Chapter 3
Juliet rushed back to the house before she could bump into any more handsome strangers. It wasn’t unusual to meet people you didn’t know at Feywood: her father, Rousseau, never seemed to mind who stayed, or for how long, just as long as they were entertaining, intelligent company at mealtimes and didn’t ask too much in between. But this particular visitor had got under her skin, with his amused eyes and solicitous attitude. Well…maybe it was that after Toby and his controlling ways she didn’t need or want any man trying to take care of her. She would look after herself. She ran up the stairs to her room, turning her face from the enormous self-portrait of her mother that hung on the landing, overlooking the hall. When she had lived at Feywood, she had developed the habit of looking away from it, and the movement had become automatic.
Once in her room, she shut the door thankfully and stepped into the shower, letting the hot needles of water rain down on her head and body, driving away the remains of the hangover. She wondered again what the meeting her father had called could be about, and why he hadn’t already just told them whatever it was. Any issues, even quite personal ones, were usually brought up at the supper table and vigorously dissected by whoever was there that evening, not guarded and saved for a formal family meeting. She cast her mind back to one particularly memorable time about three years ago, when she had been visiting Feywood. Everyone knew that Martha had a whopping crush on the man who was sitting for her, a particularly nasty specimen who ran some boring but successful business in Oxford, maintaining and hiring out dress clothes and robes to students and staff at the university. He had seen enough of the oil paintings in the different colleges that he fancied one of himself to put in his shop and make him feel like he belonged and had contacted Martha to commission her. For some reason, she had fallen for him, hard, while he behaved like Lord Bountiful because he had the money and she merely had a dazzling, God-given talent. Martha hadn’t shared her feelings with her family and her sisters had been unusually tactful, although they had kept a close eye on the situation just in case they needed to step in and prevent anything more than the regular hurt brought by unrequited love. But their father had, one day, simply announced at supper:
‘So, is there anything actually going on with you and that Ralph?’
Their mother who, Juliet remembered, had been feeling particularly unkind that day, had chimed in:
‘He can’t have failed to notice your cow eyes around him, darling. I think he would have reciprocated by now if he was going to. It’s probably time to move on.’
As poor Martha had got redder and redder, her parents had continued, her father oblivious to his daughter’s discomfort as he merrily recalled stories of friends who had been similarly spurned, doubtless thinking he was somehow being supportive, her mother enjoying watching Martha squirm. It had been Juliet who had stepped in and stopped the conversation.
‘Mum, Dad, I don’t think Martha wants to talk about it. Leave her alone.’
But she had not been in time to stop her sister’s hot tears of humiliation, which sent her rushing from the table before pudding was eaten.
‘Look what you’ve done now,’ her mother had said, managing to deflect attention from her own contribution and make it look like Juliet’s fault that Martha had fled.
As Juliet turned off the water and grabbed a towel, the familiar feelings of impotence in the face of her mother’s brazenness, fury at her own weakness in feeling too afraid to defend herself and guilt at the relief that her mother was dead battled for precedence.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said aloud, picking up her toothbrush and feeling glad that no one was there to hear her talking to herself again. ‘Don’t let her get to you.’
Used to pushing away uncomfortable feelings, she soon managed to change the subject in her head, instead thinking about the week in London that awaited her once she could get away from Feywood. Two industry parties, a dinner and a gallery opening, all of which would be full of familiar faces, hopefully none of them Toby’s. He worked in the advertising department of the newspaper she drew cartoons for, so their paths crossed more often than she would have liked. Even without him there, none of the events was something to look forward to, in her opinion, but they would keep her busy and distracted when she wasn’t working, and she could keep being the Juliet Carlisle that her London friends seemed to want. It had served her well enough up till now and would be particularly useful this week, to stop her thinking any more profoundly about what she actually wanted to do – and be – now she had turned thirty.
Pulling on her smart black trousers and a soft black cashmere jumper she had picked up for a few pounds in a charity shop, she surveyed herself in the mirror. Not even the people she knew in London would be able to guess how often she bought clothes second-hand, and she thanked her artist’s eye for her ability to spot a quality bargain. The androgynous clothes, sharp haircut and lack of make-up that had become her signature look was easy to hide behind, but, not for the first time, the thought crept in that some comfortable joggers and a cosy fleece would be good to crawl into, especially on this hangover. But it would arouse comment, and Juliet couldn’t bear that, even – or maybe especially – from her own family.
