Finding Home (24 page)

By the time I emerge from the café, the sun has disappeared and the sky is a strange purple-brown colour that means more snow. I begin to hope that Hexagon's stooge will be put off by the weather and not turn up. If he does turn up, I'm secretly glad that the place will not be looking its best.

With the hour upon me, I drive the rest of the way to the house. There's already a good four inches of snow covering the drive. However, my car ploughs through it easily, so undoubtedly, if this Mr Faraday is so determined, he'll be able to make it too.

When I pull up in front of the house, I've still got a few minutes before the viewing. I go inside and deliberately scatter some of the papers and books so that it looks even more cluttered than it is. I note that more of the rooms look and smell clean, and there's a bag of knitting next to one of the threadbare sofas. I tiptoe up the stairs to Arabella's room, but thankfully there's no sign of Mrs Bradford. The book is gone from the nightstand, and the bed has been remade. Back downstairs, I go from room to room pulling the curtains shut, making the house seem dark and forbidding. Not that my efforts to jinx the viewing will make one jot of difference to a golf course developer. Feeling chilled to the bone, I decide to wait in the car, where at least there's a working heater.

Mr Faraday is late. I sit staring at the house through foggy windows. Twenty minutes go by. The knot in my stomach begins to loosen slightly – if I left now, surely I'd be in the clear. At the very least I could inconvenience Mr Faraday, put him off, make him schedule another viewing.

Just then, a car drones in the distance. I watch in the mirror as it tops the rise of the hill. A blue Vauxhall Corsa – a slightly newer model than mine. Not the flash sports car or monster SUV I'd expected a Hexagon executive to drive.

The car pulls up next to mine. A man jumps out – I glimpse a red ski jacket and dark hair. I walk a few steps towards his car.

‘Mr Faraday? I'm Amy Wood the—'

I stop.

He stops.

Our eyes meet.

‘—Estate Agent…' I finish to break the remarkable silence. In an instant, the world has shrunk into a bubble around me and this stranger. He stares back at me, his sharp-chiselled face framed by soft, dark brown hair. I begin to shiver, but not with the cold.

‘Hello,' he says, his voice deep and penetrating. ‘I'm sorry I'm late. Thanks for coming out in this weather.'

I blink hard and, immediately, time comes rushing back. I remember who I am and what I'm doing, who this man is, and why this can't possibly be happening.

‘Oh, no problem.' I stammer. ‘It's my… pleasure.'

I can't meet his eyes – a soft blue-grey like the winter sky. Looking past him, I hold out my hand. He takes it and our fingers touch. He's smiling at me; the puffs of our breath mingle as he speaks: ‘To be honest, I wasn't expecting this snow. The rental car's not really cut out for this weather…'

A few things register: Accent = American. Our hands = still together.

I jerk mine away.

I don't like him. He's anathema to everything I believe in. He's an unfeeling Neanderthal who's come to ravage a piece of history. I'm
determined
not to like him.

It's just…

I'm acutely aware of his presence as we trudge through the snow towards the front door. I don't speak – I can't speak. I know I should start talking my spiel about the house. Try to appeal to his humanity, if he has any. But the words won't come.

As we reach the front door, he points to the frost-caked stone crest above.

‘Is that the family crest?' he asks.

‘Yes.' I look up at the stone lintel to avoid glimpsing the face that might bewitch me. ‘The house came into the Windham family in the early 1800s – not long after it was built. I believe the owner added it then. It's eroded, of course, but originally it was a dog and unicorn.' I purse my lips. He can't possibly be interested.

‘A dog and unicorn?'

‘It stands for fidelity and virtue.' Infuriatingly, I blush.

‘Fidelity and virtue.' He says under this breath. ‘That's odd.'

‘Odd?'

He turns towards me. I take a quick step back.

‘I guess that's the wrong word.' He laughs lightly. ‘It's just that I wasn't expecting the place to be quite so…'

I exhale a long breath as a wave of relief passes over me. The place is way too rundown for anyone to bother with. Hexagon can develop a golf course somewhere else. I can go home now and try to forget that I ever laid eyes on this man who's―

‘…beautiful.'

