The Proposal (38 page)

She looked away from him, and rubbed her hands up and down her little black dress nervously.

He touched the small of her back and led her past the uniformed valets and into the house.

Amy took a second to compose herself. The outside of Stapleford was intimidating enough, but stepping into the crowded entrance hall – God, that was the tallest Christmas tree she’d ever seen – did nothing to ease her anxiety.
What am I going to do exactly?
she thought.
Go up to the lady of the manor and say, ‘Hi, you don’t know me, but you’re a liar’?

‘Don’t worry, it’s just a party,’ said Will in a low voice that no one else could hear.

‘Just a party.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Just a party where I’m completely out of my depth,’ she said, playing with a cocktail ring she’d bought at Walthamstow market.

‘You know, if you accepted that you are the most beautiful woman in this place, you might relax and stop fidgeting,’ said Will, accepting two glasses of champagne and handing her one. ‘Here, try that. It might help,’ he said, leading her through the entrance hall.

She was still blushing at his compliment as they threaded through the many well-dressed revellers and into what Amy had to assume was the ballroom. There was a raised platform at one end with a seated jazz band playing gentle swing tunes, but there was no dancing; rather the floor was filled with people standing in groups laughing and talking.

‘Hey, there’s my dad,’ said Will. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

Amy stopped him and pulled him to one side where they wouldn’t be overheard.

‘You know, I think I should do this. Talk to Clarissa.’

Will opened his mouth to object, but she stopped him.

‘It’s better coming from a stranger. But before we do, remind me of the set-up so I don’t balls it up. Your dad is Clarissa’s brother, right?’

Will nodded.

‘And what does Clarissa do these days?’

‘Do?’ he smiled.

‘Like a job.’

‘She doesn’t do jobs. She is big on the charity circuit. Formidable, in fact. I think there are various wings of museums and libraries named after her.’

‘That’s why she’ll do anything to avoid scandal,’ Amy muttered under her breath. ‘Who’d want to endanger all this?’

A tall man with grey hair approached them. He was in his sixties, Amy guessed, but you would still classify him as handsome. He gave Will a chummy slap on the back.

‘Amy Carrell,’ said Will. ‘Meet my father, Richard Hamilton.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Amy,’ said Richard, with a genuine smile. Perhaps it was his obvious resemblance to Will, but Amy instantly warmed to him.

‘Amazing house,’ she said.

‘Yes, I have to keep reminding my sister of that; she’s constantly moaning about the roof. I suppose when you’re here all the time, it becomes commonplace. Anyway, you’ll get a chance to have a look around. I think they’ve put you two in the Trafalgar Suite.’

Will glanced at Amy.

‘Oh, we’re not . . .’ he stuttered. ‘Amy’s a friend, not a . . .’

His father started to laugh.

‘It’s the twenty-first century, Will. We’re not that old-fashioned, you know.’

‘Well, we were going to drive back tonight.’

‘To London? Tonight?’ said his father, shaking his head. ‘What on earth for? Your aunt Clarissa will be so disappointed. Come on, drink up,’ he said.

After a while, Amy excused herself, leaving the two men talking. It was nice to see the warmth between Will and his father. She had rather imagined the Hamiltons as a wholly dysfunctional family, clawing at each other for advantage, money and power, but now she could see that she had judged them only on Clarissa’s actions. Yes, it had been wicked and it had had terrible consequences, but it had happened decades ago. Perhaps throughout the intervening years they had enjoyed a normal life, just like Amy’s family: the occasional spat and argument, but nothing they couldn’t overcome. Somehow, though, Amy didn’t think so. It was possible that someone could do what Clarissa had done and learn from it, a shock to the system that would cure you of your selfish ways. But more likely it would only confirm whatever self-image you already had. After all, Clarissa’s deceit had given her all this: the chandeliers, the polished woodwork, the gilt-framed oils and the marble fireplaces. The human mind had a way of justifying its actions to itself. Amy was fairly sure that Clarissa would have taken the success of her scheme to mean that she deserved this life. She somehow doubted whether she had lost many nights’ sleep over it.

