Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Dressing the Bancroft Manor Christmas tree is like a military operation, with Allegra as commander-in-chief.
The tree is positioned in the grand lobby, and is so tall we need ladders to reach the top. Allegra is moving between the ground floor and the landing at the top of the stairs, where she can gaze down from the banister, get a bird’s eye view of matters and tell us loudly where we’re going wrong.
It’s actually a lot more fun than it sounds, and I’m now fairly used to hearing her cut-glass voice raised to screeching levels as she informs us we need ‘more lights to the left, less robins to the right!’
The whole place smells deliciously of pine needles, and Roberts has set up a CD player with traditional Christmas songs to put us in a festive mood.
The decorations themselves were packed away in wooden chests, which themselves smelled of pine as soon as their heavy lids were lifted. Inside we found a charming mix of old and new, battered and pristine, and I look on in delight as each new treasure is produced.
Some of them are clearly Victorian, and I have no idea how such delicate items have survived for all this time. I hold one of the beautifully painted glass baubles up to the light, admiring the way it seems to shimmer with an iridescent purple sheen.
‘There used to be twelve of those,’ Roberts informs me. ‘But over the years, there have been grave losses. Now we’re down to two. You can blame Lord Charles for the demise of three of them. He buried them in the vegetable patch, then dug them up the next day pretending they were ancient artefacts he’d discovered. Seemed very confused when they were in smithereens.’
He glances over at the man himself, who is on ladder-climbing duty and looking delightfully scruffed-up today – hair ruffled, a light golden stubble on his face.
Charles laughs, and replies: ‘What can I say? I was going through my Indiana Jones phase. I think I stole all the Champagne and wine glasses and set them up in the barn as well, so I could pretend I was finding the Holy Grail…’
‘You did do that!’ shouts Allegra from her spot on the landing. ‘And you almost blinded yourself trying to use a whip! Frightful child!’
‘Thank you, Mother, for that glowing endorsement. Now, am I going to be stuck up here all night? How are the upper branches looking?’
‘We need more!’ Georgina cries, holding up extra baubles. They’re a lot less classy than the Victorian glass, but in their own way just as sweet – obviously hand-made by children, little papier-maché angels with huge, cartoonish smiles and pipe cleaner arms. Some look older than others, some have two wings, some have one, and a couple have lost both. I suspect this is a family tradition – that each child makes their own contribution, and they’re kept and cherished for as long as possible.
Georgie passes them up one by one for her father to attach to the tree, and Allegra immediately shouts out that he needs to move them to a different spot. I spot a grimace from my angle, but he remains stoical and does as he is told.
It is a huge privilege to have been asked to join in with this particular Christmas ritual, and not one I’d expected. I wasn’t at all sure of the etiquette of my stay in the Bancroft home – at the end of the day, I am merely a paying guest who got lucky with a spectacular upgrade. I’d assumed I’d be spending evenings in my room – now much warmer thanks to Roberts’s interventions – to avoid intruding on their private time. But as I’m fast learning, this family might be posh but they are not sticklers for protocol.
This will be my fourth night here, and it’s been a lot of fun. When I got back from helping Ryan a few days ago, I was invited to bake with Roberts in the vast kitchen. Despite my fatigue, I loved every moment of whizzing, mixing and pounding, and between the two of us we made light work of producing a small feast.
‘I wonder if they’ll be as good as Eileen’s,’ I’d said, gazing at a tray of apple tarts.
‘Well, that would be expecting a miracle, Cassie,’ he’d replied as we started to clear up, ‘Mrs Devlin is in a class of her own. But these will keep us going for a few days, and I do find baking clears the mind wonderfully, don’t you?’
Last night was pronounced Games Night, and the big table in the Blue Room was cleared to make way for a variety of board games – an ancient version of Monopoly with London streets and landmarks, checkers, Buckaroo, and sets of Top Trump cards ranging from sports cars to Lord of the Rings to dinosaurs.
