Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Georgie and Roberts disappear soon after – Roberts to arrange the meeting, and Georgie to ‘raid the Dressing Room’.
This, I’m told by Charles, is a chamber at the top of the house where clothes going back decades are stored.
‘I’ve no idea what’s even up there,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘There could be everything from a Jacobean ruff to the awful sailor suit they dressed me up in as a baby. I suspect Georgie is planning to put together splendid outfits for our fake party guests to wear.’
‘That’s not a bad idea, Charles – I’m sure there are some classy garments to choose from.’
He shrugs, and I can tell he is worried.
‘Are you okay with all of this?’ I say, placing my hand on his arm. ‘I feel like I’ve ambushed you with my crazy American energy.’
He looks at my hand and smiles reassuringly, his green eyes on mine.
‘No, please don’t think that. I suspect some crazy American energy could be exactly what we needed – a kick up the proverbial backside. To some extent Georgina was right – I am indeed tripping over my own importance, as she so charmingly put it. There’s no room for pride anymore, and I need to be clear-headed about it all. It’s just that right now, I’m still adjusting, and my head feels far from clear.’
He places his hand over mine, and the touch of his skin on my fingers suddenly feels overwhelming. June had talked a good game on the phone, but I’m still not sure I’m ready for any more ‘moments’.
He seems to sense my uncertainty, squeezes my hand, and puts a respectable distance between us. Or maybe I just imagined the whole thing…
‘I know there’s a lot to discuss,’ he says, ‘but I think I need a break from it before my head explodes. Would you join me for lunch, or a walk around the grounds? I promise not to foxtrot you through the flower beds, or anything at all inappropriate.’
There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes me doubt that, which I can’t deny is good for the ego. I agree to a walk, because it’s a beautiful day out there, and walking always helps me think.
Within a few moments he has me kitted out in Georgie’s rubber wellington boots, and has a small package of blankets and a flask of hot cocoa.
‘We’ll go to the tower,’ he tells me mysteriously, as we head out across the immaculate parkland. The snow here is untouched by anything other than birds, their tiny feet imprinted on the ground. I glance back at the house and see how splendid it looks. We need to get winter pictures, I decide, because this is a sensational view. The perfect spot for wedding pictures.
Huh , I think, as we make our way along virgin pathways, I just managed to think about a winter wedding in nothing but a professional manner . This is progress.
Eventually we reach our destination, and it is, quite simply, a tower. It’s a strange building, with a little square room at the bottom, and nothing else but stone steps.
‘What is this place?’ I ask, as I follow him upwards.
‘It’s a folly,’ he explains. ‘One of my ancestors built it. It’s just for show – to look pretty – but it’s fun, isn’t it? Like a turret that’s been taken from a castle and dumped in the middle of the grounds. No use at all, but I rather like it.’
At the very top is a plain stone bench, surrounded by round porthole-style windows cut into the bricks. It gives you a bird’s eye view of the whole estate, and I spend forever simply staring around in wonder. I see the whole place spread out before us, across the grand elevations of the manor, down the hill to the village.
‘Wow,’ I say, sitting next to him on the bench. ‘That is something you don’t see every day. We could get some great shots from up here.’
He covers our laps in the blankets, and pours us both a boiling hot cup of cocoa. I wrap my hands around it, and see the steam curl up in a lazy cloud against the cold air.
‘I’ll add it to the growing list of your great ideas. You can actually open the windows, though they might be a bit stiff. I haven’t been up here for a long time. Vanessa and I used it as a den. She’d sneak cigarettes, and I’d read, and sometimes we’d play cards. It was a refuge, I suppose. I’m not trying to make out we had anything other than a deeply privileged upbringing, but that doesn’t mean that everything was perfect. She, in particular, struggled. She was quite the rebel – went to her debutante ball in some punkish Vivienne Westwood creation, refused to date any of the eligible young men that were presented to her. She longed to escape, even more than I did.’
His eyes are distant, clearly lost in his memories. I don’t want to break the spell, but I quietly ask: ‘What happened to her? Your sister? I couldn’t find any pictures of her downstairs.’
He seems to be trying to decide how to respond, so I add: ‘If I’m prying, just tell me so. Nosy Yank alert.’
He smiles his killer smile, and says: ‘No, it’s fine. It’s hardly a secret – it was all over the newspapers at the time. Like I said, she had a wild streak. She never settled down, never married, never stopped being the rebel of the family. She drank, way too much, and the only real pleasure she seemed to get from our lifestyle was the garden, and the horses. She loved to ride.’
He pauses, sips some cocoa and grimaces when he scalds his lips.