She walked slowly around the ground floor of Stapleford, taking in the grandeur – the red drawing room with its crimson velvet drapes and painted ceiling, the library stacked floor to ceiling with leather-bound books – and watching the party guests mingling: the ladies in their fine gowns and the flashing jewels that probably only came out of their safe deposit box one night a year; the gentlemen in their dark suits and their red cheeks; all of them laughing, smiling, seemingly comfortable in this world. Had any of them done things like Clarissa had? Had their fathers or mothers? Was all this smug, easy wealth founded on self-interest and evil? After all, unlike Daniel’s family – one generation of public school and they thought they were the House of Windsor – this was real old money, proper wealth, founded on exploitation and quite possibly corruption. Maybe Clarissa wasn’t alone; perhaps that was what it took to live this way.

Amy was just passing through the vast entrance hall when she saw her, and her heart jumped. She had demonised Clarissa Carlyle over the last few days, imagined her as some sinister Disney version of a wicked queen; even in the society-pages snaps she’d pulled up on the internet, Clarissa seemed to have a slightly evil gleam in her eye. But in the flesh she was nothing like that. She was just an ordinary woman. Or rather, an ordinary woman who had lived her life in extraordinary luxury. She certainly had that poise, that regal air as she walked towards Amy, helped by her long taffeta dress and the diamonds around her neck. Her bone structure was less fine than Georgia’s, but the family resemblance was clear.

Oh God, do I really want to do this?
thought Amy, wondering for a moment whether she should just walk past, perhaps leave it until the next day. Or the day after that.

‘Hello. You’re Will’s new friend, I hear,’ said Clarissa, stopping in front of her.

Oh hell.

‘Yes,’ stammered Amy. ‘I suppose I am.’

The old woman held out a hand and Amy took a moment to study her. Georgia had revealed that Clarissa had been a secretary at
Vogue
in her younger days, and that love of fashion certainly shone through now. Looking at the exquisite beadwork and tailoring of her gown, Amy was certain it must be couture.

‘Clarissa Carlyle. I’m Will’s aunt.’

‘Amy Carrell.’

‘Oh, you’re American?’ said Clarissa. ‘How delightful. I was so glad to hear he had a new – what do you call it these days? – partner, is it? He’s such a lovely boy.’

Amy didn’t think she would achieve much by correcting the old woman, so she just smiled.

‘What are you doing wandering around on your own like this?’ Clarissa asked in her cut-glass accent.

‘I think Will’s seen this house a million times before. I didn’t want to bore him asking for a guided tour.’

‘Our family never tires of showing off the house. It’s quite special. Will tells me you’re a dancer. Did you meet through the theatre? What was Will’s latest project? The one at the Royal Court?’

The Royal Court?
thought Amy.
Who’s been hiding his light under a bushel?

‘No, we met through a mutual acquaintance,’ she said, knowing that this was her moment. ‘A member of your family. Georgia Hamilton.’

Clarissa’s face did not move; there was no change in her expression at all – and to Amy, that was more telling than a sneer.

‘Georgia?’ she said evenly. ‘How is she?’

Did she really care? Was she genuinely curious about the cousin she hadn’t seen, barring that glance on Regent Street, in fifty years? She must have thought of Georgia from time to time – how could she not, given the traumatic circumstances of their rift? Or had she really learnt to live with it, to put people and inconvenient events from her mind?

‘She’s not too well actually,’ said Amy. ‘In fact she doesn’t think she has very long to live.’

Now
that
got a reaction. Clarissa looked as if she had been slapped; her face drained of colour apart from two pink dots in the centre of her cheeks.

‘Can’t they do anything?’

Amy shook her head.

‘Apparently not – although she’s not in any pain, and she’s still able to walk and look after herself.’

‘That’s something at least,’ Clarissa said, looking down at the floor.

