Finding Home (41 page)

I've saved Rosemont Hall!

Just as the taxi pulls up in front of my parents' house, my mobile rings. I hand a wad of cash to the driver and pull the phone out just in time.

It's him. My hand trembles with excitement as I hit the button. ‘Hello!' I say, breathlessly.

‘Amy,' he says in that lovely deep voice of his, ‘how are you? I hear there was quite a bust-up at the lawyer's office over my little surprise.'

‘Yes, there was!' I beam. ‘And everyone was certainly surprised. But how—? Why—?'

‘Well, I'll fill you in on everything when I see you next. I'm going to arrange a trip for spring break and then the whole summer – we could go on that tour we talked about. But for now, let's just say, Gran and I had a long heart-to-heart. She told me her whole story – fascinating stuff, and heart-breaking too – just like something out of one of your books.' I can sense his grin. ‘But ancient grudges and broken hearts aside, she says that the place is her home. She asked me not to sell up.'

‘Good for her!' I can't help saying.

‘Yeah. I mean, she's happy living in the cottage with Gwen. But she still wants to be able to visit the house. Talk to it, clean it, wander through it – whatever the heck she does there.'

‘I can understand that.'

‘Yeah,' he laughs. ‘I'm sure you can.'

‘Anyway, for the first time, we were actually having a conversation about what she thought and felt, not what
I
should feel or do. It worked wonders. I think we're well on the way to understanding each other much better. And that's all down to you, Amy.'

‘I'm just so shocked – in a good way, I mean…'

He laughs. ‘She wanted me to give you a message. Something about how “maybe the great love story of Rosemont Hall is yet to come”. Does that mean anything to you?'

‘Umm, yeah. Thanks.' I shiver inside with delight.

‘Good, well, I guess it's one more anecdote to add to your book. How's that going, by the way?'

I step out of the cab, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Great,' I say. ‘It's going great. You know, Jack, I've discovered that writing it is a lot easier now that I've stopped worrying about the ending.'

The grand opening of Rosemont Hall is held on a Saturday in late May. The day before, the last of the scaffolding comes down, the caterers set up in the brand new kitchen, and a huge marquee is erected on the south lawn to house refreshments for the hundreds of people – locals, press, bloggers, and lovers of old houses from all over the country – that are expected to be there.

I spend the day in a flurry of activity: chasing florists; confirming directions; stapling books of tickets; making sure there are signs pointing the way to loos and parking, dusting for the tenth time the portrait of the girl in a pink dress. She's been cleaned and restored, and still hangs in pride of place above the staircase landing. But she's alone now. The Rembrandt she hid for so many years has been auctioned – and luckily, it was bought by Tate Britain. So now it too will be on view in London for the whole world to appreciate.

I stay at the house late into the night trying to put into order the final wave of chaos. I want everything to be perfect – just the way all of the fated ancestors would have wanted.

By the time I return to my parents' bungalow (I've been far too busy to look for my own flat), I'm tired and elated, nervous and happy, all at the same time. The past year has flown by, and it's been downright exhausting – project-managing builders, restorers, craftspeople, painters, plasterers, gardeners, English Heritage, the local council – not to mention a number of
very distracting
visits from Jack.

The house has been fixed up top to bottom, inside and outside. It will take a few more seasons for the garden to be back to its best, and a few of my grander ideas like the adventure playground, the organic tea-room and farm shop aren't quite off the ground just yet. And while the East Wing has been shored up and stabilised, it will be a while before the restoration of the ballroom begins.

Nonetheless, I feel proud of what I've achieved so far. Restoring Rosemont Hall has been the most exciting adventure of my life so far, and I've thrown myself into learning everything from the ground up. I'm looking forward to the next phase – running tours, writing leaflets, teaching people about the house and its history – helping to create
new
memories and history here. And while sometimes amid the dust and chaos of construction, I've missed the staid and well-settled world of teaching literature, now, when I walk through the beautifully proportioned and stately rooms of Rosemont Hall, I know I've chosen the right vocation.

And when Jack phones me from the airport and asks me if everything is ready for the grand opening, I can honestly say that barring any surprises, it is.