It got quite competitive, with Roberts and myself the only ones not taking it very seriously. Georgie was vicious at all of them, Charles was way too invested in Buckaroo, and every time Allegra lost any of the games, she’d fold her arms across her chest and say: ‘Well, it’s because of my Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?’ instead of admitting she was beaten. I guess if you’re going to be stuck with a terrible disease, you might as well use it to your advantage. It didn’t really work though, because Georgie would simply reply: ‘No it’s not! You’re just crap at games, always have been!’
It is loud and raucous and disrespectful, and not at all how I would have expected the British aristocracy to behave. I wonder if it’s this riotous round at Buckingham Palace?
Tonight, after a laid-back dinner in the kitchen, has been dominated by ‘doing’ the tree. I can tell that we’re nearing the end when Allegra shouts down at us: ‘All right, squadron, ready for the cherry on top!’
I assume she is simply using a turn of phrase – but no, there is an actual cherry. It’s huge, made of shiny red plastic, and is passed from Roberts to Georgie to Charles. He hooks it by its bright green string over the very top of the tree, and it dangles there, looking absolutely ridiculous and yet somehow also perfect.
Allegra trots down the stairs, Charles descends the ladder, and Roberts switches on the plug. The tree is transformed, the multiple strings of lights sparkling and twinkling, playing through the glass baubles and casting red-and-gold glimmers on the various bows, plaid ribbons, miniature reindeers and draping candles that we have spent the last hour hanging.
It is absolutely glorious, and all of us are grinning.
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ I say after a few moments of silent admiration, ‘why a cherry?’
‘No idea,’ Charles says, grinning. ‘It’s been there every Christmas I remember, though.’
‘Your great-grandfather brought it back with him from his travels in Australia,’ Allegra replies, her violet eyes misty. ‘He’d spent a month there, in Adelaide I think, on business. Apparently cherries are a thing at Christmas there, and this was being used as part of a display in a shop. He knew I’d love it, and persuaded the shopkeeper to part with it. I was only a little girl, and thought that cherry was the finest thing I’d ever seen. I remember it very vividly, despite the fact that this morning, I got up ready to take Rupert for a walk around the estate. Rupert was the Springer we had before Jasper, Cassie dear, so you can see why I found it confusing when neither of them was there to greet me. Every day is a grand adventure now.’
And every day brings repeated loss, I think, imagining how awful it must be to face up to such pain every time you remember that a loved one has actually gone. Suffering that emotional shock over and over again.
‘We should get a new puppy,’ Georgie announces firmly. ‘I promise I’d look after it!’
‘We’ll see,’ replies Charles. ‘Perhaps I’ll put the word out in the new year, and we’ll see if there’s a local litter we can go and visit.’
She throws her arms around her father, squealing in glee, and despite her height and age, she suddenly seems like a young child again.
‘Now,’ says Roberts, clapping his hands together, ‘I’ve got a buffet ready, as usual. I’ll lay it out in the Blue Room, and we can reconvene in an hour for movie night. I’ll bring the television through. The usual, I presume?’
Everyone nods enthusiastically, Roberts departing for the kitchen and the women heading upstairs, arm in arm. Charles and I are left, me still gazing in wonder at the tree.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I murmur. ‘Strange, but beautiful.’
‘Ah. That should be our family motto.’
‘What is your family motto?’
‘Something awful in Latin to do with defeating your enemies even if you pity them.’
‘Oh. Yeah. That does sound awful! What’s your usual movie night film?’
I’m entranced with all of their beautiful family traditions, and not at all missing my own – whatever it is they’re planning to screen, it will be a lot more fun than my wedding video, that’s for sure. Even if it’s the latest Saw flick.
‘Every year, after we do the tree, we watch Home Alone together.’ He shrugs and adds: ‘It’s a classic.’
I laugh out loud, because they’ve done it again – completely subverted my expectations. I’d thought maybe It’s A Wonderful Life , or one of the old versions of A Christmas Carol . Instead, it’s Kevin McCallister and his perilous paint cans.
