Finding Home (37 page)

Some of the later letters went on to speculate about what Miss Reilly's life might have been like after she fled, and where she might have disappeared to. And why she never sent an answer to the years of love letters she must have received. Henry concluded that her silence was down to her own superior internal strength, and the supposition that her life had in fact turned out well. I sigh. Did he ever suspect that in all the time that followed, she had never received his letters?

And all the while – over forty long years of his marriage to Arabella, the house gradually fell into a worse and worse state. He speaks of the cracks in the plaster, the leaks in the roof, the woodworm, and the gathering layers of dust like they are somehow a comfort to him. It was like the crumbling walls of Rosemont Hall were absorbing his lifelong pain of a broken heart.

My eyes are red and puffy from lack of sleep and deciphering Henry's tiny, deliberate handwriting. His words of love echo in my head – sometimes poetic, but ultimately futile.

And I even spare a thought for Sir George – a ‘devil' by all accounts. I reread the letter he sent to Henry that was in the original bundle of letters. It must have been written just before Henry came home from university. There's a sense of loss in his words, as he speaks of selling off his art, and his grand ‘plan' for Henry to ‘restore the family fortunes'. In the end, Sir George's schemes failed miserably and ruined many lives, including, it would seem, his own. And if I'm right about the painting we found, then I agree with Henry's assessment that his father was a little mad. I suppose that by entombing his beloved Rembrandt, Sir George thought that he could keep it for himself out of reach of the world. Perhaps just knowing it was still there in the house was enough for him. Didn't Mary Blundell say something about art collectors valuing their treasures more than casual viewers do? Not that I believe that for a second, but then again, I've never owned anything anywhere near as valuable or beautiful so as to be able to judge.

And what if Jack and I hadn't found the painting – would another treasure have been lost forever? Because even if I do end up saving the Rembrandt, I still haven't saved Rosemont Hall.

I refold the letters and put them back in the envelope along with the lighter, the sketchbook, and the original bundle of letters from my knicker drawer. I get dressed and slip out the back door before Mum can ply me with a breakfast I couldn't possibly stomach. Half-dazed, I drive to work and park the car. But instead of going into the office, I walk for twenty minutes to the other side of Bath.

I stop in front of a golden-stone facade. Next to the door is a brass plaque with an engraved name. I ring the bell and speak to the receptionist. I'm buzzed in and walk into an immaculately painted hallway with original Georgian coving and staircase. I walk up to the first floor.

Mr Kendall's office has the warm, comforting look of a gentleman country solicitor's. There's a spacious waiting area with bookshelves on one wall, filled with neat, leather-bound law books in tan, burgundy, and green. His assistant is a middle-aged woman with glasses, who greets me when I enter. ‘Mr Kendall is on the phone,' she says when I tell her my name. ‘But he might be able to fit you in before his next client arrives. Would you like some coffee?'

‘Yes, thank you.' I sit down on one of the leather chesterfield sofas and thumb through the latest
Country Life
.

It's half an hour before Mr Kendall is finally off the phone. He comes out of his office and immediately sees me sitting there.

‘Mr Kendall, this young lady…' his assistant begins.

‘Thank you, Colleen. I'll see Ms Wood now.'

I stand up. We exchange greetings. He ushers me into his office and I sit down in a comfy leather chair across from his large antique banker's desk. We make a bit of small talk – about his office, the weather, the local property market.

‘I came to see you about the letters.' I cut to the chase.

‘Yes, what about them?'

‘Has Mrs Bradford read them? Did she hide them in the hollow behind the painting?'

Mr Kendall sits back in his chair. ‘No. She denied knowing anything about them. And I believe her.'

‘So who put them there? Henry Windham?'

‘More likely it was Arabella.'

My hunch confirmed, I let out a long sigh. ‘Are you certain?'

He steeples his fingers like a wise sage. ‘I was the family solicitor. To many people that means more than just a lawyer. Confidante, therapist – confessor. Arabella and I had tea together once or twice a year.'

‘So she knew then? That all those years her husband was in love with someone else; wanted a life with someone else? That he continued to write love letters to Maryanne Reilly even after they were married? And Arabella made sure that they were never sent?'