She left the room and closed the door softly behind her, walked along the threadbare deep green carpet towards the stairs and rested her hand lightly on the banister, its wood glowing with centuries of hands slipping along its polished smoothness.
‘Are y’all ready for this?’ came a voice behind her, and she turned to see Frankie grinning, looking almost as dishevelled as she had earlier, but at least dressed. In that instant, Martha also appeared, face scrubbed and her hair pulled back, wearing one of her denim smocks that left no clue as to her figure underneath.
‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’
Martha nudged Frankie and the three sisters began to go downstairs. Juliet said nothing. She had a lurking feeling in the pit of her stomach that it could be very bad indeed.
‘Ah, there you all are, my dear girls, come in and sit down.’
Rousseau beamed at them and ushered them into his study. Sylvia was already there, perched on the edge of a chair that had been brought in from the dining room, looking worried. Will, the estate manager, was also present, standing awkwardly beside her father’s revolving leather desk chair. Juliet took a seat in her favourite elderly bucket chair, which had collapsed springs and cocooned you gently in its worn velvet arms. It faced both the studio section of the room and the windows, so she could see straight down the sweeping lawns to the wood at the bottom that gave the house its name. Frankie and Martha took each end of the faded Chesterfield, both tucking their feet up underneath them. The study was a wonderful room which ran along half of the back of the large house and, despite its name, was actually part-office and part-library, with a full half of it used as Rousseau’s studio. A renowned sculptor, it was here that he created his pieces which ended up in museums, galleries and private collections around the world. Juliet saw now that he was working on a female figure, rising fluidly from a block of marble and miraculously taking on soft curves from the hard material.
‘Ah, Léo, there you are, good, now we can get started.’
Juliet reluctantly drew her eyes from the sculpture towards the door. What was he doing here? If it were possible, she thought, he looked even more pleased with himself than he had done earlier. He glanced over at her and gave her a smile and a small wave, but she slid her eyes away and over to her father, who was ready to speak.
‘Right, I’m sorry to bring everyone together in this Agatha Christie-like gathering, but this is an important matter which involves us all. Luckily, there is no murderer to unmask.’ He beamed round in what Juliet thought was an unusually unsure way, receiving some watery smiles in return. He continued hastily, ‘Although you have all already met him, I would like to formally introduce you to Léo Brodeur, who has come to run the cookery school with Sylvia. I hope you will make him welcome, especially as he has rooms here in the house, in the new wing.’
There was a murmur of greeting and Léo nodded around vaguely at everybody. Juliet averted her eyes and thought, not for the first time, how very British it was to name that part of the house ‘new’ when it was a good two hundred years old. New at some point, she supposed, and the name had stuck. Rousseau went on:
‘Well, it seems that, unfortunately, Feywood finds herself in some financial difficulty.’
Juliet heard Martha’s sharp intake of breath and realised that her sister had been right. Were things really so bad? Her eyes travelled up to the flaking, yellowing paint above the window, which had been used to cover the effects of a water leak about ten years ago, then to the crumbling wooden window frames. Maybe they were.
‘I am very thankful for Will here, who has been doing some clever number crunching. It has revealed that although the situation is not yet desperate, it may well be soon.’
Frankie interrupted.
‘But Dad, how can there be money problems? I mean, Feywood isn’t mortgaged, you’re still working, Martha and I both give you rent, and the cookery school will help, once it gets going, surely?’
There was a silence as their father stared miserably at the edge of his desk. Juliet wished he would just get on and tell them what was happening, but knew he loathed this kind of conversation. He would much prefer everything always just to be…pleasant. Will spoke up.
‘Rousseau, would it help if I explained?’
Their father nodded gratefully and relaxed fractionally into his chair.
‘Right. Well, Frankie, you’re correct that Feywood isn’t mortgaged, but I’m afraid that your mother took out rather a large loan – to the tune of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds – when she was very unwell, partly for medical bills and partly for…’
He paused, uncomfortable. Juliet could feel the distress rising inside her. She knew she was about to say something she’d regret, but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘Partly to buy a load of expensive stuff to make herself feel better about dying, and to hell with us having to deal with the fallout once she had gone?’
