Finding Home (8 page)

‘Well, that's good news,' Mr Kendall says, his voice flat. ‘For the heirs at least.'

I walk over to one of the tall French windows that looks out onto the back of the house. In the distance, an ornamental lake shimmers in the fading light and a small summerhouse in the style of a Grecian temple glows like a jewel. The gardens are overgrown, but I'm sure they must have been magical in their day. Just like everything else here. Everything that is about to be lost for good.

I follow my boss and Mr Kendall back into the main hall. Mr Kendall points to a door on the wall opposite. ‘There's a corridor through there that leads to the East Wing,' he says. ‘There isn't much there. It was gutted by the fire.'

‘How did the fire start?' I ask.

Mr Kendall shifts on his feet. ‘There was an investigation at the time involving a servant, but nothing was ever proved conclusively.'

‘But it was an accident?'

‘I believe in the end it was an open verdict.'

‘Oh.' The English literature teacher in me claws her way to the surface. In
Jane Eyre
, the fire at Thornfield was started by the ‘mad woman in the attic' – the first Mrs Rochester. She ended up being killed in the fire, and Mr Rochester lost his eyesight. And then there's the sinister house called Manderley in
Rebecca
. The fire there was started by the psychotic housekeeper Mrs Danvers after she learnt how Rebecca really died. And now, it seems that there's some mystery here involving how nearly half of the house was burned to the ground. I can't help feeling intrigued. ‘Can we have a look at the East Wing?' I say.

Mr Bowen-Knowles steps in front of me as if he's trying to hide me like a divan under a dust sheet. ‘I think we've seen enough for today,' he says through his teeth. ‘The site clearly has huge development potential that we can start marketing right away. I'd like to thank you once again, Mr Kendall, for thinking of
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
.'

‘Fine.' Mr Kendall says. He avoids meeting my eyes. ‘Provided your commission arrangements are satisfactory, I think we can consider it settled. You can be sole agents for three months. That's all I can guarantee you. If you haven't succeeded in that time, it will either go to Hexagon, or to auction.'

Three months.
An imaginary clock shaped like Cinderella's slipper begins to tick inside my head. Three months to find a buyer who will preserve and restore Rosemont Hall. Three months to save it. Can I possibly do it?

While the two of them continue to discuss the details, I gravitate back up the main staircase until I'm standing before the portrait of the girl in the pink dress. From her vantage point above the vast marble hall, surveying her ruined domain, she looks almost lonely. I wonder if in life she was happy – if she was thinking of someone special when she smiled that secret smile. Did she live at Rosemont Hall; find love here? In her hands she's clutching something yellowish in colour, indicated with thick brushstrokes. Some kind of paper, or letters maybe? When I first started going out with Simon, he used to leave me copies of Victorian valentine poems on my pillow, and later on, send me funny little texts to let me know he was thinking of me. If we'd been born in a different era, would things between Simon and me have worked out? There's a sharp pang in my chest as I recall the hurt he caused me; the humiliation. I hope the girl in the pink dress was luckier in love than I was.

‘Amy.' Mr Bowen-Knowles's voice jars me back to reality.

‘Goodbye,' I mutter to the girl in the portrait and rush down the stairs.

I join the two men. ‘Hi, sorry,' I say. ‘I was just having another quick look around for the viewings—'

Mr Bowen-Knowles holds up his hand to silence me. ‘So as I was saying, Ian, I'll assign my most senior agent, Jonathan Park-Spencer, to handle the marketing
and
the viewings.'

The air goes flat in my lungs. There's no way that Jonathan could ever do justice to this place. I speak up, but my voice sounds small: ‘I was hoping that… maybe...'

Mr Kendall's eyes meet mine for an instant. He turns to my boss. ‘Now that I've met Ms Wood, I'd like to continue to deal with her.'

I wait for the
but unfortunately, my duty is to the estate—

‘She seems very competent and enthusiastic about the house.'

‘Yes, but—' my boss interjects.

‘Therefore, I'd like her to be the principal contact – at least while you have the exclusive listing.'