‘Then one morning, she took Georgie out riding. This is about four years ago now, so Georgie was thirteen, and also loved horses. Unfortunately, we discovered later, Vanessa had already been drinking. In fact her blood test results showed she was absolutely sloshed. Her horse – obviously the biggest and wildest brute she could find – stumbled, and threw her. He was lamed, and ended up falling on top of Vanessa. She was trapped there. Crushed.’
I stare at him in horror, trying to imagine the scene – and the panic that a teenaged girl would have felt at being part of it. I picture a screaming woman, and a screaming horse, and a helpless thirteen-year-old in the middle of it all.
‘Was Georgie still with her?’ I ask, dreading his response.
‘Well, yes. Of course there was nothing she could do. She called for help – thank goodness for mobile phones, much as I sometimes hate the damned devices – but it took a while to arrive as they were deep at the far end of the estate. Basically, she had to sit there, holding her aunt’s hand, looking on while she died. It was… well, as you can imagine, it was traumatic to say the least. She’s never been the same since.’
I feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes, and slip my hand into his. He is talking about this in the calm and detached way of a man who is fighting back too much emotion – a man who has always had to fight back emotion.
‘Charles, I’m so sorry. For all of you. Has she had, I don’t know, therapy?’
‘Oh yes. Oodles of the stuff, and maybe it’s helped – maybe she’d be even more messed up without it, who knows? Her mother leaving two years after didn’t help matters, plus her issues at school. It’s… God, it’s so hard, Cassie. I loved my sister. In fact, when I was younger I idolised her, she was so full of spirit. I miss her, but I’m also still a little angry with her. It was desperately irresponsible of her to take Georgina out riding when she was intoxicated – she wasn’t only risking herself, she was risking my daughter. And even though not a hair on Georgie’s head was harmed, mentally it took its toll.’
‘I can understand that. And then I guess you feel guilty because you’re angry?’
He laces his fingers more firmly into mine, and smiles sadly.
‘Exactly that. It’s all a very toxic mix. Then into all of that we add Allegra’s condition – and every time she saw the pictures that used to be on the wall, it would confuse her. She’d assume Vanessa was about to walk into the room. It was upsetting for everyone, so we decided to remove them for the time being. Another thing I feel guilty about – erasing my sister’s memory.’
‘That’s not what you’ve done. You’re just trying to deal with a very bad situation. And moving a picture doesn’t erase someone. They live on in your mind, that’s where you keep them alive.’
‘Yes. You’re right, I know. And maybe I should remember her more kindly, exactly as she was when we were young. When we used to hide in here. She’d be listening to some dreadful music and filling the place with smoke, and I’d be lost in my books. There were happy times – it’s just a matter of clinging on to them.’
I can picture them so vividly, young but not carefree. Vanessa had been expected to marry well, possibly to boost the family coffers. He probably already knew his life wasn’t his own. I glance out of the round window, and look at the stunning house and the breathtaking grounds.
It’s not enough, I decide. It’s not enough to make anyone happy, no matter how beautiful it appears on the surface. We all carry burdens and responsibilities, we all have complications in our lives, but theirs were extreme. Too much for children to bear. I suspect that’s part of his current determination to change things – he doesn’t want his own daughter to be left with a world of problems.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, our hands still clasped together, drinking our chocolate and thinking our own thoughts. I want to say more, I want to comfort him, but I can’t quite find the right words. I see glimpses of the real him, beneath the surface image, but he is still somehow distant and untouchable – still wrapped up in what he thinks he should be. I wonder if he’s even cried, for his lost sister, his lost wife, the mother he is slowly watching slip away. The damage done to his daughter.
‘So,’ he says, his tone deliberately lighter. ‘Enough about our sad tales. Tell me yours. I suspect you have one.’ I suppose I do, but after what I’ve just heard, my own troubles seem silly and insignificant.
‘Kind of. I had my heart broken when a long term relationship ended. It’s nothing tragic, nothing that doesn’t happen to people every day. It’s just taking me a long time to heal.’
‘There are no rules about that, Cassie. The heart is a tender organ, easily bruised. What happened?’
I don’t really want to talk about, but I can hardly refuse when he has opened up to me.
I shrug, and say: ‘Well, I was jilted at the altar, if you must know.’
It sounds so simple when I put it like that – and I guess it is. When I spoke to Ryan about this it felt heavy, emotionally laden. It brought with it so much pain and so much suffering. Now, I have reduced it to one sentence – maybe this is part of the process. Maybe eventually, it won’t even deserve that.
He places his hands on either side of my cheeks, and turns me to face him. I am embarrassed, but he holds me steady. He looks me right in the eyes, and says: ‘All I can assume is that the man must have been the world’s biggest fool. Anyone would be lucky to have you.’
He drops a gentle kiss on my forehead, and I feel a tremble run through my body.
‘Thank you, Charles,’ I reply, not wanting the moment to end, but also scared of where it might lead. ‘Maybe one day I’ll actually believe that myself.’