There was a shocked silence, and Léo’s hand flew to his chest.
‘Don’t look at me as if I’m some kind of monster, you didn’t know her,’ said Juliet, glaring darkly at him. ‘Shopping was always her favourite medicine, even for a slight sniffle.’
He held his hands up in surrender.
‘I beg your pardon, Juliet, I did not mean to offend you.’
She put her face in her hands and groaned.
‘So, is that it then, the loan, or is there more?’
‘More, I’m afraid, and it gets more serious. The roof, as you may already know, has been patched up repeatedly over the past thirty years, and it has now reached the stage where it desperately needs to be replaced. On a house of this size and age, with its listed status and the requirement for specialist materials, we are looking at costs of around one hundred thousand pounds. Many of the window frames also need to be replaced and most of the electrics haven’t been updated since the 1930s.’
Juliet’s older sister was the first to speak.
‘How are you going to find that sort of money? Can we help?’
‘Bless you, Martha.’ Their father was ready to take the reins again, noticed Juliet, now that the really bad news had been delivered. ‘Yes, you girls will all have to help, we will all need to. The cookery school is very close to opening, and that should bring in good revenue, especially now that Léo is on board. We have already arranged that with Sylvia, thank you.’
‘Of course, Rousseau. I grew up here too; I couldn’t bear to see it sold.’
She reached over to squeeze her brother’s hand, and he continued.
‘Martha, Frankie, you are already living here and paying rent and other costs. If you can make any other small contributions, it would help us chip away at the problem and show the bank that we are doing our best. Any help you can give with the cookery school guests would also be greatly appreciated.’
‘Yes,’ said Sylvia. ‘The four rooms on the east side that overlook the gardens are nearly ready for guests; well…they’re not quite five-star luxury, but they’re clean and we’ve moved out all the clutter and put in some decent furniture from other rooms. We can sleep a maximum of eight, although we don’t yet have any parties that big on the books. It would make a huge difference if you could help look after the housekeeping, rather than us having to pay Agnes or anyone else. They won’t need more than some dusting, the bathrooms kept clean and sheets and towels changing.’
Both girls nodded sombrely, their faces creased with concern and tears welling in Martha’s eyes.
‘But what can I do?’ asked Juliet. ‘I don’t want to lose Feywood, but I have no money. Nothing really.’ She looked around at the strained faces, all now turned towards her. ‘I don’t see how I can help,’ she added in a small voice, already knowing the answer. Nobody spoke. To her dismay, she felt a lump forming in her throat and tears in her eyes. ‘I’ll have to come back, won’t I?’ she whispered. ‘Work from here and give you rent, help with the guests.’
She tensed every muscle in her body, pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and summoned up all her willpower to stop the hateful tears from falling. She never, never cried in front of anyone else, not anymore, and had no intention of starting now. It was Martha who spoke next, her voice gentle.
‘That’s not so bad, is it, Jools? You always say you have nothing left over at the end of the month with the rent you pay in London, and you could work from home. We’re not so far from the city if you need to go back for meetings.’
‘Yes, join us here in the sticks,’ interrupted Frankie. ‘We can all huddle over a single candle together at night – very Dickensian.’
Léo laughed and Juliet glared at him, then turned to her sister, half-furious, half-despairing.
‘Oh, hilarious – I suppose this is funny for you, but it’s my entire life you’re talking about upending.’
Her voice cracked and she clamped her mouth shut. What more was there to say anyway?
Kind Will stepped in again, giving her a chance to compose herself.
‘Juliet, we’re so sorry that it has come to this. We do have a suggestion for returning to Feywood that might make things easier.’
Not trusting herself to speak, Juliet nodded. Return to Feywood, she thought, panic rising hotly through her body. She couldn’t bear it. To be sequestered here again, to lose what she had made of herself, what she had become, for better or worse. Wouldn’t it mean being a child again, losing her prized freedom? Maybe not, with her mother dead…
A voice cut into her thoughts, her Aunt Sylvia’s kind voice.
‘Juliet, dear, Rousseau has already discussed this with me, and I suggested that you might like to look at the space above the cookery school, the old haylofts from when it was a stable? There are roof windows so it’s bright and it’s warm and clean with running water, so with a few alterations you could use it to live and work in, if you liked.’
