Finding Home (32 page)

‘Sorry.' I am sorry – that I won't be finding out anything more from him today.

‘No worries,' Mr Wakefield says, standing up. ‘And we'll ring you about those cottages.'

‘Oh, yes.' I get to my feet realising that I'd completely forgotten about my ‘day job' and their property search. ‘And I'll keep you posted if anything similar comes on the market.'

‘Sure, great.'

We shake hands, and the bell tinkles as they leave the café.

*

I sit back down at the table to consider what I've just learned. Sir George was planning something – something that involved his Spanish artist friend. It wasn't Henry's portrait, because as far as I know, no portrait of Henry was ever done. And the portrait of the girl in the pink dress: Arabella – or whoever she is – I still don't know for sure if the painting was done in 1899 or the 1950s. Those eyes – they're familiar somehow. I tap my fingers restlessly on the table. Rosemont Hall hasn't given up its secrets, and pretty soon it will be too late. I have to find out more. But how?

The white-haired woman comes back over to my table and I ask for more hot water. I should go back to the office and see if there are any more properties that might suit the Wakefields. But the gas fire is warm and cosy and if I can just think it all through again —

‘I heard what that man was talking about.'

Startled, I look up. The white-haired woman sets a pot of hot water down on my table.

‘He was talking about Rosemont Hall.' She stacks the plates of crumbs left by the Wakefields. ‘About the fire, and Sir George.'

‘Yes, he was.' I stare up at her.

‘He doesn't know the half of it.'

‘What do you mean?' I shift eagerly to the edge of the chair. Maybe today is my lucky day after all.

The woman puts her hands on her hips. ‘When I was a girl, my mother worked up at the house. Sometimes we used to play there, and when I got older, I worked there when they needed extra help for the parties. They were the most fancy parties and balls you could imagine – Sir George liked to recreate the old days before the wars.'

She stares at the flickering gas flame. I swallow back a thousand questions, afraid that I might put her off.

‘There were so many beautiful people there. My sister and I were mad about the men – ex-soldiers and officers, bankers, politicians up from London. But we were nobody – only the hired help. Sir George ran the house like it was the 1850s rather than the 1950s – everyone in their place.'

She starts to wipe down a nearby table, but a shadow falls over her face.

‘Sir George was a devil.' She shakes her head. ‘So was his son, Henry. People like us meant nothing to them.'

‘What do you mean?'

The old woman clams up like she's just remembered she's talking to a complete stranger. She frowns at me. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?'

‘I'm interested in local history, that's all.'

The little bell on the door tinkles and a woman with a pram comes inside. Silently, I curse.

The white-haired woman greets the new customer. They chat for ages about the village school bake sale. I pour more hot water into the teapot, and wait.

At last, the pram woman leaves. The proprietress flips the sign on the door from ‘open' to ‘closed'. She sighs like a hard day's work is finally finished. Then, she turns around and sees that I'm still there.

‘I'm closing up now, will you be wanting anything else?'

‘I'd like you to tell me more about Rosemont Hall. I thought maybe I'd…'

At that moment, an idea strikes me.

‘…write a book about the history of the house. The things that aren't mentioned in the archives. The nameless women who lived and loved there. I'm a teacher – or, at least, I was. I can't save Rosemont Hall, but I can preserve some part of its history.'

Now that I've voiced the idea, it seems like a no-brainer. Why didn't I think of it before? Writing about Rosemont Hall is right up my street – provided there's something to write about. Which I'm increasingly sure there is.

‘But I need to uncover more information,' I say, thinking aloud. ‘A story that will really bring the place alive.'

The woman looks at me like I've sprouted a second head. I don't care. My chest feels fizzy with excitement. I can go home and start right away.

‘Hmm.' The woman shakes her head. ‘I'm not the one you should ask. If you want colourful detail, my sister knows a lot more.'

The bell on the door tinkles again. We both look up.

‘This must be your lucky day. Here she is—'

I barely hear the words. I stare at the old woman who's just come in. She looks at me and frowns, her eyes – her forget-me-not-blue eyes – sharp and piercing. And suddenly I guess the truth – that's been staring me in the face all along.