‘You have a marvellous laugh,’ he says, gazing at me in a way that makes me both warm and self-conscious. ‘It always makes me want to join in.’
‘Thank you – and I seem to be doing a lot more of it since I came here, Charles.’
‘That’s good. All part of the Bancroft service. Now, as we have a little time, would you like to see the rest of the house? Maybe cast your professional eye over it?’
I nod enthusiastically, because I’ve been desperate for a tour. I’ve popped my head around a few corners, but didn’t want to be too invasive – this place might look like something out of a Jane Austen novel, but it is their family home after all.
I follow him around as he displays room after room, all of which are named after colours, all of which are magnificent but cold. It’s clear they’re not really used, and need a spot of love – but the potential is vast. There are big rooms, perfect for dinners, and smaller rooms that could be set up for meetings and talks. There’s one called the Amber Snug that is absolutely delightful – tiny by this building’s perspective, but still large enough to hold a group of ten. Then he shows me the library, which has been better cared for – free of dust, walls lined with glorious mahogany shelving, tables and chairs scattered about for reading.
‘This is gorgeous,’ I say, walking around and surveying it. ‘If you went for the writing classes, people would freak over this. You could sell packages to Americans for a small fortune.’
‘That’s excellent news. I wouldn’t mind a small fortune. This is one of my favourite rooms, to be honest. I have an office upstairs, but this is where I come to let my mind roam free, unencumbered by thoughts of rents and taxes and bills and duty.’
I’d never really considered how much of a responsibility running a place like this would be. Normal household tasks in my small apartment take up enough of my time, and that’s just for me. Charles is dealing with not only a historical legacy, but the burden of ensuring his family’s future. That can’t be easy.
I spot some books about ancient Rome on one of the tables, and ask: ‘Is that what you’re reading? You like history?’
‘I do,’ he says, running his hand over the covers fondly. ‘The Indiana Jones phase wasn’t really a phase. I studied Archaeology at Oxford, and I would have dearly loved to pursue it as a career. I did, for a few years, and I had the time of my life on digs in Zambia and Greece. Never happier than when I was grubbing around in a trench, searching for the perfect pot. But then my father’s health took a turn for the worse, and it was time to come home and grow up.’
‘That’s sad,’ I reply, hearing the yearning he is trying to hide. ‘Having to give up your own dreams like that.’
‘Maybe – but that’s all it was, a dream. And besides, this is hardly torture is it? By most people’s standards I lead a gilded existence, so I don’t want to complain. What about you? Did you always dream of being an event planner?’
I stroll around the shelves as we speak, stroking the spines of the ancient leather-bound texts, smiling at the odd unexpected romance novel crammed between the tomes. Allegra’s, probably – or maybe Roberts’s, who knows?
‘Well, kind of,’ I say. ‘I mean, I know it’s not a vocation like being a doctor or a lawyer, which my sister is. But I always loved organising things. Tea parties for my dolls, that kind of thing. I never really enjoyed going to parties, or being at the centre of my own, but I got a real kick out of making them happen. I love tending to all the little details that go into a great event. It’s hard work, but seeing people enjoy it, seeing people have a great time when everything goes well? That’s satisfying, in its own way. I might not save any lives, but I like to think I’ve created a few good memories.’
‘I’m sure you have, Cassie – and as I’m learning as I get older, and as I see my mother decline, creating memories is quite a gift. No matter how big your home, how impressive your title, at the end of the day it’s the memories that matter.’
He sounds melancholy, but then gives me smile so dazzling that it feels like the sun coming out.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘Enough lollygagging. I’ve saved the best ’til last – the ballroom.’
I’m not at all sure what lollygagging is, but I murmur the word as I follow him, enjoying the feel of it on my lips.
He leads us down another hallway, then sweeps open huge double doors, gesturing for me to go inside. At first I simply stand still and stare at my breath-taking surroundings. The room is vast, the high ceiling dotted with stunning chandeliers that sparkle into life when he presses a switch.
