Chapter 8
EIGHT
I feel like I’ve been transported to a movie set when we arrive at the manor. It’s only a few minutes’ drive away, high on a hill that overlooks the village down in the river valley. The golden stone buildings seem to shine in the moonlight as I gaze down at them, and I sigh at how magical it all is.
Charles drove me here in his slinky racing green Jaguar, which I’d climbed into with a few doubts. I was raised to be cautious of strangers, and here I am, driving off into the night with one. But he’s clearly genuine, Ryan knows him, and anyway, I’m desperate to see a real-life English manor house.
He was full of apologies as we curled our way through the winding hedgerows and one-track paths. Eventually, we passed through wrought-iron gates and along a wide gravel road.
I see the house from a distance, but when he pulls up in front of it and I climb out of the car, I still stand and stare in amazement at the building before me. It’s stunning, lit up by ground-level lights dotted around the grass. It’s three storeys high and built of the same honey-coloured stone as the village cottages. That’s where the similarities end, though, because this is a mansion – huge, imposing, studded with mullioned windows, the massive front door guarded by carved statues of lions on either side of the steps.
The rain has finally been banished, and the night air is surprisingly mild. I feel like I could gawk at this place for hours.
‘Oh, my,’ I mutter. ‘This is your home? How old is it? It’s so beautiful.’
‘It is,’ Charles replies, lifting my case from the car, ‘very beautiful – until you see the heating bill! There’s been a house here at least since the Domesday Book, but there’s nothing much left of that version, of course. What you see now is Tudor, and the rest evolved over time.’
‘And you’ve always lived here?’
‘Well, not since Tudor times – I hope I don’t look that old! But my family, in one form or another, yes. It’s survived civil war, two world wars, and numerous complicated family dynamics… but there’s been a Bancroft here for as long as anyone can remember.’
I nod, taking in the grand sweep of the surrounding gardens.
‘And… well, Ryan called you “Lordship”. Was he just being sarcastic?’
‘Ah. Well, he was being sarcastic – it’s his default setting – but technically, it is correct. I don’t use it in everyday life as it’s a bit of a mouthful, but my full title is Charles, Viscount Bancroft de St George.’
He grimaces slightly as he says it, as though he’s embarrassed at the formality, and then shrugs as we gaze at the house.
‘It’s all I’ve ever known,’ he says quietly. ‘And it’s not as perfect as it looks.’
‘I’m sure. Nothing ever is. But… tell me, Charles, if you’re a viscount, does that mean you’ve met?—’
‘The King? Well, yes, at formal events of state and the like. But it’s not like we’re bosom buddies.’
‘I was actually going to ask if you’d met Hugh Grant…’
There’s a little silence, and he laughs – loud, full, hearty. It relieves all of his stuffiness, and makes him look like a completely different person. A far happier one.
‘As it happens, yes. Once. Very nice chap.’
Now he’s mentioned the King, though, I can’t help asking: ‘Wait – so, are you, like, in line for the throne?’
‘Only if several hundred people have some very bad luck first. Including my uncle, who’s an earl. Now, are you ready to go inside? Maybe a nightcap, and then I’ll get you settled? You must be exhausted.’
Oddly, I’m not – in fact I feel energised by the strange twist my journey has taken. But I nod, and he politely gestures for me to go forward. As we approach the grand, formal front door, it swings open, and I jump back at the sight of the man who greets me.
He’s very tall, very bony, and about seven hundred years old. His face looks almost as aristocratic as Charles’s, and his bearing is stiff and regal. The effect is spoiled by the fact that he’s wearing a tatty plaid dressing gown, striped flannel pyjamas and moccasin-style slippers.
‘Ah, Lord Charles. You’re finally home. I thought you were avoiding me – you know it’s your turn to put the rubbish bins out!’
Both men laugh, and hug each other in a way that speaks of a long familiarity.
