Finding Home (36 page)

‘Okay. Grab your end.'

Together, we lift the heavy frame and double canvases and lean them against the wall. Then we both stand back without touching, but with palpable electricity flowing between us. The girl in the pink dress stares back at us, her smile as inscrutable as ever.

‘I wonder if
she
knew what she was hiding.' I say softly.

‘Grandma Maryanne?' Jack says. ‘It's hard to say. But if she'd tell anyone, it would be you.'

I laugh, assuming he's joking. But he shakes his head.

‘I'm serious,' he says. ‘Before I came to the house that night and found you “burgling” it,' he smiles playfully, ‘I stopped by the cottage and saw Gran. I was worried about what you said – that she was struggling to adjust to moving out of Rosemont Hall.'

‘Yes. Is she okay?'

‘I think she's accepted the situation, though she's not happy about it. She wouldn't say very much. As I said, we aren't that close.'

‘That's too bad.'

‘But she did tell me that she'd met “a lovely girl who really seems to care about the things that matter”.' He smiles. ‘I'll spare you the “…and why can't you be more like her?” part of the conversation.'

‘Thanks,' I say, secretly pleased that at last, Mrs Bradford seems to have recognised that I'm on her side.

‘And who knows? Maybe Henry guessed the truth – after all, he left the painting to her.' He reaches over and laces our hands together. My chest wells up. ‘It's so sad. I mean all that time she was the housekeeper here, looking up at her own portrait. And Arabella – how much did she know? I will ask your grandma. I'd love to know more…'

‘That's my Amy,' Jack laughs and squeezes my hand.

My Amy
.

I lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek.

‘Anyway,' he says, kissing me back, ‘the past is the past, and we may never know the whole story. But whatever it is, I'd say that today, you've helped to write a pretty important new chapter of it.'

*

Racing too fast, the clock winds down, and suddenly, my time with Jack is over. We leave the house together and he drives me back to the hotel to get my car. He gives me one last, searching kiss in the car park. ‘I'll call you before I head off to the airport,' he says, as our lips reluctantly part.

My heart ripping in two, I just smile and nod.

‘And I'll let you know what Sotheby's says about the painting.'

‘Thanks.'

‘In the meantime, let's not tell Gran about your “hunch”, okay? Let's get the results first.'

‘Of course, Jack.' My voice quavers.

He touches me on the chin. ‘Come on, Amy, let's see a smile. Everything's going to be fine – you'll see.'

‘Yes, Jack.' I swallow hard. ‘But I really don't see how…'

He stops me with another kiss.

‘I
will
see you soon.' His breath in my ear makes me quiver all over. But I must stop it. Jack is off to see the solicitor and then back to America. He says I need to trust him – that he'll come back soon, that we'll keep in touch… and after that, who knows what might happen?

But I know what will happen. He'll go. I'll stay. It was nice – lovely, actually – while it lasted, like the proverbial candle burning at both ends. The end of ‘Jack and me' is bittersweet. Just like real life.

‘Goodbye,' he whispers.

He slams the car door. I give him a limp wave and reverse out of the car park. My hands tremble on the steering wheel. Finding what might be a lost Rembrandt has left me completely drained and exhausted (not to mention late for work).

I pull over to the kerb in the village and gather all the Rosemont Hall particulars from the passenger seat and the floor. I shove them in an overflowing rubbish bin by the post office. The photo I took of the house is forever etched in my mind, along with my vision of what it could be if someone took on the labour of love.
If.

But that someone won't be Jack.

And it won't be me.

*

When I return to the office, my colleagues greet me with their usual pained indifference. Jonathan checks his watch when I enter and gives a little smirk. Patricia fakes a concerned look when I plunk down at my desk.

‘I hope whatever you had isn't catching, Amy,' she says.

‘Me too.' I'm aware that my eyes are red and I look rubbish. ‘But with a bad case of swine flu, you never know.' I blow my nose loudly for effect.

She looks horrified but I ignore her. Just then, Claire comes in from the back, breathless and smiling.

‘Oh Amy,' she says, ‘did they tell you my news?'