The morning of the grand opening dawns bright and crisp. Dad's wisteria casts a purple glow outside my bedroom window and all the birds in the garden are chattering that summer's almost here. I dress in old clothes in case I have to muck in with any last-minute jobs, but I have a new dress (red silk sheath with matching heels and fancy hat) in a plastic bag to take with me. Mum cooks me breakfast and I give her and Dad a kiss (and a 15-minute fully interactional walk-through of the map to Rosemont Hall – my dad is rubbish with directions), and then I'm off.

Even a year on, when I drive through the freshly painted iron gates and glimpse Rosemont Hall from a distance, I still get the same electric thrill as the first time I saw it. Only now, instead of a sad and forbidding edifice riddled with dry rot and unhappy secrets, to me it seems transformed – just as I am. The brickwork on the outside has been thoroughly cleaned and repointed, and the nymphs now frolic in a playful spray of water in the fountain. The hedges have been trimmed, and the beds replanted with roses and bee-friendly flowers.

I park at the edge of the widened gravel area – the temporary parking area until the new car park is completed out of view of the house. I get out of the car and savour the silence, the sunlight, and the feeling that I'm in the place where I belong.

I enter the house and spend the next few hours handling some last-minute mini-disasters that require my attention: scones from the ‘Cup o' Comfort' that didn't rise; two temp waitresses who haven't turned up; a power failure in the posh Portaloos; a loose paving stone by the front door.

I deal with each of them in turn, and manage to sneak off and change into my dress just before the camera crew of
Country House Rescue
arrives. Over the last year, the new presenter has helped me perfect the business plan for Rosemont Hall and the show has generated nationwide publicity for the newest local tourist attraction.

I leave the crew to set up and give the volunteer guides a final briefing. I talk them through the draft historical guide to the house that I've written, and show them the glass cases where the Windham letters and the artist's sketchbook have been preserved. When that's finished, I relax for a few minutes and sample all the food in the marquee.

It's not long before the office staff of
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
(minus Claire, but including Mrs Harvey's niece, Sally, with a rosy-faced toddler tucked in a pram) arrives. Alistair Bowen-Knowles greets me with a handshake and a brief glance down at my chest. Jonathan sniffs and commandeers a roving waitress with a tray full of champagne flutes. As he passes them around, I reflect for a moment on how much I owe to my beloved former work colleagues. Without their indifference to that long-ago telephone call from Mr Kendall, I wouldn't be where I am today. When everyone has a glass, I raise mine and propose a toast: ‘Here's to estate agents,' I say, ‘and to finding our clients the perfect homes.'

‘Hear hear.'

We clink our glasses together and I feel a little twinge of nostalgia. But it only lasts a second. Alistair Bowen-Knowles, Jonathan, and Patricia all are off to schmooze some of my former clients that have come for the occasion: Ronan and Crystal (the latter resplendent in a hot pink mini-dress and matching fishnets); Mr Patel; Mary and Fred Blundell. The band starts playing, and more and more people arrive: the Wakefields (who have found a lovely little cottage only about a mile away); and then, my parents. Mum gushes to anyone who will listen about how the restoration of Rosemont Hall is all down to me.

‘Thanks, Mum, but really, it wasn't just me,' I say. ‘Lots of people helped out.'

‘Nonsense,' she says. ‘Credit where credit is due. And make sure that boyfriend of yours takes you out for a nice dinner later.' She winks at Dad. ‘We were hoping to have the bungalow to ourselves for tonight.'

‘Oh, I'll definitely be
very
late,' I say, hiding a shudder. Now that the renovations are over, I really need to get back to searching for a flat…

A little later, Claire arrives with Raj and her son in tow. ‘Well, well…' she gives me a hug, ‘I'm starting to see why you fell for this place. It really is quite something.'

I hand her a glass of champagne. ‘It is,' I say, smiling broadly.

‘And how are you coming on with the book?' During the last year, Claire has indulged me by reading some of my draft chapters. Her honest, no-holds barred, Earth-to-Amy comments have sometimes stung a little, but I've come to accept that – just occasionally – I need help getting my head out of the clouds.