The softness and concern in her aunt’s voice threatened to tip Juliet over the edge, and she couldn’t, just couldn’t, cry in front of all these people. She had no idea how she felt, and she certainly didn’t want them to start filling in the blanks before she’d had a chance to think. She stood up abruptly, preferring to look rude over seeming vulnerable or, God forbid, pitiable.
‘It’s fine. I understand. I’ll think about it.’
She turned and left the room, then fled up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to her childhood room, where she made straight for the bathroom – the only room where she was confident of a secure lock and relative privacy – and finally released the sobs of fear and helplessness and, yes, of relief.
After Juliet had left the room, it was Rousseau who broke the ensuing silence, his voice full of sadness.
‘Poor Juliet, so miserable at the thought of coming back to Feywood, but I don’t understand why.’
His face fleetingly looked like that of a child, crumpled in confusion.
‘I think it’s such a lovely place to live – you do too, don’t you, girls? You seem happy here.’
Léo watched as Martha and Frankie exchanged glances. Clearly more to know here than Rousseau realises, he thought. It was Martha who spoke.
‘Yes, Dad, of course we are, but it’s…very different for Juliet.’
‘Different? But why? Haven’t you all always been welcome?’
‘Yes, but…you know that she and Mum struggled to get on, and I think that moving to London was her way of?—’
‘Of having some sort of teenage rebellion, a bit late, I should say,’ her father interrupted. ‘Well, that’s out of the way now, and with Lilith gone, I don’t know what she’s making such a fuss about.’
He clicked his tongue impatiently and cast a glance towards his sculpture. Léo realised that the man had had enough of the discussion and needed to work; he recognised the urge himself. He turned to cooking for all sorts of reasons, not all of them for professional progress: it could be soothing, to dissolve anger, to clear the mind and help him find fresh perspective. He sympathised with this great sculptor, who needed to work more than to deal with his petulant middle daughter, who was doubtless still working off that hangover which had made her look so ravaged this morning in the garden. He shook off the creeping memory of how attractive she had looked, regardless, and of how intrigued he was by her complicated reactions to her family home. Complex women had always been a weakness of his, however bad they were for him.
‘Mr Carlisle…’
‘Please, Rousseau.’
‘Merci. Rousseau. I think all will work itself out. We will go now and let you work. Sylvia, I must show you some of my ideas for the vegan entrées we want to teach.’
Sylvia smiled gratefully at him.
‘You head back, Léo, and I’ll catch you up. You girls go and find your sister, she needs your support.’
The room emptied behind him as Léo strode out and through the house, exiting through the large kitchen to walk across to the old stable block which had been converted into Sylvia’s – and now his – cooking school. As he crunched along the gravel path, he shook his head in anger at Juliet’s reaction to the news.
Selfish woman. Doesn’t she understand that until now she has been given far too much, and that what she is being offered is incredible? Who could resent returning to this wonderful house, being given living quarters, a studio, food? She’s happy enough to use it as a party venue, but it’s not good enough for her to live in? But what was it her sisters had said about Juliet’s relationship with their mother? Not enough to understand, but enough to be an interesting puzzle. And the tears that had sprung to her eyes were intriguing. Maybe there was more to this Juliet than there seemed?
He reached the door of the school and stepped into its familiar warmth, the centuries-old flagstones burnished and worn beneath his feet, the smell of garlic and fresh basil in the air from the salad he had been developing earlier that day. He had been up since dawn after struggling to sleep, as usual, his mind relentlessly turning over the events of the past six months, digging and worrying away to see if there was anything he could have done differently, anything that could have saved such fallout and protected him from blame and humiliation, that had eventually forced him to flee France for this secluded country house where there was not a paparazzo poking his camera through every window. As he removed a smooth ball of pastry from the fridge and began swiftly working to create a crust for his experimental filling – he had raided the kitchen garden and beyond for pansies, phlox and lilac flowers to complement the goat’s cheese and rainbow radishes – his anger diminished, as he had known it would. She may well be selfish and spoiled, this Juliet, but she was very pretty indeed with her sharp hair and her sulky face and that mysterious body under the tailored, mannish clothes. Maybe having her living upstairs would not be such a terrible thing.