One entire side is made up of windows and doors leading out onto the terrace, with a to-die-for view of the landscaped gardens sweeping away into the distance. The night sky is so clear that every star looks like a jewel suspended in the air, and the moonlight turns the grass silver.
At the moment, it is largely bare, just a few items covered in dust cloths. I can tell that one of them is a grand piano, and when I pull another away I reveal an enormous cherry-wood cabinet that stretches almost as long as the wall it’s laid against.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I mutter, looking around me. It might be barren right now, but its bones are perfect. I can already see it restored to its rightful glory, a string quartet in one corner, tables with crisp white linen, vases of lilies scenting the air. I can picture a wedding, a party, a formal event – it’s big enough for anything at all. I can almost hear the chatter, feel the excitement, smell the flowers.
I walk to the middle of the room and start to spin, my arms out and flying, around and around and around until I’m giddy and giggling.
Charles stands and looks at me, a lopsided grin on his face as he watches my reaction.
‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘Nice?’ I repeat, letting my head steady. ‘It’s not nice . Hot chocolate is nice. Baby bunnies are nice. This is… staggering ! When was it last used?’
‘As a ballroom? Gosh, that’s going back a while. I vaguely remember there being an event when I was a child, maybe about nine or ten. I’m not sure what it was for, but it was packed – family, friends, everyone we’d ever met. But I was a kid, and the grown-ups all seemed frightfully stuffy and boring. I was more interested in sneaking off to watch TV, but was forced to endure it for an hour, all smartened up in my own suit and tie. My sister Vanessa – she was a few years older than me – was a terror all night, dressed up like a lady but acting like a monster. She spent the whole evening sneaking wine, then swiped a decanter of port to take back to her room.’
He smiles as she says this, but it is another puzzle for me to ponder. Allegra said she’d found me in ‘Vanessa’s secret garden’ when she first met me, but Charles also said he had no siblings. I can only imagine that for some reason, she is not part of their lives anymore. There are smatterings of framed family pictures in the Blue Room, but I haven’t as yet fully examined them – maybe I’ll find her there.
He seems to realise what he’s said, and quickly changes the subject. ‘So, this could work, couldn’t it? For events?’
‘Of course! It’s wonderful. In summer, everyone could spill out onto the terrace. In winter, you might get snow and it would look amazing. Everything about it works. It just needs a little spruce up. I think you could even just use it for dancing – you have that show here, don’t you, where celebrities learn how to foxtrot and tango? It’s called Dancing with the Stars back home, and it’s made the whole ballroom thing popular again.’
‘Yes, it’s Strictly Come Dancing here – beloved of millions. Maybe you’ve got a point. If we could get the funding, we could even perhaps hire some of the professionals, offer weekends with lessons and dance parties?’
‘Exactly! I’d be up for that – I’ve always wanted to learn to dance, and I’d feel like a princess if I got to do it in a room like this.’
‘I see. Well, Princess Cassie, your wish is my command – I happen to be an expert ballroom dancer. Part of my education. It’s an excellent way to clear your mind, I’ve found.’
He takes out his phone, and frowns in concentration as he looks at the screen. I see a smile break out on his face, and he presses play. I’d expected some strings or something classical, but instead it’s a song that I quickly recognise from one of the Twilight films, ‘A Thousand Years’ by Christina Perri. It’s deliciously tender, and I feel a little thrill run up my spine as it begins.
I was technically way too old for the Twilight films when they came out, but I’d been sucked into the book series a few years earlier, when I was still clinging to my teens. The movies might not be considered cool these days, but they’re a guilty pleasure, and I can’t help feeling swept away in the music.
Charles moves closer, and tells me we’re going to try a waltz, and that he’s put the music on repeat so we have plenty of time. His right hand goes to my back, and he gently pulls me close. He takes my left hand, and places it up on his shoulder, and holds my other one high.
He grins at me, and says: ‘We’re in hold. You’ve made it through step one.’
‘The trouble will start when I move,’ I reply, laughing.
