The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets. Read online

  ‘And now they’re his, to do as he likes. Never forget it, Jo. It’s his property. In any case, does liking him matter? In this business one doesn’t always have to like one’s clients.’

  I shrugged and moved towards the door. ‘Of course it doesn’t matter. And what if the house does fall down? It must just happen to be one of England’s least known, most hidden architectural treasures, and stuffed with wonderful furniture – and it would cost the price of a Rembrandt to preserve. Who would want it, after all?’ I wondered why I was arguing with myself. I had answered my own question, hadn’t I? ‘Good night, Gerald. I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘I shall, Jo – I shall.’

  At the door I turned back. ‘Will I disturb you if I have my bath tonight? If we all take baths in the morning the hot water will probably run out. I’ll be very quiet ...’

  He squashed out his cigarette. ‘Nothing, dear Jo, would keep me awake tonight ...’

  I suddenly thought that I had never seen Gerald look old before. The idea frightened me. I couldn’t lose him now – not just after I had lost Vanessa. I think I would have gone and kissed him then, but for the fact that he might have guessed what was in my mind. So I just smiled at him. ‘Good night ...’ I was aware of a sense of unease growing upon me as I made my way back to the Spanish Woman’s room; outside the wind had strengthened; it slashed through the bare boughs of the oaks and beeches with their barely-budding green, and stippled the silver surface of the tarn with black; it had a desolate, soughing sound as it beat at the building, and all the old wood of this house creaked and shuddered like a living thing.

  I was back in the Spanish Woman’s room after bathing in the marble tub of Edwardian proportions when I realised that my handbag and my only cigarettes were downstairs. I had managed to cut down to ten cigarettes a day, but the last and best of them was something I looked forward to. It was too late now to disturb Gerald to ask for his. I went out to the gallery and looked down. The Condesa had gone upstairs, I knew, and probably, by now, Askew also. But the lights in the sconces still burned, fires had been newly made up. Except for the wind there was silence. What time was it? – after midnight by now. Would Tolson have gone to bed, and locked the drawing-room where I had left the cigarettes? I went downstairs, hesitating just a little at the thought of the dogs. There was no sight or sound of them. The door of the drawing-room opened at my touch, and the lights were still on, but someone had placed a guard against the fire. I found my handbag eventually, not on the sofa, where I believed I had left it, but on a table near the door; someone had been through the room – the used ashtrays were removed for washing, the cushions plumped up, and here also the fire had been banked, as if in an effort to keep its embers alive until the morning. Did they leave the lights on all night – or was turning them out Tolson’s last duty as he locked the rooms? I was beginning to be aware that even if Vanessa had appeared to be supremely indifferent to the value of what was housed here, Tolson was not.

  I was halfway across the hall when I saw her. She stood in the shadow thrown by the stairs, and for a second I wasn’t quite sure whether or not she was a child. Then she turned her head towards me; I saw a girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with a shower of silvery-blonde hair framing a face whose features had a childlike delicacy. She seemed very tiny, standing there in her short skirt and plain blouse, and she had the porcelain look of a figurine, a complexion which glowed even in the shadows, slender white hands, red lips that curved upwards in a half smile that seemed almost fixed, as if her face rarely wore any other expression. Now that she was aware of me she regarded me calmly, neither with curiosity, nor surprise; in that she was not at all childlike. I knew then that this was Jessica, Tolson’s granddaughter. I moved on towards the stairs, meaning to nod to her, and speak some greeting, and wondering why it was I, and not this slender, tiny girl, who should feel discomforted. I just caught myself on the verge of explaining my presence in the drawing-room at that hour.

  It was then that the door to the room which housed La Española was flung open. The murmur of voices I had caught as I crossed the hall was suddenly loud and sharp. It reached me now as an outburst of anger, as if the speaker were at the end of patience, a voice I remembered.

  ‘... had enough of it! I’m telling you now, Askew, if I so much as see a hair of one of those dogs on my land – whether it’s the land I rent from you, or my own – I’ll shoot it. Or all of them. I’m a farmer. I need my lambs. I’m damned if I’m going to have them slaughtered as playthings for your bloody dogs.’

