Prologue #2
In response he opened his door and went around to the boot. She followed him in time to see him lifting out two pairs of green wellingtons. ‘Put these on, Cinderella,’ he said, offering her the smaller ones.
She looked at them. She’d never owned wellingtons, never worn a pair.
‘Go on,’ he said, shucking off his sandals, ‘and bring your fleece too.’
‘My fleece? I’ll be too hot.’
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You’ll be glad of it.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Surprise,’ he said, and she knew she’d get no more, so she shook off her flip-flops and wriggled her bare feet into the wellingtons, which made her feel like she was dressing for a part in a play.
They must look wonderful with her yellow sundress.
She got her blue fleece and tied it loosely around her waist.
He took a walking stick from the boot before he closed it.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Wait and see.’
He didn’t bother locking the car. Nobody locked cars or houses around here. He pushed open one of the gates, making it screech, then took her hand and led her through.
‘Damien, this is private property,’ she said, but not with any real qualms. The house was clearly empty. ‘Who owns it?’
‘A family called Chance,’ he told her. ‘The last resident died about thirty years ago. Apparently he was a bit of a recluse.’
They stepped over creeping briars and around clumps of nettles in the driveway, and she understood the wellingtons. ‘How old is it?’
‘Nearly two hundred years. It’s called Chance House.’
He looked as if he was about to add something else, but didn’t.
She was aware of a wonderful sense of peace, even as the air hummed with things that darted and fluttered and flew about them, and birds that chirped loudly in the trees flanking the building, and various rustlings from the undergrowth.
No traffic: that was it. No sound of cars from the road.
She could imagine the recluse sitting inside all on his own, savouring the uninterrupted sounds of nature.
They approached the house and he made to bring her around the side, but she eased her hand from his – ‘Hang on’ – and stepped up to a bay window.
She cupped her hands the better to make out whatever was within, but saw only darkness.
She tried the adjoining window, also a bay, and still saw nothing.
‘The shutters might be closed,’ he said.
Chance House. Nice name. She loved these big old houses, full of history. She wished she’d known it in its heyday. She imagined high ceilings, covings and architraves, a sweeping marble staircase, giant fireplaces, lots of heavy mahogany furniture that gleamed with beeswax.
Maybe there had been a butler. Maybe a maid or two, and a cook. Maybe the Chance family had dressed for dinner, the meal attended by a silent footman.
Maybe she’d seen too much Downton Abbey.
‘You’ll need to put on your fleece now,’ he said as they rounded the corner of the house.
On seeing the dense overgrowth, she pulled on her fleece and zipped it up.
He went ahead of her, using his stick to beat at the vegetation and create a path through it, but every now and again a rogue bramble would pull at Lydia’s sleeve.
‘Hang on to me,’ he said, ‘and watch your footing.’ She grabbed a handful of his shirt and stumbled along behind him over bumps and dips in the ground for what seemed like a long time. ‘Do we know where we’re going?’
‘I do,’ he answered. ‘Trust me’ – and all of a sudden, above the birdsong, she thought she heard the wash of the sea somewhere ahead. They must be close to it, walking in the direction they were going.
Damien gave a final whack – and she gasped as they emerged to a scene she hadn’t imagined. Beyond a low rusted railing the land fell a few feet to a small sandy cove, and beyond the cove was the ocean, huge and breathtaking, its edge rushing onto the sand and running away again.
‘A private beach,’ he said. ‘A few of us used to swim here as teenagers, until the garden got too overgrown. I thought you’d like it.’
She loved it. It was a little haven. She imagined a round table and two chairs on the sand. The perfect setting, on a summer’s evening with a glass of wine, to watch the sun slip below the horizon.
At one end of the railing was a gap that allowed access to a set of ramshackle wooden steps that led down to the beach. They negotiated the steps carefully and stood together, the water lapping just metres away.
Something, a bolt of excitement, took hold of Lydia.
They were trespassers on a private beach.
Like all forbidden things, it was thrilling.
She unzipped her fleece and pulled it off.
She shook her feet out of the wellingtons and strode to the water, the cool touch of it refreshing after the confinement of the rubber.
She gathered up the hem of her dress and took another step, and another.
