Three Graces

• Three Graces
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• About the Author
  
• Other Books by Victoria Connelly
  

Victoria Connelly

Copyright 2004 Victoria Connelly

Cover image copyright Roy Connelly

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Victoria Connelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Published by Cuthland Press

In association with Notting Hill Press

To Mum – remembering all our wonderful visits to country houses.

Deep in the English countryside, at least three train rides away from London, lies the forgotten county of Cuthland. It’s not the first choice of tourists but those who discover it revisit it until they know every perfect mile.

It’s a county of winding roads, gently sloping hills and river valleys. Beech woods sprawl luxuriously, rivers flow calmly, and the brilliant purple moors spread to the very heavens.

In the heart of this landscape lies Amberley Court. For most of the year, it’s hidden by a dense emerald veil of trees but, during the winter months, you can catch a glimpse of it from the road. It looks something like a honeycomb with its warm golden stone but it’s anything but symmetrical. Added to down the centuries with a wing here and a turret there, it is a wonderfully higgledy-piggledy sort of house. No two towers are the same height and no two windows are the same shape. If one was comparing it to a human face, one would, perhaps, think of a Picasso and yet it has all the grace of a Gainsborough.

Inside, it is a perfect jamboree of Medieval, Tudor, Jacobean and Georgian with fourteenth century alcoves and sixteenth century fireplaces. Mahogany vies with walnut, and rosewood with satinwood. There are Chippendales and Hepplewhites, Sheratons and Gillows. There are cellarets and chaise longues, davenports and dressers. There are tapestries to take your breath away, galleries that will make you gasp and ceilings that will have you reeling.

There are …

Hang on …

You’re not interested in all that, are you? You don’t want me to tell you the strange story about the dining room doors or how long the ornate plaster work in the Long Gallery took. You have no desire to know how much the sixth duke paid for a bust of himself or how long the enfilade is. You want to know if it’s haunted, don’t you? That’s why everyone visits these old houses. They’re not interested in the furnishings. They don’t want to know dates. They all have but one question to ask the tour guides and room stewards.

Is the house haunted?

Georgiana? Do you care to answer this question?

No?

Are you
sure
? This could be your big moment.

Not yet?

Oh. All right then.

‘I’m not at all sure about this,’ Carys said to Louise, looking up at the grand country house as they finally reached the top of the driveway. Three storeys high, with windows the size of swimming pools, it was the biggest house they’d ever seen.

‘Oh, come on! How often do we get to go to a bash like this?’ Louise giggled, running her other hand through her hair and opening up a tiny gold compact in order to check her lipstick.

‘Where shall I park?’ Carys asked, noticing that all the cars were Jaguars, BMWs and Range Rovers.

‘Yours will fit in there, won’t it?’

‘Mine would fit in to the boot of any of these,’ Carys said, eyeing up the enormous cars with immaculate paintwork gleaming in the evening sunlight. She was incredibly fond of the old Marlva she’d inherited from her uncle but she couldn’t help feeling it was a little out of place at Roseberry Hall. Although Marlva cars were the county of Cuthland’s most celebrated industry, Carys wished she could boast the latest model, the sleek Marlva Panache, instead of her rotund 1960s Marvla Prima.

‘I’ll reverse in, I think,’ Carys said. She had a habit of talking through every manoeuvre she made. ‘Straight over here,’ she’d announce as they approached a roundabout. ‘Left turn after the hospital,’ she’d inform whoever was in the passenger seat as she drove into town to work.

‘What was that?’ Carys suddenly asked as she heard a bump.

Louise looked out of the back window. ‘Some sort of wall, I think.’

‘Oh, God!’ Carys inched the car forward slowly, hoping she wouldn’t hear the sound of old brickwork collapsing

‘Don’t worry. It’s probably already seen out the Civil War; it can survive you.’

Carys wasn’t so sure. There were areas of her life in which she demanded perfection but driving wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t a public hazard or anything; it was just that her car received more than its fair share of bumps and bruises.

‘I’d better take a look,’ she said, getting out of the car and hoping nobody was watching from one of the hall’s many windows.

A light breeze caught her long, pale hair, sending it floating behind her like a golden comet’s tail and inviting the hem of her light summer dress to dance up, revealing slender legs encased in pale stockings.

Thankfully, the dark red paintwork and the wall were unmarked and Carys breathed a sigh of relief.

‘All right?’ Louise asked, getting out of the car and straightening her dress. Carys hadn’t seen her looking so lovely for months. Her chestnut hair had recently been cut and it clung to the contours of her faces making her look quite bewitching, and her sky-blue dress reminded Carys of a mermaid.

‘Do I look okay?’ she asked, noticing Carys looking at her.

‘You look gorgeous,’ Carys told her, remembering the old baggy jumpers and washed-out jeans her friend had been sporting ever since the break-up of her last relationship.

‘How did you get invited to this party, anyway?’ Carys asked.

‘I told you. It was some business colleague of Martin’s who got invites to distribute to whomever he chose.’

Carys narrowed her eyes. This was the very man who had turned Louise into the queen of grunge overnight. ‘I thought you two had broken up.’

Louise looked sheepish for a moment. ‘We have. But we still see each other from time to time.’

‘I don’t understand you, Lou. When I break up with someone, we can’t even share the same town.’

Louise laughed. ‘I got over him,’ she said.

‘And is he going to be here tonight?’