‘That's the gist of it.' Mr Kendall does his best to sound lawyerly and indifferent, but the sad look in his eyes tells the truth.

‘So Maryanne Reilly – Mrs Bradford – never knew that Henry tried to find her?'

‘Perhaps not.'

‘That poor woman!' I blurt out ‘And poor Arabella and Henry… and—'

I stop. The past is the past. Henry and Arabella are dead. Mrs Bradford is bitter and unstable. Rosemont Hall will become a golf clubhouse and conference centre if it's lucky, and crumble to dust if it isn't. Either way, the walls will forget what they know, and the voices they once heard will fade away.

Mr Kendall chuckles. ‘Strange isn't it, Ms Wood, but also, in a way, fitting. All along, you've been the one who's shown the most interest in Rosemont Hall. You're the best person to preserve what we know of its history. At least that's what Jack said when I told him his grandmother didn't want the letters. He's entrusted them to you.'

I sit up straight in the deep, leather chair. ‘I'm sure that's very noble. But I can't take them. You once told me that the house was less important than the people who live in it. The others are dead, but Mrs Bradford is still alive. After all, if I was her…' and suddenly it strikes me how alike we are – both loving men who were unattainable to us, and both loving Rosemont Hall. ‘I'd want to know the truth.'

Mr Kendall shrugs. ‘As far as the estate is concerned, the letters passed to Jack when Mrs Bradford didn't want them, and he said to give them to you. What you do next is up to you.'

I stand up. ‘Thank you for clarifying that, Mr Kendall. You've been very helpful.'

‘It's been a pleasure.' He stands up and we shake hands.

‘Yes it has.'

Just as I'm at the door, he stops me. ‘Oh, and Ms Wood, one more thing.'

‘Yes?'

‘The final probate decree is supposed to come in this week. Please can you let Mr Bowen-Knowles know that the sale of Rosemont Hall should be able to complete immediately after?'

‘Of course. We'll have our part of the paperwork ready.' I swallow hard.

As I leave Mr Kendall's office and walk back to mine I have a strange sense of anticipation and foreboding, like somewhere, a wave is building up and about to crash over my head. I text Jack saying that I've read the letters, and can he please ring me. At the very least, I want to keep him informed (and remind him that I haven't stopped thinking about him). I get an almost immediate reply: ‘Will phone later. Love, Jack.' I reread the last two words about ten times. Then I do a quick directory search on my phone. For the ‘Cup o' Comfort' tea room in Little Botheringford.

The little bell on the door jingles as I enter. The teashop has a cosy glow about it, and the gas fire is on. There's a heady smell of baking and coffee, and on the counter is a fresh lemon cake and a tray of chocolate and salted-caramel flapjacks. It's just after three o'clock, and luckily, no one in the office even looked up when I fibbed that I was off to do a viewing.

I've wrapped the letters in a plastic bag for protection. Mrs Bradford's sister, Gwen, whom I spoke to on the phone to arrange the meeting, blinks like she's seen me before but can't quite remember.

‘Hello.' I set the bag on a table by the fire. She walks over and I order a pot of tea for two and a plate of cake and flapjacks. I grab a newspaper from the rack, sit down at my table, and wait.

When the bell tinkles again, I close the newspaper. The hunched-over woman with unruly grey hair and swollen ankles looks at me with piercing blue eyes: Maryanne Bradford – the girl in the pink dress – paramour of the late Henry Windham – grandmother to Jack and Flora – the housekeeper with an axe to grind. And behind her pads Captain, her faithful, blind Saint Bernard.

She hobbles towards me, her cane thumping across the floor. The dog lets out a low growl, then a sharp bark. If my heart hadn't already been thundering, it is now.

‘Captain,' she rasps. ‘Down.'

The huge dog whimpers, his pink tongue hanging out. He slinks on his belly under the table and lies down on my feet. Unable to stand up for fear of losing a leg, I stay seated, the bundle of letters in my lap.

Her eyes never leave my face. She scrapes a chair across the floor. Her joints creak as she lowers herself down like an old-fashioned lift.