With the water at her knees she kicked out, and a spray leapt into the air and arced back to drench her.
She laughed happily and turned to give him a drenching too, to find him on his knees on the damp sand.
No, not on both knees, just one.
What was—?
Her hands flew to her mouth as he reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a small box, a new, different smile spreading now across his face. A nervous smile.
‘Oh,’ she breathed, her heart hammering in her throat. Her eyes filled with hot, happy tears that spilt over to mix with the cool water of the sea on her face.
‘Will you?’ he asked, opening the box, holding it out to her. ‘I know it’s soon, maybe I should have waited longer, but I’m as certain as I need to be. Will you please marry me, Lydia Foley?’
‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you, Damien Cotter!’
She splashed from the water and pulled him to his feet.
Half laughing, half crying, she covered his face with kisses, and he put on the ring and they danced on the sand, and then he caught her up, still in his wellingtons, and waded into the sea and whirled her around, and nobody was as happy as they were.
When they ran out of breath she sat on the steps and he pushed her wellingtons on again, and they scrambled back up and returned through the jungle of overgrowth to the house, panting, wet dress clinging to her, hands intertwined.
Engaged. She was engaged. They were going to be married. Her insides kept giving happy little swoops. Back at his car they packed up the wellingtons and sat in, and only then did he tell her that the property was for sale.
‘Really?’
She looked at it again. Once upon a time it had been beautiful.
She imagined owning it, calling it home.
She’d be the envy of everyone she knew. She wondered how much it would cost to buy it, and how much more it would take until it was beautiful again.
Someone in the village might go for it, make it their project.
The publicans might be well off, or the owner of the giant hardware store.
‘We could put in a bid,’ he said.
She turned. ‘Us?’
‘Why not? We have assets. I have my house here. You have your apartment in Dublin.’
‘Damien – are you serious?’
He laughed. ‘I think I am.’
She felt a leap of excitement. Was it possible? Could they really consider this? ‘What’s the asking price?’
He told her. Lower than she’d expected – but of course they’d need far more to restore it. Then again, she’d get a lot more for her apartment than she’d paid for it seven years ago. Property prices in Dublin were climbing all the time.
God, could they do it?
She turned to look at the house again. It would have been a family home through the ages but everyone lived in more modest properties now, easier to heat and maintain.
Still, she imagined it filled with children.
She pictured a girl playing a piano, a boy reading in a big armchair by the fire.
She saw herself and Damien hosting dinner parties around a long table.
The thought was intoxicating: she literally felt her head spin.
‘Listen,’ he said, taking her hands. ‘This house would make the perfect destination restaurant. Not just somewhere you’d go for a meal, but a place that offered a night away too, or maybe a weekend.
And I’m talking quality: the best of ingredients for the food, the best bed linens, tasteful finishes and furnishings, the works.
I could see families looking for it, or a group of friends, maybe to celebrate a big birthday or an anniversary.
Some occasion they’d want to make a fuss of. ’
A restaurant, not a family home. Of course it made more sense to run a business in it, but she was sorry to let go of the piano-playing girl and the reading boy. ‘So where would we live?’
‘We’d be in there, in our own private quarters. We could always extend the house down the line, if we needed to.’
He had it all worked out. ‘How long have you been thinking about this?’
‘Since I heard it was up for sale last week. I gave the estate agent a shout – she was at school with Tom.’
Tom, his brother. Everyone had some connection here. ‘Has anyone bid on it?’
‘No. She said my house should make enough to buy it.’
‘Wow. So whatever I made on the apartment—’
‘– would cover the renovations,’ he finished. ‘We could get my father to do the job – it’s just the kind of project he’d love, and he’d give us a good price.’
His father Brendan owned a small building company, managing a team of local tradespeople. He’d built his own house, and one each for his sons. If he could handle a job on this scale, he would be the one to ask. She liked him, with his quiet, gentle ways.
‘Does he know about this? Have you spoken to him?’
‘Not yet. You had to be the first.’
It would be a huge undertaking. They’d be selling their properties and sinking the proceeds into what amounted to a dream – but dreams came true, didn’t they, if you worked on them? Look at herself and Damien, overcoming the long-distance challenge.
‘And Marian would help us kit it out,’ he said.