‘This is Roberts,’ Charles says, introducing us. ‘He’s pretty much a one-man band around here – butler, housekeeper, groundsman, all rolled into one. Roberts, this is Cassie – she’ll be staying with us for a while. She was accidentally booked into Whimsy.’
The two share a serious look, and Roberts replies: ‘Ah. Well, these things happen. And Cassie, he forgot to tell you about my most important role – making sure His Lordship here doesn’t get too big for his boots.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Roberts,’ I say, noticing that he raises an elegant eyebrow at my accent.
I follow them through into a grand hallway, dominated by a sweeping staircase that is lined with what I presume are family portraits of Bancrofts through the centuries. My eyes widen when I spot an actual, real-life suit of armour in the corner. I really want to whip out my phone and take a selfie for June, but I remind myself to keep it classy.
The men lead me through towards the left, and I immediately notice the difference in temperature. The room we find ourselves in is much warmer, and I remember his earlier comment about the heating bill. I suspect they only heat the parts of the house they actually use.
‘This is where we spend most of our time,’ Charles says, confirming my suspicions. ‘We call it the Blue Room, for obvious reasons.’
It is, in fact, obvious – the walls are all painted in differing shades of blue, and the windows are draped in midnight-blue velvet. The ceilings are high, decorated with ornate plaster-work carved into elaborate floral designs, all flowing around an extravagant chandelier. Despite the formality, it feels warm and lived-in, with comfortably shabby sofas and a roaring log fire in the huge hearth. There are bookshelves laden with paperbacks, and stacks of newspapers and magazines scattered over a large dining table.
‘Cassie, can I tempt you with a drink?’ Roberts says, making his way to an antique mahogany cabinet. ‘Whiskey, brandy, or our local delicacy, crème de badger?’
He sounds completely serious, but I narrow my eyes at him. Roberts is, I think, acting the maggot.
‘Are you messing with a poor American gal, Roberts?’ I ask.
‘Heaven forbid!’
‘I’ll take a small brandy, thank you.’
He nods, and pours drinks for all three of us. He definitely doesn’t have that Downton Abbey ‘below stairs’ feel to him – Roberts is clearly part of the family.
He holds up the crystal decanter, and announces: ‘Lady Georgina seems to have been sneaking the booze again, Charles.’
Charles rolls his eyes and explains: ‘Georgina is my daughter – although I sometimes wonder about that. I think it’s entirely possible my ex-wife had some kind of liaison with Satan. You’ll meet her in due course. I suggest adopting the brace position at all times.’
The words are harsh, but his tone is indulgent – Georgina is clearly the apple of his eye. We sit on the couches closest to the fire, and the two of them catch up. I half-heartedly listen as Charles describes his business meetings in London, and Roberts fills him in on ‘estate matters’.
I’m happy enough just looking around, noticing something new and interesting everywhere my eyes settle – a Bakelite phone with a rotary dial, a magnificent chess set with a game half-played, a giant dinner gong made of dimpled copper. It’s like sitting in an especially comfortable museum display.
‘Where’s the dog?’ I ask, when I spot a basket in one corner.
‘That was Jasper’s,’ replies Charles, staring at it in a slightly mournful way. ‘He was the last of a long line of Springer Spaniels, and sadly went to the great walkies in the sky a few months ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
‘No need to be. He was almost seventeen, and it was his time. I keep thinking we need a puppy to liven the place up, but it’s quite a commitment.’
‘True. I get stressed by keeping my house plants alive, never mind an actual living creature. Though I got herded by a dog called Eejit earlier today.’
‘Ah, the stray who knocks around the village?’ he says, smiling. ‘Poor thing seems happy enough, I suppose, but nobody can find his owner. No tag, microchip – nobody seems to be missing him.’
I nod, and start to ponder Eejit a little more deeply than I should. He seems like a good dog, a useful dog – why isn’t somebody missing him? Has he been thrown out, replaced by something younger and shinier? And am I even thinking about Eejit now, or just imposing my own feelings on a random pooch? Anyway, I remind myself, Eejit is, as Charles says, happy enough, even if he doesn’t have a conventional life.