‘Would I be looking so gorgeous if he wasn’t?’

‘You’re not getting back with him, are you?’ It was a question but Carys made it sound like a command.

Louise smiled. ‘Of course I’m not. I just want him to realise what he’s missing out on.’

‘He was an absolute idiot to let you go.’

‘All exes are absolute idiots.’

‘Quite right,’ Carys said, locking her car and linking arms for the walk across the enormous gravel driveway. Both of them knew what they were up to, of course. It was the unspoken rule between girlfriends of a certain age that a night out would mean they were on the look out for that most elusive thing: a potential boyfriend.

Carys shook her head at the word
boyfriend
. It just didn’t sound grown-up.
Partner
sounded too business-like,
beau
was too old-fashioned, and
date
was too temporary. Anyway, that’s why they were both there. They hadn’t spent hours agonising over their appearances just so they could feel good about themselves. They were in full hummingbird-attire, hoping against hope that they’d find some rare nectar to hover around that evening.

They crossed the driveway, their shoes, as light as butterflies, crunching softly on the gravel. However, as they approached the house, Carys couldn’t help feeling out of her depth.

‘Look at the size of this place,’ she said, each of her words filled to bursting with awe and anxiety.

‘I know. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’

‘Who owns it?’ Carys asked.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Louise confessed. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she suddenly burst in excitement.

‘What?’

‘I’ve just seen a deer - look!’

Carys looked out across the parkland which rolled gently into the distance and spotted a solitary deer moving like a ballerina amongst the long grass.

‘The only wildlife you can see from my house is at chucking out time at The King’s Head.’

Louise laughed. ‘It is beautiful, isn’t it? Can you imagine living in a place like this?’

Carys shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. No point trying, either. I might get ideas above my station.’

‘But just imagine,’ Louise enthused, her smile filling her face and her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Lady Carys Miller cordially invites
Cuthland Life
to her sumptuous home, Roseberry Hall.’

Carys had to laugh.
Cuthland Life
was the county’s home-spun version of
Hello!
and each issue boasted some member of the landed gentry, eager to show off their twenty bed-roomed palatial home with swimming pool, gymnasium, and paddock filled with horses.

‘Heaven forbid,’ Carys said. ‘I could never be one of those even if I won the lotto.’

Reaching the front of the house, they craned their necks to gaze in wonder at three storeys of symmetrical beauty, the dozen or so windows winking in the last of the evening light. The stone was the rich red-gold that was used for all the fine houses of Cuthland and, on summer evenings, it seemed to glow from within as if it had been paid a compliment and was blushing with pride.

‘Are you sure we’ve come to the right place?’ Carys whispered, as they dared to approach the front door.

Louise nodded. She was still smiling like an over-excited child but Carys’s smile was refusing to make an appearance. It had been chased away to some unknown corner of her body by her nerves.

‘Come on,’ Louise said. ‘Time to make an appearance.’

They pulled an old-fashioned bell and the door was opened by a woman wearing a black dress and cap with frilly white sleeves. Drinks were offered and they were left to mingle.

‘These aren’t our sort of people,’ Carys whispered.

‘How do you know until you get to talk to them?’

‘I just know,’ Carys said. ‘Their names, for example. I bet they’ve all got really pompous names - like Ophelia and Horatio.’

‘Oh, and your name is so normal, I suppose?’

‘It’s Welsh - as well you know.’

‘I know,’ Louise grinned. ‘It means
love
,’ she said, batting her eyelashes like a cartoon character.

‘Louise!’ a voice suddenly shouted from the staircase.

‘Martin!’ Louise shouted back, her obvious joy at seeing him worrying Carys. ‘Carys, I must just say hello for a moment.’

‘Don’t be long,’ Carys said, anxious that her friend should not be sucked back into the vortex that was Martin Bradbury. She watched as Martin bent down to peck Louise on the cheek in greeting. Louise blushed prettily - a little too prettily for Carys’s liking. When Louise caught Carys’s eyes, it was she who was blushing and she turned away quickly, trying to find some diversion.

The entrance hall, where most of the people seemed to be gathered, was like no other Carys had ever seen. The hall of her own Victorian terrace was narrow and dark but this was wide, light and elegant. A staircase swept up from the centre of the hallway before curving right, its bright wooden banister rail polished so that it gleamed like a mirror. The walls were a pale butter and covered with paintings, mostly landscapes but there were portraits too.

Carys leant forward to get a better view then, wine glass in hand, began to climb the stairs, her heels clicking pleasantly on the white stone which had been left bare, its simple beauty glowing like fresh snow.

She passed a landscape of a ruined monastery overlooking a river; a pastoral scene in dark oils; and a number of hunting scenes with dogs carrying dead birds in their mouths. Carys winced. She’d never understood how people could gain pleasure from killing things. But she couldn’t deny how impressive the pictures were, hanging in fine gold frames which caught the light. How incredible, she thought, to live in a house like this. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to come home to a place such as Roseberry Hall. Imagine turning off the road into the long, winding driveway lined with trees, and parking in the huge sweep of driveway at the front of the house. It would certainly beat fighting for a car parking space in her street: a crowded suburb of Carminster. And how strange and wonderful to be surrounded by beautiful things all the time. She wondered if the owners ever got bored. What if the paintings weren’t their choice but handed down from a forgotten ancestor whose taste didn’t match theirs?