‘It's good to see you, Mrs Bradford,' I say. ‘Are you well?'

She chuckles. ‘As can be expected at my age.'

I smile back, remembering what she said to Jack. We aren't exactly friends, nor exactly allies, and yet, who knows? Maybe one day, we could end up being both.

I put the bundle on the table. ‘These belong to you,' I say. My hands fumble to untie the pink ribbon.

The lines on her face deepen, all companionability gone. ‘I told Jack I didn't want them,' she says.

‘Just hear me out – please. They were written after you went away. But they were never posted.'

Her mouth purses tightly, but her lower lip quivers ever so slightly.

‘You were upset because Henry never wrote to you,' I say. ‘But actually, he did.'

She clenches her gnarled hands into fists. ‘Don't mention him to me,' she snaps. ‘He was just as bad as his father. Worse, in fact, because he was weak – and stupid too. He thought he could outplay his father at a game of human chess. But there was never any doubt who was the more cunning and shrewd.'

‘Maybe so, Mrs Bradford. But the letters confirm that his feelings for you were real.'

She tsks angrily. ‘Feelings – what use are they in the real world? When I was a girl, I loved staying awake late at night reading silly books. Some people might call them classics –
Jane Eyre
,
Pride and Prejudice
,
Wuthering Heights
. But I call them dangerous. They gave girls like me the wrong notion. That life was some kind of grand “rags to riches” romance, and if we looked pretty and talked clever, then we'd have the world at our feet.'

‘Yes,' I gulp. ‘I guess you could see it that way.'

‘I thought that because I had a pretty face, I was somehow entitled to something better than my lot. I told you that I practically grew up at Rosemont Hall. It was my
Pemberley
, my
Thornfield
, my fairy-tale castle. You know?'

I nod, knowing all too well.

‘Back then, Henry was just another freckle-faced, snot-nosed boy. At age twelve, he went off to boarding school. When he came back for school holidays, I barely recognised him. He'd become a proper young man. And I was just the daughter of a servant.

‘When I was sixteen, Henry came upon me reading a book in the rose garden.' She wrinkles her nose. ‘It was
Jane Eyre
if you want to know. We got to talking – about books and things. I knew he was interested in me, but for a long time, I played hard to get. I remember every second of that summer.' She smiles dreamily, her mind far away. ‘He would chase me through the gardens and steal a kiss under the weeping beech tree. I was “his Annie” – he's the only person who's ever called me that.'

‘Annie,' I whisper. ‘A'.

‘But no matter what the books promised, there was never any hope for Henry and me. Never.' She glares at me like it's all my fault.

‘I know it's painful, Mrs Bradford, but please hear me out.'

She curves her lips over her dentures like she's tasted something sour. After a long moment, she sits back obediently in the chair.

‘You thought that Henry never gave you another thought. But he did. I think that Arabella must have intercepted Henry's letters before they were sent.'

She hisses but says nothing.

I summarise the salient points: Henry loved her. He wanted her to live at Rosemont Hall. He didn't throw her over willingly. If she came back, then he would leave Arabella – have the marriage annulled. But none of what Henry wanted ever happened. I leave out how devastated Arabella must have been when she found out. In the end, it seems, it's her story that won't ever be fully told.

As I speak, Mrs Bradford's face, hard-set with years of resignation, begins slowly to soften. In fact, her whole body slumps in her chair.

‘All those years…' she says, ‘I loved him. I never forgot him. Or forgave him neither.'

‘I can understand that.' My throat wells up as I think about her tangled and tragic life. She may have been the villain when it came to blackmailing Henry, but she was a victim too – one of several, it seems.

She puts a hand over her mouth and rests her elbow on the table. She stares at the bundle of letters, but doesn't touch them.

‘I'm sorry,' I murmur.

Suddenly, she raises her wrinkled arm and sweeps the letters off the table. They flutter to the floor like wounded doves. Captain jumps up and yelps, his hackles raised.

Mrs Bradford calmly sits back and pours herself a cup of tea.

‘You were
his Annie
,' I say. ‘He never stopped loving you.'