‘It's good – I think. I sent it off to three agents last week. Fingers crossed and all that.'

Rolling her eyes, she gives me a quick hug. ‘I'm sure it's better than good, Amy. Remember, you just have to believe it here.' She taps her chest. ‘You deserve good things.'

‘Thanks Claire, but there is one important thing missing.' I make a point of checking my watch. Everything seems to be going to plan, but secretly, I'm worried. Jack's flight was due to arrive at Heathrow at 6:55 a.m. It's nearly 2 p.m. and there's still no sign of him.

‘You mean the dashing hero?' Claire shrugs. ‘I wouldn't worry. It's his house – he's sure to be here.'

I don't bother to correct her – the house belongs to the trust, and to all the people of this fine land. Jack Faraday, however, still has a right to live here under the charter documents, and a suite of as yet unrestored rooms on the first floor has been allocated to him. Mrs Bradford also has the right to a room in the house, but so far, she's decided to stay on with Gwen. I visit her at least once a week for a ‘cuppa' (and to dust the high shelves), and she comes and goes from the main house as she pleases. She's been teaching me how to bake scones and also how to sew cushions and curtains. She's also an invaluable source of information about how the house looked back in the day. Sure, she talks to herself, and sometimes has two-sided arguments with Arabella; she's tried to run more than one workman off the project; and Captain, her humongous St Bernard, just adores sleeping in the canopy bed on the first floor, rumpling the blankets and chewing old books (in fact, he was the culprit all along). But those things aside, I think we've earned the right to call each other friends. And who knows… I'm keeping my fingers crossed that, someday, we might even be
family
.

As I'm dealing with a minor crisis of a spilled glass of red wine on a freshly polished parquet floor, I spot her hovering around the bar with Captain slobbering at her feet. She's cackling to the bartender, who keeps refilling her glass with an amber colour liquid. Although it's not on the bar menu, I'm pretty sure it's whisky.

She catches my eye and waves her cane at me. ‘Amy Wood,' she half-shrieks. ‘Poking your nose into anything and everything, as usual, I see.' Her smile is crooked but warm. ‘Sit down, have a drink. Enjoy yourself!'

‘Thanks.' I take the drink she hands me and we clink glasses. But in truth, I'm too on edge to relax or enjoy myself. Jack still hasn't arrived. It's increasingly difficult to keep smiling and making small talk. The band is playing swing tunes and people are dancing. One or two guests begin to leave.

‘Now off with you,' she says. ‘And keep your chin up. If a thing is meant to be, then it will be.' She gives my hand a squeeze and turns back to the bartender. I weave my way through the crowd, hoping, by some miracle, what's ‘meant to be' is that I'll spot Jack. I don't. Instead, I see Mr Kendall. He waves at me with the programme of events in his hand and I walk over to him.

‘It's amazing what you've done here, Amy,' he says, beaming. ‘You've saved the place single-handedly. It's going to be a real success now, I can tell.'

‘Not single-handedly.' I blush. ‘Jack and Mrs Bradford's money helped a lot.'

‘Yes, but it took more than money. It took the right person – someone to perform a genuine labour of love. From the start, it's like you belonged here, just as much as any marble floor or fancy fireplace. You're a proud feature of the house, Amy.' He smiles. ‘And certainly… original.'

‘Well—' I grab a glass of champagne (only my second of the day) from a tray, ‘thanks a lot for saying that. I just wish—'

Maybe the bubbly goes down the wrong way, or maybe the emotions of the day have finally taken their toll. But suddenly, I'm sputtering and fighting back tears.

‘What?' Mr Kendall looks concerned.

‘I just wish Jack were here. He was supposed to be here at noon. I don't know what happened.'

‘Ah,' Mr Kendall says. ‘Jack.' He sighs.

‘What? Is something the matter?'

‘Well, you know Jack…' he raises an eyebrow, ‘—he's always full of surprises.'

Something in his manner sets off a cascade of panic in my chest. ‘You mean he's not coming?' I can barely swallow, but somehow manage to drink down the glass of champagne. ‘All this— and he's not coming?'