Mrs Bradford hobbles in leaning on her cane. The huge Saint Bernard, Captain, pads in behind her. When she sees me, her face remains impassive and she nods almost politely. Captain, comes over and licks my hand like today I'm friend, not foe.

‘Hello,' I say, staring at her wizened face like I'm seeing it for the first time.

‘This is my sister,' the proprietress says. ‘As I say, she's the one you should be asking your questions.'

‘We've met, actually.' I feel like I've been flattened by a very large bus.

The cane points in my direction. ‘Amy Wood,' Mrs Bradford cackles, ‘Estate agent.'

The dog lays down at my feet and I scratch his shaggy head, still staring at the old lady.

‘Estate agent?' The proprietress looks at me with suspicion clouding her face. ‘You said you were writing a book.'

‘Um... yes, I am – in my spare time.' I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself for an outburst from one or both of them about ‘poking my nose where it doesn't belong'.

To my surprise, Mrs Bradford starts to laugh. ‘A book, is that it?' She hobbles over to a table across the room from me and manoeuvres herself into the chair. The stick waves in her sister's direction and clatters to the floor. The dog growls and picks it up in his mouth to give it back to her. ‘What is it? Some kind of two-penny romance with you as the heroine, I suppose.'

‘Actually,' I say through my teeth, ‘it's a history book.'

‘A history book.' She raises a bushy white eyebrow and chuckles again. I've no idea what could possibly be so funny. ‘Get another cup of tea for Miss Wood, will you, Gwen.' She gestures for me to join her at her table. I stand up and move over to the empty chair, as her sister goes off with an irritated tsk.

‘Please, call me Amy,' I say.

She waves off my request with a gnarled hand. ‘So, what is it that you want to know today? Let me guess – all about that painting on the landing. Who that girl is; what her life was like. What her secrets are.'

‘It's a stunning painting,' I say. ‘And the artist has really captured something of the subject – she's beautiful certainly, but more than that too, I think.' My eyes lock with her familiar blue ones – or rather, with those of a girl – many years younger – in a pink dress.

The laughter fades from her face. ‘So you've finally guessed, have you, Amy Wood?'

‘It
was
you all along, wasn't it?' I shake my head. ‘How silly of me not to have seen it.' Of course it's her – right in front of me, staring me in the face. No wonder Jack thought she looked familiar. And Flora – her granddaughter – is her spitting image.

Mrs Bradford sighs. ‘Maybe it isn't so obvious looking at her pretty face – innocent dope that she was. But give yourself another sixty years and the trouble I've seen and see how you fare.'

I sit forward, leaning on my elbows. ‘Tell me the story, Mrs Bradford. How did you come to be painted like that?'

‘You mean how did a lowly girl from the village come to be hanging on the wall in the big house? Just say it, Amy Wood. You won't be the first.' She sits back in her chair, her lips pursed like a sphinx.

‘Okay,' I say, ‘if you like.'

Her sister returns with a tray and sets it on the table. With a cursory frown, she takes up the story. ‘A trunk full of costumes was delivered,' Gwen says. ‘Sir George wanted everyone to dress up in period costumes for the ball – even the hired help. We were supposed to dress as kitchen servants, but then we found a whole room of beautiful dresses and costumes that belonged to Sir George's late wife. We couldn't resist trying on the beautiful gowns. They were fabulous – made of silk and satin, taffeta and chiffon. Trimmed with pearls, lace and sparkly beads – what girl could possibly resist?'

‘I understand completely,' I say. I doubt I could have resisted either. ‘When was this?'

Gwen looks at her sister before answering. ‘It was a week or two before the last ball,' she says. ‘The one that Sir George held for Henry's 21
^st
birthday. Sir George had an artist friend there – some Spanish chap – handsome too. He was working in the studio in the attic. He was there to paint Henry's portrait, I think. But he had an eye for the ladies. He took a shine to Maryanne. He sketched her, and then did that painting.'

‘The sketchbook,' I say, stealing a glance at Mrs Bradford. ‘I came across it in the library the night that Flora was there. I umm… took it for safe-keeping. It's at home in my drawer along with the lighter.'