There's a long moment as Mr Bowen-Knowles looks at me like he's hoping the earth will swallow me up. I stand up a little straighter trying to look ‘competent and enthusiastic' until the stand-off ends. Finally, Mr Bowen-Knowles lets out a long sigh, his brow withered like a prune. ‘Of course,' he says to Mr Kendall. ‘Whatever you like.'

My heart leaps in my chest. For a second, I imagine that I feel the atmosphere inside the house shift with a tiny flicker of life. ‘Thank you, Mr Kendall.' I say in my most businesslike manner. ‘I won't let you down.'

The three of us leave the house and Mr Kendall locks up. A satisfied warmth creeps across my cheeks as he hands me the set of keys. I've succeeded – for now.

I'll be coming back again.

Letter 3 (Reply to Letter 2?)

June 2nd (1952)? (hand delivery)

H

I am delighted that you are home at last, and I am counting the hours until tonight when I will see you again! The months we've been apart have seemed endless. How I long to see your face and feel your fingers on my skin. Because as much as I cherish your letters, when I lay awake alone at night, my mind is full of whispers and doubts. Until you have told your father about us, as you say you will, how can I allow myself to hope?

Over the next few days I get caught up in a rush of activities around the office. Mr Bowen-Knowles and I seem to have reached an unspoken agreement that my presence is in fact required. I settle into the rhythm of answering phones, typing emails and letters, responding to web enquiries, and springing to life like a puppet whenever prospective clients come in. In the back of the stationery cupboard I find a box of Christmas baubles (in an antique gold colour that looks remarkably like beige) and I use them to trim a little fake tree in the waiting area. The white lights twinkle on and off in my peripheral vision, bringing a tiny bit of cheer to the shortening days.

Despite all my efforts, I still feel a pang of dread each time my boss emerges from his office. When he looks at me, his nose wrinkles like he's tasted something foul, and I sense he's still annoyed that I convinced Mr Kendall to let me take the lead on Rosemont Hall. Not that any more has been said on
that
subject...

I try smiling, then frowning, then ignoring him like the others do. The latter works best – the second time I don't look up when he comes out of his office, he comes over to my desk and instructs me to prepare the particulars for Rosemont Hall. I'm thrilled! I stay late three nights in a row wading through the material Mr Kendall provided on the house, plus seeing what else I can find out about Rosemont Hall and the Windham Family. I can't find much on the slave trader or the gambler, but I have more luck with the modern generation. It's not too difficult to find Arabella Windham's recent obituary in the online archives of the local newspaper. Like a typical old lady, she belonged to the local church and the gardening club. It confirms that she was married to Henry Windham, deceased, and that they had no children. I recall Mr Kendall saying that the American heirs are distant relatives.

Henry Windham's obit from a decade earlier is harder to find, and even briefer than his wife's. It mentions only that he spent time at Eton and Oxford, and refers to his wife, Arabella, his father, Sir George, and the estate that he inherited. I'm forced to conclude that he was a typical young man of privilege, living off whatever family fortunes remained without contributing to anyone or anything.

More interesting, however, is Sir George Windham. I find a short Wikipedia entry on him. He was born in 1900 and attended Eton and Oxford like his father before him and his son after him. He began collecting art in his twenties, and by the time he was thirty, he had amassed a number of valuable paintings. Then, like many idealistic (and wealthy) young Englishmen, in the 1930s he sought adventure by joining the International Brigades to fight the Fascists in the Spanish Civil War. He won a medal for his troubles. During World War II, the house was requisitioned by the RAF, who left it in a miserable state. Topping it all off, a series of bad investments decimated the family fortunes. Sir George died in 1955.

I study the photographs that are embedded into the article. There's a small photograph of a young man with a bold, aristocratic nose that I assume is Sir George as a young man. There's also an architectural drawing of the outside of Rosemont Hall as it must have been when built – its two graceful wings intact and perfectly symmetrical. The final one is a dark, black and white photo of the inside of the great hall, dated 1939. Unlike the house as it is today, in the photo the pale grey walls are covered with paintings. An accompanying caption describes the famous Rosemont Hall art collection, which included several Gainsboroughs, a Caravaggio, and most notably, a Rembrandt called ‘Orientale'. I study the photograph, looking for the girl in the pink dress, but I don't see her. I wonder how she alone escaped the fate of the others – the auctioneer's gavel in the late 1940s, or the fire in the East Wing that destroyed the Rembrandt. Once again, I wonder who she was.