‘Beautiful?' Warmth oozes through my veins. ‘You really think so?'

He laughs again. ‘It's obviously a bit of a fixer-upper, but the outside is pretty amazing. I guess maybe because you're English, you see these things every day and don't notice them anymore.'

‘Well actually…'

‘Where I'm from, ancient history starts about 1900,' he says. ‘I was never that interested in exploring Europe – it's a typical American attitude, I'm afraid. We've got our own history, and lots of interesting things in our own country. And when I learned about European history at school, all they really focused on were the wars, the beheadings, and Henry the Eighth's six wives. None of it seemed very “real”, if you know what I mean.'

‘No… I mean – yes.' I fumble in my handbag for the keys. ‘And I suppose people can play golf anywhere.'

He raises an eyebrow as if studying me. He seems to come to some unreadable conclusion. ‘I guess that's true,' he says. ‘Though I don't play myself.'

‘Really?' I narrow my eyes, assuming that he's joking.

‘No – never got into it. What was it that Mark Twain said? “Golf is a good walk spoiled”?'

I stare at him, in surprise. ‘Yes,' I say. ‘That's right.' I turn the key and the lock grinds open. All this must be a ploy – some dirty little trick of Hexagon to catch me off guard; lull me into a false sense of security.

We step inside the hallway. It's freezing, but even so, the air seems unnaturally heavy. I loosen my pink cashmere scarf and drape it over the staircase banister. I wait while Mr Faraday looks around the room. He lets out a low whistle.

‘This place really must have been something in its heyday,' he says. ‘Can't you just picture it? Ladies in silk gowns, gentlemen in top hats. Servants scurrying about… Amazing. I mean, you see places like this on TV and read about them in books. But to actually be here… it's completely different.' He smiles wistfully. ‘If the house could talk, I bet it would have some interesting things to say. You can practically feel the history crackling in the air, can't you?'

‘I… well…' No.
This
man, of all people, cannot possibly be the one person who understands.

‘But— I see now that the surveyor hit the nail on the head,' he says. ‘It would cost a small fortune to fix up. No – make that, a
large
fortune.'

‘You know, I definitely agree. This place is a money pit.' I raise my hands in futility. ‘A huge, unwieldy white elephant. And although the surveyor's report says it would cost at least three million pounds just to get it to comply with Building Regs…' I lower my voice, ‘I happen to know that he was just being generous. I'm sure Hexagon would be better off building their golf course somewhere else. The only way this place is going to be saved is if someone buys it to fix up – as a labour of love.'

I take a breath and gear up to lie in grand
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
fashion. ‘Besides,' I say, ‘no matter who your friends are in the planning department, you'll be tied up in red tape for ages. There's an army of old ladies in the village ready to challenge any change of use. They'd rather see it crumble to the ground than have a golf course here. And I also heard that there are some protected bugs near the village. And bats – there are loads of bats that live up in the eaves. Developing this property as a golf course would be nothing but hassle and headache, let me tell you.'

‘Well, I guess that's good to know.' He gives me a puzzled frown. ‘But aren't you supposed to be selling the place?'

‘Oh,' I laugh coyly. ‘Yes, I am. But I don't want to lead you up the garden path. I think it would make someone a fantastic family home – someone who loves it and has the wherewithal to restore it. It's just the merits as an investment that I question.'

‘All property is an investment,' he says. ‘If you live in it, develop it, rent it out – whether you keep it or sell it, it all has investment consequences. And this place…' he waves his hand to take in the great hall, ‘it
is
a money pit. I did a little research myself when I first saw the surveyor's report. Apparently, with a listed building, it's incredibly hard to make any alterations, and every material used for restoration has to be old and authentic. That will put most people off. It's too bad really. I seriously doubt you'll be so lucky as to find someone to take it on as a “labour of love”.'

‘You never know.' I smile. ‘There's a right house for everyone, and a right owner for every house. Someone who belongs to the house as much as the house belongs to them. I'm working on finding the right combination for this house.'

‘You're like a house matchmaker, is that it?' His eyes dance with amusement.