I’m pulled out of my reverie when I hear Roberts say: ‘Alexa, play Ella Fitzgerald.’
Within seconds, the singer’s rich, bluesy voice fills the room, and I can’t keep the surprise from my face.
‘All mod cons, as you see,’ Roberts adds. ‘We even have flushing toilets, and a Netflix account.’
‘No television though?’
‘Of course not – that would be dreadfully common!’
I’m happy enough here, but I know I’m also not quite ready to sleep. I am not great at sleeping. Since things ended with He Who Shall Not Be Named, I’ve constantly struggled to drift off. At home I’ve got into the habit of walking every night before bed, and I’ve kept that up in England.
‘Would you mind,’ I ask, ‘if I went for a little stroll? Just around the outside of the house. I won’t wander off into the woods or anything stupid. I just… well, it’s part of my routine.’
I feel slightly embarrassed as I say this, as though I am admitting weakness, but Charles meets my eyes and says: ‘Not at all. We all have our routines, don’t we? The things that help us get through the day. Do you want any company, Cassie?’
I am tempted to say yes, because I am only flesh and blood. It’s been a long time since I took a night-time stroll with a handsome and attentive man, and I know it would be potentially quite romantic. But instead I smile gently, and say: ‘Thank you, but no. I won’t stay out for long, if you need to pull up the portcullis or anything.’
He grins at me, and replies: ‘Not a problem. Stick to the paths, and we’ll leave the lights on. Here, take this…’
He stands up, and pulls a large fleece jacket from a crammed coatrack. He helps me into it like the gentleman he is, and I am enveloped in that gorgeous cologne of his. I try not to sigh out loud, and make my farewells.
I head back outside, my feet crunching on the gravel as I wander around to the side of the house. More windows, more statues, more doors. The place is a warren. The lights play over the grass and the trees, casting shadows and creating a sense of mystery as I explore.
I find a vast formal garden laid out behind the house, with closely trimmed lawns and neat rows of bushes and plants. The landscaping flows up to the wide steps of a stone terrace. The room behind the floor-to-ceiling windows is in darkness, but the glimpses I catch suggest that it is enormous, possibly some kind of ballroom. The mansion looks even more magnificent from the back, and I snap a few pictures of the house and grounds, thinking that even my mom and Suzie will be impressed.
I continue my walk, seeing vegetable gardens, flower beds, a small orchard of apple and pear trees and a collection of buildings that look like tiny cottages from a fairy tale.
I’ve just decided to head back inside when I spot something intriguing tucked away at the side of the orchard. It’s a wooden door set into an old stone wall, and as I get closer I see that it is slightly ajar. I push it forward, feeling slightly guilty, and find myself inside the most amazing place.
It’s surrounded on all four sides by higgledy-piggledy walls that look as ancient as the land, and I can’t help reaching out to touch them, feeling the rough, aged brickwork against my palms, trying to imagine the lives of the people who built them.
Enclosed within their protective shield is what I can only describe as a secret garden. Unlike the rest of the place, it’s lush and wild, even in the darkness of a winter’s night. I use the torch on my phone, following a winding path through the greenery. There are tall pines that reach up to the stars, and a massive monkey puzzle tree. Rows of old tree stumps have been scattered about like impromptu chairs, and every inch of the place is covered in something weird and wonderful.
Much of it is dormant at this time of year, but the little hand-written tags tell me that I am walking through camellias and rhododendrons, Japanese dogwood, jasmines of every kind – trees and shrubs from every corner of the globe.
I sit on one of the tree stumps, snuggled deep in a jacket that smells like Charles, and gaze around, letting the peace and quiet settle over my mind. I feel like a zen master, perfectly at one with my surroundings, and just know that I am going to sleep well tonight. This is the most calming place I’ve ever been.