I make a note of all my findings so that I can write up a few pages on the history of the house for the particulars. It's exciting to play historical detective. I only wish that I had time to do some real research at a library, not just higgledy-piggledy on the internet. But time is not on my side. I glance over at Cinderella's clock on my desk as the little silver hands move on relentlessly. As I begin writing the particulars, I remember my first sight of Rosemont Hall – its grand silhouette stark and lonely against a grey sky – and I feel a strong sense of responsibility. The house is an important piece of English history that has kept its identity for hundreds of years. It doesn't take a card-carrying National Trust member to realise that such things are worth preserving.

While my research is on track, the other aspects of my marketing campaign get off to a bad start. On the morning of the fourth day after the viewing, I hand Mr Bowen-Knowles the draft text I've composed – ‘Historic family home in need of TLC'. He frowns down his nose at me, closets himself in his office for two hours, and finally emerges. He slaps the two pages I've written about the history of the house and the Windham family down on my desk. They're entirely struck out in red pen. He's written instead a heading that says: ‘Outstanding green-belt development opportunity for flexible accommodation and commercial recreation facilities'.

‘Flexible accommodation?' I say, feeling a strong sense of dread.

‘Flats,' he replies with a sniff. ‘We're marketing the future potential here, not some crumbling wreck of the past. I want to see a bullet-point list – the 120 acres, a list of the outbuildings that could be developed, the number of en-suite bedrooms that could be converted into apartments, square footage – numbers, not fluff. And what about the photographs, are they back yet? We've got a tight deadline here and need to get this to the printers ASAP. Plus, it needs to be on Rightmove, Primelocation, Zoopla, Country Life and—'

I stare up at him with dismay. It probably should have been obvious, but I didn't realise that I was supposed to arrange the photographs and all those other things. Now I've wasted almost a week of my three months. Tick tock.

‘I'm sorry…' my voice catches. ‘I didn't know.' Desperate to avoid the sack, I hand him my mobile phone with the pictures I'd taken of the facade. ‘I took these,' I say.

The silence seems to last a lifetime. He stares at the photos, flicking back and forth between them with his thumb.

‘That one will do.' He hands me back the phone. ‘No point printing photos of the inside. The place is a tip. I'll talk to the quantity surveyor about going round…'

I copiously write down all of his instructions. When he finally stops hovering and returns to his office, I let out a long breath.

‘Don't worry,' Claire says from across the desk. ‘No one gets it right the first time. I'll show you how to upload the particulars onto the websites.'

‘Thanks.' I smile gratefully.

‘Let's see the photographs, then.'

I hand her the phone. ‘Wow.' she says, ‘Impressive pile. Haven't seen one of these on the market for a while.'

Jonathan meanders over to Claire's desk. I'm petrified that he'll gazump my first exciting project right from under my nose. Claire shows him the photo.

‘Hmm,' Jonathan says with a condescending grin. ‘Hope you're not planning your retirement. Looks like a “sticker” to me.'

‘A “sticker”?'

‘As in, a property that sticks. Your tits will sag to your waist before you sell it.' He laughs at his own vile joke, then swivels his chair around and makes a call on his mobile.

Claire shakes her head and hands me back my phone. ‘Don't mind him,' she says. ‘Even if it doesn't sell, you might get some good experience showing it. If you're not busy after work, let's go the pub and I'll give you some survival tips.'

‘Oh yes.' I say immediately. ‘I'd appreciate that.'

*

When the day ends, I've officially made it through my first full week. I'm exhausted from the effort, but luckily, everyone including Claire shuts down their computer at half four. I rinse out my mug in the kitchen and put it in the cupboard (moving it carefully away from the one that says: ‘I'd rather be … GOLFING'). Jonathan breezes by me on his way out the door without so much as a nod or a wave goodbye, and Patricia does the same. When I return to my desk, Claire has her make-up bag out.