I’ve watched the show, and I’ve danced around on my dad’s feet – though not for many years obviously – so I have a rough idea of what the waltz is, and know that it is done to counts of three. Still, watching it and doing it are two very different things.
‘Just trust me,’ he says, ‘and follow my lead. I’m going to move my left foot forward, so you move yours back. Then sideways with my right, and we close the gap. So, left forward, side right, close, then the opposite. Whatever I do, you mirror it. It’s a lot less complicated then it sounds, honestly. Don’t forget to breathe!’
I look up into his deep green eyes, and wonder if breathing might be too tall an order. There is something so intimate about this, the way our bodies are pressed together, the touch of his fingers against mine. He is holding me firmly, so I feel safe and secure, and I am swamped with the delicious smell of his cologne.
He waits for the right beat in the song, and we begin. To start with I stare at my feet, and inevitably make mistakes. He deftly avoids stepping on my toes even when my foot is in the wrong place, and laughs off every error.
‘Look up,’ he says, ‘not down. Or am I so unbearable?’
No, I think, as I lift my gaze. Far from unbearable. In fact he’s gorgeous, and I am only human, and I am starting to feel warm for all kinds of reasons.
‘That’s it,’ he says, as we move around the room, ‘you’re getting the hang of it. Just stay relaxed, and listen to your body.’
I’m not sure my body would be talking any sense right now, even if I was capable of listening to it. I am being whirled around an actual ballroom in an English manor house, clasped in the arms of a very handsome man, listening to incredibly romantic music. My feet seem to have disconnected from my mind and taken on a life of their own – moving with more confidence, trusting my partner, letting him guide me as we twirl together.
I’m not sure how long we are dancing for, or what time it is in the real world, because I am lost in this one – the world where love can last for a thousand years. My eyes are locked on his, and his hand is solid and present on my back, and our fingers are curled together – whatever our other worries, we are both lost in this one magical moment.
He seems to pull me even closer, or maybe it’s me who moves – but suddenly there is no distance between us, and my face lies against his chest. I feel his touch move higher, flowing slowly and smoothly up my back until his fingers tangle into my hair.
We slow, settling in the centre of the room, abandoning the waltz hold, now barely moving – just the tiniest of sways, locked into each other’s arms. My hands are around his firm shoulders, my hips against his, and I daren’t look up. I know that if I look up, I will want him to kiss me. And if he doesn’t kiss me, the spell will be broken – and I never want this spell to be broken.
I sigh, lean into him and the music, inhaling his scent and wondering if there is a way to make this dance last for the rest of my life.
‘Hey!’ someone yells. ‘Look, it’s snowing!’
I jolt back into reality, and my eyes blink rapidly, as though I’m waking up from a dream. It’s Georgie, I realise after a few seconds. It’s Georgie, and she is running excitedly past us and towards the terrace.
‘Stop doing old people dancing, and come and see!’ she shouts over her shoulder, so wrapped up in her own excitement that she doesn’t notice how wrapped up her father and I are in each other.
He smiles down at me, his lips quirking in a question, and he slowly moves his hands away from me. I immediately miss them, and smile back. I wonder if he’s going to turn into a stereotypical English gentleman and stammer an apology, but the expression on his face is more intrigued than sorry.
‘See – I told you it was a good way to clear your mind. I don’t know about you, but my mind was definitely not in control for a few moments there.’
‘Mine neither. In fact I don’t think I have a mind right now. Thank you – that was… special. My first real waltz.’
He laughs, and replies: ‘I’m not sure either of is quite ready for the rumba! Come on, we’d better go and see what she’s so excited about.’
We find Georgie outside, doing her own dance – arms extended, spinning and jumping, shrieking in delight at the thick flurries of snow that are pouring down on us. Her hair is already covered in it, and she looks genuinely overjoyed at this simple act of nature.
‘Snow!’ she yells. ‘Snow snow snow snow snow! I bloody love snow!’
I look up, see the brilliant white of the snowflakes falling from the starlit sky, feel them fall on my upturned face.
Is any of this real?