‘In fact, we have just been to New York together,’ said Amy.

‘New York?’

‘Yes, it was something Georgia was desperate to do. I finally found out that she wanted to go there because New York was where she had planned to go on her honeymoon with her fiancé.’

Clarissa frowned.

‘Yes, I heard she had been married.’

‘Not that fiancé,’ said Amy. She looked straight at Clarissa. ‘I mean Edward.’

The old woman shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t seen Georgia in many years. Do I know Edward?’

‘Yes, Clarissa, Edward Carlyle. Your husband’s brother. You might remember him. He’s the one you accused of rape.’

Amy had heard the expression ‘her face hardened’, but she had never understood it properly until that moment. Clarissa’s features looked as if they had been carved from stone.

‘I believe you have confused me with someone else,’ she said in clipped, even tones. If she had been disconcerted, wrong-footed by Amy’s unexpected mention of Georgia, it disappeared in an instant and she was once again the lady of the house, the formidable grande dame.

Come on, Amy, don’t give in now
, she said to herself. She thought of Georgia falling in her flat, the flowers scattering across the carpet; she thought of the story she had told and the look of unhealed pain on her face when she had spoken of Edward, her love, and the fate that had befallen him.

‘No, Clarissa,’ she said, meeting the older woman’s gaze, ‘I don’t think I have confused you with anyone else. You do remember Edward, I take it? The man whose life you destroyed? The man who – because of your accusations – was banished to Singapore and his death?’

‘I am well aware of the tragedy, young lady. This is my family. I am simply denying your very unpleasant insinuations.’

‘Oh, they’re more than insinuations,’ said Amy. ‘They are facts.’

‘Facts?’ Clarissa barked harshly. ‘Says who? Georgia? There are no facts here, only slanderous lies, lies that I will vigorously contest if need be. Do not underestimate me, Miss Carrell.’

Amy shook her head.

‘I don’t want you to take me to court, Lady Carlyle. I just want you to tell me the truth. Finally admit what happened that night in 1958. Nothing will change. Not after all these years. You won’t lose your house, your precious title. Even if you don’t want to do it for Georgia or for Edward, do it for yourself. That’s what you’re good at. Looking after number one. Do it now, while you still can. Clear your conscience before it’s too late.’

‘How dare you come here, into my house, with these accusations. Georgia’s accusations.’

‘Oh no, Georgia has no idea I’m here. She has more dignity than to accuse you of anything. I am here because I saw what your scheme did to her. It broke her in
half
,’ said Amy, her anger rising. ‘She wasn’t interested in all this. She didn’t care about the house or the title or the money. She only wanted Edward. She loved Edward.’

‘So did
I
,’ snapped Clarissa, then stopped, a look of shock on her face, as if she had been tricked into saying something she hadn’t even admitted to herself.

‘You? You loved Edward?’

Clarissa’s lips formed a thin line.

‘This conversation is over.’

Amy stepped forward.

‘No, no it’s not. If you loved Edward, then why did you . . .?’

Amy was aware that someone was standing behind her before she heard the cough. She turned to see a tall, thin elderly gentleman standing there. His face was pale and he looked shocked. She could tell that he had heard everything.

‘Clarissa, m’dear?’ he said. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Everything is fine, Christopher,’ she said crisply. ‘I believe this young lady was just leaving.’

Amy felt the older couple’s eyes meet.

‘Do we need security?’ he asked, his voice even and firm.

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said Amy, holding Clarissa’s gaze. ‘Lady Carlyle is correct. I was about to leave. Thank you very much for a wonderful evening.’

She looked at Clarissa’s husband.

‘And I’ll be sure to give your regards to Georgia Hamilton,’ she added, then turned and walked out of the front door.

She texted Will as soon as she got outside: ‘Just met Clarissa, been ejected. Out front. Help!’ His Jeep was gone, and with a sinking feeling she wondered if he had been kicked out as well and had simply bolted and left her there.