At least it is, right up until the point when a determined woman’s voice growls at me: ‘Stop right there! I have a shotgun, and I’m not afraid to use it!’
I jump up in terror, dropping my phone to the ground. The torch shines up into the face of my assailant, and it is not what I expect. She’s dressed in a large raincoat that dwarfs her petite frame, and her white-grey hair is loose and wild around a face that is a portrait of faded beauty. Even here, even with her pointing a gun at me, I can see that she is stunning – and also very, very upset.
I hold my hands up in the universal gesture of surrender, and stammer: ‘I’m s-s-sorry! I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be here! Please don’t shoot me!’
She shows no sign of relenting, and I wonder if I could make a run for it – do a duck and roll like they do in the movies, grab my phone and hide beneath the branches of the Chilean lantern tree.
‘Don’t move an inch!’ she shouts, her tone imperious. ‘I know what you’re about – poaching! Well, I’m not having it, you hear? You’re trespassing!’
‘I’m not poaching, I promise! Charles brought me here. Charles Bancroft? I was just with him and Roberts in the house, and I came for a walk, and I really, really don’t plan on stealing anything!’
I see a flicker of confusion pass over her aristocratic features, and her nostrils flare slightly.
‘Well… you would say that, wouldn’t you? Come on. Let’s be having you. We’ll soon see the truth of it. Quick march!’
She orders me in front of her, and stoops to pick up my phone, slipping it into her coat pocket. I’m terrified that she will accidentally fire, but she keeps her aim steady and gestures for me to move.
I don’t see that I have any choice, and even though my legs feel like Jell-O and my heart is racing, I stumble along in front of her. She points towards the wooden door with the barrel of the gun, and I pray that I don’t unintentionally do anything to spook her. I really don’t want to die like this – blasted to death in a foreign land by a woman who seems to think I’m here to illegally hunt game.
She mutters as we go, and yells at me when I trip, but eventually we reach the entrance to the mansion. I stand there before her, frozen on the spot, my hands still high.
‘Roberts!’ she screams at the top of her voice. ‘Phillip! Get out here now!’
Within seconds the big door swings open, and both men appear, silhouetted in the light of the lobby. I meet Charles’s eyes pleadingly, and they both leap into action. Roberts jumps straight between me and the crazy woman, blocking me physically with his body in a way that suggests her shotgun holds no fear for him.
Charles mutters a few apologetic words, and goes right to her side. I risk looking over my shoulder, and see him gently prising the gun from her clenched fingers.
‘Phillip!’ she says, gazing up at him. ‘You need to call the police – I found her in Vanessa’s secret garden, up to no good!’
‘It’s Charles, Mother. I’m Charles. And this is my guest, Cassie. She’s come to stay with us for a few days. She meant no harm, and I told her it was fine to look around. Shall we all go inside and have a warm drink?’
He has the gun in his hands now, and I see him do something with the mechanism, and then sag slightly as he says: ‘It’s not loaded.’
‘Of course it’s not bloody loaded!’ the woman snaps at him. ‘What do you think I am, a lunatic?’
Nobody answers that question, and she strides off ahead into the house. I have no idea what’s happening here, and I say quietly: ‘Who is Phillip? Is that another one of your names?’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘No. Phillip was my father. He’s been gone for six years. She’s… well, she’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. I’m so sorry that happened to you, Cassie. It’s really not been the greatest of days for you, has it?’
He sounds so shaken, so distressed, that I don’t have the heart to do anything but comfort him. I lay one hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it. I live in New York. I get held up at gunpoint every time I go out to buy milk.’
I’m very obviously joking, and he manages a wan smile of gratitude as we follow his mother inside. We find her in a massive kitchen at the back of the house, making a pot of tea as though nothing untoward just happened. My phone has been left out on the counter.
