat odd that Sir George would organise a ball for Henry's birthday, especially given their reduced financial circumstances. Henry surmises that it's down to his father wanting to ‘bridge the gap' between them. One of the letters even states that his father was arranging for Henry's portrait to be painted. But if it ever was painted, then it's not in the house.

The letters between ‘H' and ‘A' end abruptly – after the engagement was announced, perhaps there was no longer any reason to send each other quaint little love notes. Their happy ending was signed, sealed and delivered.

Or was it? I flip to the last letter, which I've placed on its own in a plastic wallet. It's only a fragment of paper; half of it has been burned away. I read the part that remains:

The rest of the letter is lost, with only a thin brown edge of ash remaining. What did Henry mean? From the looks of things, it must have been the last letter between them before the ball. The ball that went out in a blaze – literally. What happened between Henry writing this letter to Arabella, and their subsequent engagement and marriage? He must have spoken to his father, stood up to him, and somehow talked him around. Perhaps Henry burned the letter himself so that Arabella wouldn't be upset at how strongly his father objected to their plans. But if Henry or someone else meant to burn it, then why is it part of the bundle at all?

And what about the fire? Was it just an unfortunate coincidence that it happened just as Henry and Arabella were finally able to reveal their love to the world? I put the letters back in my drawer, trying to imagine myself at the ball, as described by Mrs Bradford. The mirrors reflecting the candlelight; the stars visible through the glass ceiling. The scent of roses; the interwoven melodies of a string quartet; liveried waiters serving champagne. A couple dancing together, eyes only for each other. But what of the aftermath? The rising flames blacken my fantasy to a cinder. Whatever the truth is, I can only find it by returning to Rosemont Hall.

On Friday afternoon, I gather together all my papers and research and double-check that I have the keys to Rosemont Hall for the Saturday viewing. I've rehearsed my sales pitch over and over in my head, and I feel ready. This is my big chance to find a sympathetic buyer, and instead of being nervous, I'm quite excited – especially about going to the house early for a nose around.