  ‘Nat, you haven’t a shred of proof that these dogs are responsible for your dead lambs. In any case, I think it’s a matter to be taken up with Tolson. They’re locked in the house at night – and by no stretch of the imagination could they be called my dogs.’

  ‘They stopped being Tolson’s dogs the minute you set foot here – by what magic I’ll never fathom. So it’s you I’m giving warning to. You’re the owner of this house – you’re responsible.’

  ‘I think you’re being hasty and unreasonable, Nat. And what of these eagles of yours? Don’t they – ’

  Askew was cut short. ‘Shows what you know about golden eagles – or dogs! Just try looking at the difference between the damage a dog does and the way an eagle attacks. Eagles almost never kill lambs – they feed off the carcass as carrion.’

  After a pause Askew spoke again. ‘I accept your warning, Nat, but I refuse to believe these dogs are responsible. However ... look, won’t you sit down again? There are things we should talk about. Stay and have a drink with me – ’

  He was cut off again. ‘Some other time. I’ve things to see to now. When you feel like it, you come to my house. Or don’t you unbend with the locals? Any rate, it’ll be a long day before I sit comfortably in this hellish house!’

  ‘Nat – !’

  Now the door was flung wide, and closed again in almost a slam. I saw the angry face under the tow-coloured hair. He was wearing the same clothes he had had that afternoon when he had opened the gates to the valley of Thirlbeck. Then he had merely worn the look of an overworked man, weary, too busy to spend time in talk. Now he had the appearance of agitation, of being near desperation. If he remembered me he gave no sign of it. His glance swept over me almost as if I wasn’t there, and then on to the girl.

  ‘Nat,’ she said, also ignoring my presence, ‘there’s no need to carry on so. You’ve a right here as much as he has. This house is yours ...’

  ‘Oh, hush, Jess,’ he said impatiently. He was walking towards her. They both turned without another glance at me, and started down the passage that opened under the stairs. I caught the last of his words as the green-baize door swung closed. ‘Be a good girl, will you, and make me a cup of tea. I’ve got to go out and look at some ewes ...’ There was a homely acceptance between them that excluded this whole world of run-down grandeur on the other side of the door. They would drink their tea in the kitchen, and talk of practical, familiar things, and his voice would probably lose its edge of anger as he sat with this porcelain creature who seemed to know him so well. Unreasonably, I felt troubled by the exclusion.

  ‘Oh ... there you are ...’ I turned and looked at Askew. He stood gripping the doorframe, his lips trying to force a smile, but producing something that barely covered a grimace of pain. I could see the dogs standing behind him. He didn’t seem to think it strange that I was in my dressing gown, or that I was there at all. ‘Do me a favour, please? Go into the dining-room and bring me a brandy? It should be in one of the sideboards – and the glasses will be somewhere about. A large one ...’ He made to turn back into the room. ‘Oh, get one for yourself, of course ...’ He was gone from sight before I could reply.

  I found it easily enough. The glasses on a tray on the side-board were still warm from washing. I poured one large drink and carried it back to him.

  It didn’t seem possible that the exchange I had overheard could have produced such a reaction in him. He was stretched in the
chair behind the desk, as if trying to straighten his body from cramp, but then almost at once, he doubled over, clutching his stomach, his eyes closed. Sweat stood out on his forehead. I went to his side and set down the glass.

  ‘Lord Askew – are you ill? Shall I call ...?’ Whom would I call?

  He opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘Back already. Clever girl ...’ His hand was reaching for the brandy, and while he took the first long swallow, my fingers held it also; his hand felt terribly cold on mine, but his palm was sweating. He straightened and leaned back in the chair. Now he could control the glass himself, and I withdrew my hand.

  ‘Not supposed to do this. Terribly bad for me, the doctors say. And I shouldn’t be smoking, either. But they don’t tell me what to do in place of it. I’ve got some tablets upstairs, but it’s a hell of a long way upstairs.’