‘Hi Claire. No… but I'm sure Patricia was just about to.'

She puts her handbag on her desk and sits down. ‘I've got a pupillage in Birmingham – with a really top chambers! I gave notice this morning – I'll be leaving here in two weeks.'

‘That's great!' I go around to her desk and give her a hug. ‘Fantastic!'

I ask her all about her new job, and she happily launches into an account of her interviews, the people she'll be working with, and the crown prosecution work that she'll be doing.

Of course I'm very happy for her. But I also wonder when this painful spate of goodbyes is going to end. I look around at the others in the office, wishing it was one of them leaving rather than Claire.

After our chat, I sort through my post and emails. I've received loads of requests for property details, two viewings have been added to my calendar, and four people want valuations to put their homes on the market. I try to concentrate; try not to think about Jack; try to do my job as best I can.

But inside my chest, there's a gnawing hollowness that won't go away. My skin still tingles with the ghost of Jack Faraday's touch. The phone rings and I forget to answer it. Emails come in and I just stare at the names on the computer screen. Mr Bowen-Knowles comes out, starts speaking to me in his usual nasal drone, leaves me a pile of papers, and I've no idea what he's said.

Late in the day, a large brown envelope is delivered to me by courier. It's from Mr Kendall's firm. There's a compliments slip attached to the top:
Mrs Bradford didn't want these, so Mr Jack said to give them to you. Yours, Ian Kendall, Esq.

I quickly shove the envelope in my handbag. I don't want any questions – I can't answer them.

As I'm about to leave for the day, Jack phones. He's at the airport waiting for his flight. Our conversation is brief, and I feign cheerfulness and bubbly faith. But hearing his voice so far away, the cracks in my heart grow a little wider.

I tell him that I received the envelope from Mr Kendall with the letters inside.

‘Gran was in one of her moods,' he says. ‘I got another earful about not respecting the family history and Rosemont Hall.' He laughs uncomfortably. ‘You probably agree with her.'

‘Maybe a little bit.' I manage a laugh.

‘She took some convincing even to let me get the painting looked at by an expert in London. She thought I was trying to sell it even though it was left to her. I tried to tell her that wasn't the case – I only wanted to see if it needed restoring or preservation.' He sighs. ‘I guess Flora and I haven't been the best grandchildren in the world.'

‘She's a one-off, your grandmother.'

‘That's putting it nicely. Anyway, I'd better go. They just put up the gate info. I'll call you.'

‘Okay.' I can't bring myself to say goodbye so I quickly hang up the phone.

I sit at my desk in the empty office staring at the four beige walls. Focus on the present, breath by breath. Focus on the positives: the painting will be delivered to Sotheby's in London for examination by an expert. As for what that expert will find, I have a pretty good idea. As for what my future holds…

I shudder to think.

Letter 8 (unsealed envelope addressed to ‘A Reilly')

Rosemont Hall

August 30
^th
1952

Darling— I married her. Last weekend, in a ceremony in the village church before my father, 120 well-wishers, and a God that doesn't exist. There really was no choice. Please let me explain…

A fire investigator came from Lloyds – a local man called Wakefield. He immediately questioned my father's well-rehearsed charade. He found the gold lighter you had given me in the wreckage. But he also found traces of accelerant that he believes started the fire. ‘How could a servant do this without being seen?' he asked. There was something about him – he was not a man to let the matter lie.

My father instantly confronted me – nearly begged me – such a pathetic thing. He needed the protection of HER father who is a Lord. The family association would place him above suspicion. And he showed me the true state of the estate finances – much worse than I ever could have suspected. All I could think about was that if I didn't marry, I would have to sell Rosemont Hall. And how could I allow that to happen? Even though I may never see you again – I must try to accept that now – it is still your home. You are the mistress here – your vision haunts every corner of the house.

My father says that you have gone to America – the land of opportunity. He said that if I marry without a fuss, he will give me your address. If only my letters can reach you, then perhaps there is still hope. I believe the insurance man will declare an open verdict – he won't implicate father directly, but he won't pay out either. When that happens, you can return and I will have this sham of a marriage annulled. In the meantime, there will be no children – I will make certain of that.