‘Precisely.'

He doesn't answer, and instead walks into the first drawing room off the main hall. He opens the curtains and a puff of dust engulfs us. In addition to the mess I've contributed to, I notice another pile of old papers and newspaper clippings on a sofa that wasn't here last time. There's a pair of half-moon glasses next to the pile – Mrs Bradford's. Mr Faraday takes one look around the room, then goes over to the newspaper clippings and picks up the top one. It's a page of obituaries.

‘I'm sorry for the mess,' I say. ‘The housekeeper, Mrs Bradford, is a bit shaken by everything that's happened. It's too bad really, but between us – she's a bit barmy.'

‘A bit barmy?' He laughs. ‘I like that.' He skims over the obit and sets it back on top of the others. ‘Do you know if Mrs Windham died in the house?'

‘Oh yes.' Actually, I have no idea whether or not Mrs Windham died in the house, or whether it might have been Mr Windham, or neither, or both of them. But I seize what might be another opportunity to put him off. ‘Right upstairs in the main bedroom. I think the body was here for a few days before anyone discovered it. Luckily, the smell has dissipated.'

Mr Faraday doesn't respond. Instead, he walks through to the next room: the blue salon. He looks around and touches things – marble mantles, old books and photos, the carved panelling – almost reverently. He's lost in thought. Maybe he's picturing all the rich men in collared shirts drinking whisky and smoking cigars in the parlour after their eighteen holes. But somehow, I don't think so. Still, he is who he is and we are where we are.

It takes the better part of twenty minutes before we've walked through one wing of the downstairs and return to the great hall. ‘Interested in seeing the upstairs?' I ask cheekily. ‘It's even more of a tip.'

‘Sure,' he says with a shrug. The warmth has gone out of his voice. I begin to feel strange – like I'm the one betraying the house, not him.

I lead the way up the stairs and pause by the portrait of the young woman. I rub my fingers along the frame as if to say ‘hello again'.

He stops beside me and looks the painting up and down, then at my hand, which is still touching the frame. Sheepishly, I withdraw it.

‘Who is she? Do you know?' He leans in and studies the brushwork.

‘Not for sure. But I think it might be Arabella Windham.'

‘Those eyes…' he says. ‘She looks familiar somehow. And what's that in her hands? Paper or letters, maybe?' He takes a step back, still analysing the painting.

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘Maybe you'll discover the answer when you start ripping the house apart piece by piece.'

As soon as the words come out, I can't believe I've said them. Mr Faraday looks shocked.

‘I'm sorry, that was totally out of line,' I say. I turn away and walk to edge of the staircase landing. The time-worn banister is smooth under my hand. I look out over the elegant hallway and give a half-hearted laugh. ‘You must think I'm the barmy one. I've obviously grown too fond of this place…' I can't even finish. It all sounds so silly, and I don't know why I'm bothering to explain. But something about this man seems to demand it. ‘It should be nothing to me,' I add. ‘I'm just the estate agent. But this house is special. I'd so like to see it go to a family that loves it – or else preserved and opened up to the public. I hate the idea that yet another great English House is about to be changed into something beyond recognition. I'm sorry.'

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He's staring at the picture like he hasn't heard me.

Unable to bear his presence, I leave him there and go into the first bedroom. This one doesn't have a working loo or a closet full of costumes, but it does have the same clutter spanning decades – some as far back as the 1930s. On the mantle, there's a photograph of a young couple standing on either side of the queen, and a photograph of the same man standing next to Winston Churchill. I pick the photograph up and blow the dust off the frame.

I sense Mr Faraday coming into the room after me. I set down the photograph and look up. His eyes seem to pierce my skin and see inside the depths of my soul. To my great shame and dismay, I almost hope that he does recommend to Hexagon that they pursue development of the property – so that I might have a reason to see him again.

He comes over and picks up the photograph I just set down and looks at it intently. ‘I admit that things are not quite what I had expected. I can almost see where you get your romantic notions from.' He sets down the photograph. ‘But unfortunately, reality is something quite different. The public will get to enjoy the estate – the members of the golf club, at least. There are worse results, surely.'