  ‘If you tell me where, I’ll get them.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll get there eventually. And in the meantime this’ – he gestured with the brandy goblet – ‘does as well as the tablet. They tell me I’m burning out what’s left of my stomach, but what’s the odds. To live and enjoy – or not to live at all? I’ve done what I’m doing now all my life. I don’t know how to do anything else.’ Then suddenly he seemed to focus fully on my face. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look so stricken. It’s an ulcer – a bloody great ulcer. It kicks up from time to time. Tonight is one of the times.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Ridiculous. You’ve never seen me before. Why should you be sorry?’

  ‘Sometimes one is.’

  ‘Do you like me? Is that why you’re sorry?’

  I took time to think, and in that instant all of Vanessa’s, of Gerald’s, of Hardy’s training was thrown out. ‘I like you for some things – and decidedly not for others. I’m sorry though, when people are in trouble. That man – he’s in trouble about his lambs. And you’re in trouble about your dogs. I’m sorry for both of you, and for the animals.’

  Now he took a large gulp of brandy, and made a grimace of pain and distaste. ‘I hope you’re not a little Miss Goody? Do you know who that was – that righteous farmer with the dead lambs?’

  ‘No, but of course I remember him. He was the one who let us in at the other end of the valley.’

  ‘That – that is a cousin, God knows how many times removed. Nat Birkett by name. He is also my heir.’

  ‘Your heir – but you really don’t know him? I heard you – ’

  ‘I know, I know. It isn’t his fault he’s next in line. He didn’t ask for what’s going to be thrust on him, and he doesn’t want it. This last week is the first time we’ve met. And it hasn’t been a happy occasion. The title and the entailed part of the estate – the nucleus of the land here in the valley, the Tolson farms, the house – they go to Nat Birkett whatever we both might wish otherwise. Of course he doesn’t want them. A pretty sorry inheritance. But I thought he’d come here tonight as a friendly gesture, and now I find it’s about his stupid lambs ...’ He gave a half laugh that was meant to cover any trace of regret he might have had, but it ended in a short gasp of pain. He gestured with the brandy glass. ‘Where’s yours? I’ll have another. We’ll drink to happier relations with my heir.’

  I shook my head. ‘No – and you shouldn’t be talking to me like this. What’s between you and Nat Birkett is your business. It can’t possibly be mine – ’

  At the same instant she spoke I became aware of her presence in the doorway. I didn’t know how long she had been there. ‘You are right, Miss Roswell. It isn’t your business ...’

  I smelled her perfume, watched the graceful sway of her body in a robe of amber silk, her long black hair tumbled over her face as she came towards us. She disregarded me completely as she went to Askew. ‘Roberto!’ Her voice shook a little, a mixture of anguish and anger. ‘Why do you do it?’ She leaned over him, peering down into his face, her fingers feeling for the pulse at his wrist. ‘Why do you do it?’ she repeated. She took the brandy glass from him. ‘There are other ways to kill yourself besides this madness.’ His face was white and beaded with sweat. He made a weary gesture as if to ward off her reproaches.

  ‘Carlota – don’t!’

  She turned and looked at me. ‘Go,’ she said, very simply. And I went.

  I had my cigarette by one of the dying fires, thinking of what I had done, and seen, and learned that day. But I was also very tired, and when I got into bed I felt the warmth of the hot-water bottles gratefully, and I was asleep almost at once. I hadn’t drawn the curtains, so I woke, startled, to the sense of a changed atmosphere. The straight, cold direct rays of the moon were gone. From the changing pattern of light I knew that clouds must be scudding swiftly across the valley. I heard the wind moan in the chimneys. What else did I hear? What did I think I saw? Was it the rustle of paper, or the sound of stiff petticoats moving, or perhaps the sound of the claws of a small dog, or a cat, against the big chair? Or was it simply mice behind the panelling? Did I actually see a small dark shape seated in the chair – hear the sigh of loneliness and waiting? No – both fires had died now to a bed of embers, giving little light; the moon was darkened. I saw nothing, I heard nothing. It was no more than the remembrance of a dream, imperfectly remembered. If the little Spanish Woman was there, I did not feel she resented my presence. Perhaps she only wanted recognition of herself. I slept again, easily and deeply.