‘Hmmff, I thought as much.' Mrs Bradford crosses her arms. Other than the sunken blue eyes, her pudgy, lined face bears little or no resemblance to the girl in the painting.

I shake my head. ‘I just can't believe it was you…' I trail off, only just realising that I've spoken aloud.

‘Well, Amy Wood, it's the truth.' Mrs Bradford nods firmly. ‘I was the girl in the pink dress – and a hot and scratchy thing it was too, let me tell you.' She chortles. ‘And those costumes are still there in the house – in the closet off the Rose Bedroom. But of course, you found them too.' She lifts her chin. ‘Oh yes, I noticed.'

I smile uneasily. At least I was right about the pink dress – it wasn't a replica of the dress in the painting, it was the real one.

‘Anyway, now you know.' She shrugs. ‘No big secret.'

‘But when I asked before, Mrs Bradford, why didn't you just say it was you?'

She sniffs. ‘You asked if she was Sir George's wife, or his mother, or Arabella – someone posh and important. You never dreamt it might be a nobody like me – though that's what I told you the first time you asked.'

‘Well, you have to admit, it does seem a little strange. I mean, if the artist was there to paint Henry's portrait, then how come he never did?'

‘He said, “Henry was no picture”,' Gwen says with a little laugh. ‘An eye for the ladies, that's what he had.'

‘It seems odd that he never did what he'd been commissioned to do,' I say. What did the letter say that I found? Something along the lines of ‘
we will say that you are here to paint my son's portrait'.
‘But maybe Sir George wasn't all that bothered?'

Mrs Bradford snorts like I'm stating the obvious.

‘And what about the Rembrandt?' I say. ‘It used to hang in that space, didn't it? The man I was talking to earlier said that it wasn't in the ballroom the night of the fire. Do either of you remember seeing it there?'

The obnoxious ring of my mobile cuts off my question. I fumble frantically in my bag to turn it off, but it's too late. Gwen looks at her watch, then at me. ‘I'm closing up now,' she says. ‘We've got choir practice.'

‘Wait,' I say. ‘You can't go yet.' I find my phone and jab at the mute button.

Nonplussed, Mrs Bradford whistles through her dentures. The dog jumps up, his head and tail high like he's standing to attention.

The phone rings again in my hand. Cursing under my breath, I check the screen – my parents' number is blinking on the display. Mrs Bradford hoists herself to her feet. The phone rings and rings. I have to answer it.

‘Amy!' Mum shouts frantically in my ear. ‘Please… come home right away. Your dad's had an accident.'

The blood drains from my face. ‘I'll be there in twenty minutes, Mum.' I hang up the phone and stand up.

‘I have to go now,' I say to Mrs Bradford. ‘But please will you tell me the rest of the story another time?'

Ignoring the question, Mrs Bradford hobbles off towards the loo in back, thumping her stick, and chuckling her head off.

I prepare myself for the worst: Dad's been hit by a car; or had a heart attack; or a stroke, and I'm too late and he's dead. I should have been a better daughter: providing them with grandchildren, or at least doing something with my life that they could brag about to their friends at the Scrabble club. I should
not
have muted the phone the first time Mum rang. All the way home my heart is in my throat. I turn into the lane expecting flashing ambulance lights, wailing sirens, and gaggles of curious onlookers.

When I rush into the house and find Dad sprawled on the sofa watching a repeat of
Antiques Roadshow
with Mum holding a packet of frozen peas on his ankle, I'm relieved – of course! – but also a tiny bit perturbed.

‘Dad fell off a ladder putting pigeon spikes on the shed,' Mum explains. ‘He fell into the lilac – otherwise, he might have broken something.'

I kneel down beside the sofa and give Dad a kiss on the cheek. ‘I'm glad you're okay—'

‘Shhh,' he waves his arm, ‘let's hear the valuation.'

I look at the TV. Fiona Bruce is wearing a green leather coat and tight red jeans. Beside her is a rotund, bearded man whose face is pouring with sweat.

‘The good news is the vase does have the mark from Occupied Japan…'
the bow-tied valuation man says.