The huge room is dominated by a giant pine table that has been battered by generations of use, pots and pans hang from racks on the ceiling, an ancient looking Aga stove taking up most of one wall. I can imagine how busy it must have been in here in days gone by, when there was a full staff and house guests. Now, although everything is perfectly clean and tidy, it feels a little neglected. The appliances look old, the chairs are mismatched, and the dented fridge makes an alarmingly loud humming noise that seems to vibrate through the stone floor.
‘So, Cassie,’ the woman says as she prepares a full tea service – china cups and saucers, dainty squares of sugar in a bowl, tiny spoons for everyone – ‘my name is Allegra. I’m Charles’s mother.’
She sounds confident and assured, which I suspect comes from years of training in her social strata – but as she passes me my cup, her hand is trembling. Tea, as my dad had warned me, is the glue that holds the English together, and she is using this ritual as a way of calming herself down.
‘I can only apologise,’ she says, her voice straight out of The Crown , ‘for my uncouth behaviour. A terrible misunderstanding, and not the way I normally greet guests. So, are you one of Charles’s London friends?’
She says ‘London friends’ in a way that suggests they are an exotic species, as unexpected a sight in her kitchen as a snow leopard or a ring-tailed lemur.
‘Ah, no – in fact I only met him today, um… Lady Bancroft?’
‘We don’t use titles in the kitchen, dear.’
‘Right. Allegra. Well, Charles has been very kind.’
She raises an eyebrow, possibly at my accent, possibly at my words, and responds: ‘Well, yes. He’s a very kind boy, my Charles. Always has been. And there’ll be no judgement from me about the sleeping arrangements – you young people should grab life while you can!’
Although her pale skin is lined and creased, and she is maybe somewhere in her seventies, she is still incredibly beautiful. Her features are delicate, and her eyes a startling shade of blue that is so deep it’s almost violet. She’s looking curiously from Charles to myself, and I decide to let him handle that one.
‘No, Mother, it’s not like that at all. Cassie is staying with us because she came all the way from New York to stay in Whimsy Cottage.’
‘Why would she do that? Whimsy’s getting a make-over, isn’t it? That handsome young Ryan is supposed to be doing it, isn’t he?’
I see a muscle twitch in Charles’s jaw, and he answers: ‘He is, yes. But perhaps mistakenly, I left it available to book online.’
Everyone very politely sips their tea, and I see Allegra process the information.
‘Right. Well, that’ll be my fault then, won’t it? Nice of you to try and take the blame, darling, but I’m not so doolally that I don’t see what’s happened. I manage the booking system, and I’ve obviously stuffed things up. Cassie, in that case, double apologies – I drag you all the way from America to stay in a dilapidated cottage, and then hold you hostage at gunpoint. I’m like the opposite of your fairy godmother! I hope I get the chance to make it up to you over the next few days.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ I promise her. ‘I love an adventure.’
Of course, that is usually far from the truth – but as I stand here in this strange place with these strange people, I realise that I am enjoying myself. I am enduring circumstances that are out of my control, but for some reason I don’t feel the familiar spiral of anxiety and tension that usually accompanies me.
Allegra nods, and announces that it’s time for bed.
‘I’ll walk you up, ma’am,’ says Roberts, holding out his arm for her to link. ‘Make sure you don’t decide you’re a ninja and try to assassinate the chandeliers.’
‘You’re a dreadful man, Roberts,’ she says, haughtily.
‘I know, ma’am, I know.’
The two of them leave the room in an oddly stately way, like a couple heading to a ball, and Charles and I are alone. He leans back against the counter and sighs. His blond hair is ruffled, and his shoulders are slumped in defeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, once Allegra and Roberts are out of earshot. ‘This must be so hard for you.’
‘Yes, but not as hard as it is for her. A lot of the time she’s absolutely fine, her old self. It’s torture for a woman like her, who has always been in charge of her own destiny.’
‘Are you the only child she has? Are there any siblings to help you?’
‘Not anymore, no,’ he says, in a tone that closes down that line of conversation very firmly. He draws in a breath, stands up tall, and says: ‘Anyway. You really must be tired after all of that. I’ll show you to your room.’