You trusted me once and I betrayed you. I dare not ask again. But you have only to say the word and once again I shall be yours.

At home, Mum and Dad are in the lounge watching
Midsomer Murders
. I slip past them into my room and take the brown envelope out of my handbag. Slitting it open, I remove the bundle of letters addressed to ‘A Reilly'. The envelopes each have an American address and a stamp, but no postmark – they were never sent. Nonetheless, each one is slit open along the top. Someone has read them.

As I'm about to open the top letter, I suddenly feel like I'm riffling through someone else's dirty laundry, or else, ‘poking my nose where it doesn't belong'. When I read the original letters between ‘H' and ‘A', I assumed that both correspondents were deceased. But now that I know the truth, really, I've no right to be looking at letters addressed to Mrs Bradford – even if she doesn't want them.

I retie the letters and set them on top of the bureau. I lie back down on my bed and pick up a book from the bedside table. After a few seconds of staring at the page, I realise that I'm holding the book upside down. How can I concentrate on reading fiction when the truth is staring at me from across the room?

Maybe I'll just read one or two. I close the book and stand up. After all, someone's opened them already. Maybe they might contain something important. If I don't look, I'll never know – and neither will Mrs Bradford. I take the stack from my bureau and sit on the bed.

It isn't until five in the morning that I finally turn off the light.

Letter 9 (unsealed envelope addressed to ‘A Reilly')

Rosemont Hall

1
^st
April 1953

My darling—

I now accept that I may never see you again. I curse the long years ahead. Without you here, I hope that the old house crumbles to the ground. It has become a prison, my marriage a life sentence.

Overnight my father has turned old. He walks through the wreckage, tapping his stick like a blind man, cursing and talking to himself. Sometimes, he talks to his last beloved painting – the Rembrandt – as if it's still hanging there on the empty wall. The insurance man refuses to settle the claim. He thinks that my father has spirited the painting away. He can't prove anything, but too many questions remain unanswered.

Cleverer still is my wife's father. He carefully hid the fact that Arabella's fortune was nowhere near as much as promised. We've put every penny into fixing the roof – there's nothing left over to restore the East Wing.

In spite of everything, there is one comfort that remains for me. My father's friend, the painter, left behind an unexpected and most precious gift. A framed canvas, almost life-sized, discarded in his attic studio. A picture of a girl in a pink dress – the silk clinging to her body in a way that makes me ache for her. She's clutching a bundle of letters, and I can see the love shining from her eyes. I had no idea that you sat for him! Perhaps that was the surprise you were so eager to tell me. In any case, the painting is so lovely and lifelike that it has become my fondest salvation and my greatest torment.

I carried it out of the attic and hung it on the stair landing. My father took one look at it and began to cackle like a madman. I've seen him stop and stand in front of it, staring like he's trying to see through the pigment and canvas. Like it somehow holds the key to what his life has become.

Perhaps you think it is cruel of me to have hung up your portrait – and to taunt my wife every time she sees it. But if she minds, she has never said. Every night I give her a sisterly kiss on the forehead and we go our separate ways to bedrooms at the opposite ends of the house. Poor Arabella. None of this misery is her doing.

But be that as it may, I would gladly trade her life for a single moment with you, my love. I suppose that makes me just as much of a demon as my father.

As the sky begins to lighten through the net curtains, I carefully refold each of the letters in turn, barely able to swallow from the lump of tears in my throat. After Henry's marriage to Arabella, the letters reduced in frequency as Henry's despair and resignation came home to roost. He never ‘made anything of himself' without Maryanne at his side – as far as I can tell, he had a job as a minor civil servant at the local council, which would hardly have provided much money for the upkeep of a house like Rosemont Hall. His life seemed to settle into a kind of muted rhythm. He continued to give an account of certain key events – the death of his father; a near-miss for Arabella when she cut herself on a rusty blade and got blood poisoning. This event was not explained in detail, but it leads me to wonder about the depth of her own despair at her marriage.