  CHAPTER 3

  I

  She was in the room before I was properly awake; there was the faintest rattle of the spoon on the saucer as she put the tray on the long table in the window bay, and I opened my eyes to the sight of her silver-gilt hair and that tiny figure silhouetted against the blaze of morning light. She turned to me at once.

  ‘Hello – I’m Jessica. George Tolson is my grandfather. I expect Lord Askew told you I live here, and help my grandparents.’ She spoke with cheerful familiarity; not for her the reserve of her grandfather, though her voice was light and whispery, almost on the edge of excitement when there seemed nothing to be excited about.

  She surveyed the tray expertly. ‘I’ve put it over here. It’s never very comfortable having things to eat in bed, is it? At least I don’t think so. I hope you like the bread – I bake it myself. Grandmother’s getting on a bit, you know – she has bad arthritis. So I do most of the things upstairs here. Saves her a lot of walking. Do you like this room?’

  I wasn’t fully awake even then, but I struggled to find an answer – something to stem this rush of words. ‘Yes – I do. Very much.’

  ‘I love it.’ She was bending now and scooping the faded rose petals from the big Delft bowl, smelling them, and letting them flutter down from her doll-like hand. ‘This is my favourite room at Thirlbeck. I often come up here to read or study. I like to sit in the window here where I can see the tarn. I’ve written about it – how it looks in each season. It’s not very good poetry, but it will get better.’

  I knew then whose hand had kept this room so immaculate, kept the table at such a high polish, who had gathered the rose petals of last summer and let their scent linger on here. ‘I build up the fires in the winter and sit here and imagine how it must have been when she had this room.’

  ‘She – the Spanish Woman?’

  ‘Oh, of course. I can’t think of anyone else using this room, though I suppose they must have. Most of the Earls seem to have used the room opposite this in the other wing – the one Lord Askew is in now. The last Earl, his father, only moved into the room Mr Stanton has now after his wife died. This was meant to be one of the – well, one of the state rooms of the house, but they say that after the Spanish Woman died no one wanted to use it, and it was shut up for a long time. I expect they wanted to forget about her. Perhaps the third Earl felt a bit uneasy sleeping in her bed.’ She seemed to take it for granted that I must know the whole story.

  ‘I’ve slept here myself just to see what it was like. But then, I’ve tried out most of the rooms in the hou
se. This is the best.’

  She spoke of the place as if it was her own, and I suppose it often must have seemed that way. No one had lived here but her grandparents since she had been born. She had never set eyes on the present Earl until this past week. I sensed a slight impatience in her as she spoke of the Earl, as if she couldn’t wait for him to be gone again, for all of us to be gone, so that she could have back her own world – the world of her dreaming. She was moving around the room now, touching things with loving familiarity, the carving on one of the mantels, the pewter candlestick. Her eyes quickly skipped over my toilet things lying on the big chest, alien things to her, and possibly resented. She was like a piece of quicksilver, whispery, her eyes large and Dresden blue in translucent skin, her cheeks touched with the faint pink flush of a painted doll, her lips sweet and red. And none of it was artificial. As she moved round in the morning light she was clean and scrubbed, and entirely without make-up, and the colour of her hair was her own. She was just slightly fey, I thought, and she couldn’t resist this chance of an audience. She was brilliant too, Askew had said, and not strong enough to take up the scholarship at Cambridge. It seemed to me that she walked the delicate line of nervous tension, which threatened to spill over on the wrong side.

  And then she was around near the bed, and on her way to the door, ‘Well – I should drink your tea before it gets cold. I hope you like the bread.’ And she was smiling at me, but as if I were an object, not a person.

  ‘Mr Stanton – ’

  ‘Oh, I’ve taken tea to Mr Stanton. What a sweet man!’ The air of sophisticated judgement in the remark infuriated me – what business had she making comment on Gerald, whom she had never met before? And then I felt like laughing, because I recognised the jealousy in my own reaction. ‘Breakfast will be ready when you come down. Just help yourself ...’ She bestowed that enchanting, unreal smile upon me, and closed the door very softly.