Chapter 11
11
When I woke up on Saturday morning, I lay under my duvet for several minutes listening to Willowdale Hall breathing. Georgia laughed at me when I told her I could hear old buildings breathe, which was rich from somebody who talked to books. I loved the phrase if walls could talk . I wish! The things these walls must have seen – the good times and bad, the joy and the pain.
I usually struggled with sleep the first night in a new place but I’d slept so well last night. It probably helped that the bed was familiar. When Flynn and I separated, I didn’t want anything from the house. It would hurt too much to have all the reminders of family life around me so I’d told Flynn he could have everything. I’d already taken what I needed – my clothes, books and the contents of my office. The flat in Newcastle had only been sparsely furnished so I’d splashed out on a few essentials which were now in my temporary home. The bed had been too heavy for me to reassemble on my own so, when Oliver arrived back from work last night, he and Rosie had assisted me. They’d also offered to help me unpack my books onto the shelves but I’d told them I’d do it myself across the weekend. I didn’t want to impose on their already generous hospitality.
I’d be on my own for most of today. Being a Saturday, it was Rosie’s busiest day for riding lessons and Oliver was running a morning surgery then meeting his dad for a hike. I’d expressed surprise at that as I’d thought Hubert Cranleigh was Oliver’s dad but they’d told me it was a recent discovery and a long story which they’d share over a bottle of wine one evening.
I’d been given free rein of the ground and first floor of the hall, told I could open any door and explore, although Oliver had suggested I avoid the top floor for now due to several rotten floorboards and the cellar because the door was sticky and they’d hate me to get trapped down there on my own. I would need to see both but there was plenty of time to do that and just exploring the ground and first floor would keep me busy for a long time.
A Jack-and-Jill bathroom connected my new office and bedroom so I showered and dressed. Heading downstairs to make a coffee, I ran my fingers along the walls, wondering what secrets they kept. Places like this were full of them and I suspected that the discovery that Hubert Cranleigh wasn’t Oliver’s biological father was simply the latest in a long history of whispers, scandal and secrets.
The ten-year-old me would have been beside herself with excitement if she’d known that the grown-up me would one day get to look around Willowdale Hall, but she’d never have believed that I’d also get to live and work here. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was about the estate that had captured my heart at such a young age. Was it the mystery of a building that couldn’t be seen from the road? Was it because it was by far the biggest house in the area? Or was it because I’d already fallen in love with history and this was a wonderful example right on my doorstep? When I’d first seen Willowdale Hall from that boat on Derwent Water, it had been even grander and more imposing than I’d imagined and now here I was inside with access to nearly all the rooms. Talk about a dream come true.
During my tour of the hall as part of my interview, Oliver and Rosie had told me that they mainly lived between three rooms – the library in the west wing and the kitchen and their bedroom in the east wing. In the enormous kitchen, they’d pointed out the obvious – that it was dated, in a state of disrepair and in need of a major overhaul. Their bedroom was above the kitchen and Oliver told me he’d moved into it as a teenager and it hadn’t been decorated since way before that. I could see why he’d chosen it. It had a stunning view over the garden and the lake and was so big that it could have a sleeping/dressing area as well as a section devoted to relaxing or studying without looking cluttered. Oliver and Rosie spoke very matter-of-factly about the kitchen and bedroom but their demeanours completely changed when they showed me the library and it wasn’t difficult to see why. It was dated and needed a few repairs here and there but, unlike the rest of the rooms in the house, the library felt warm and loved and that’s where I headed first with my coffee.
I opened the door and leaned against the frame, hands cradled round my mug, taking it all in. Floor-to-ceiling shelves ran all around the room, the higher shelves accessed by a ladder on a rail. A pair of sofas and an armchair were positioned round a fireplace to my left and there was a shabby chic writing desk and chaise longue on the right – pieces which I absolutely loved and which gave a real sense of history to the room.
Stepping inside and closing the door behind me, I turned right and worked my way round the library, running my fingers over the oak shelving, the desk and the threadbare fabric on the chaise longue. When I reached the other side, I smiled at the candlestick, picturing the sparkle in Rosie’s eyes when she’d tipped it to one side and, with a click, the bookcase had rotated by 180 degrees to reveal a secret miniature library inside. I tipped the candlestick now, opening the hidden door and stepped inside the room where Oliver’s mum, Kathryn, had loved to read.
I lowered myself onto one of the two high-backed armchairs, switched on the standard lamp between them, placed my mug on a coaster on the coffee table and breathed in and out slowly while I gathered my thoughts. Their plan was to convert the east wing into their living space and the west wing into holiday accommodation and that didn’t make sense to me when the library was the only room to which they both clearly had an emotional attachment. Something like this could be recreated in their home but it wouldn’t be the same because it wouldn’t hold the precious memories Oliver had of his mum being in here. He’d talked about her loving baking and the kitchen being her pride and joy but it was obvious to me that the strongest and happiest memories he had of Kathryn were in the library. And why build a new secret room when there was already a fabulous one right here?
After I finished my drink, I explored the rest of the ground floor in the west wing, moved up to the first floor then returned to the library to pull together some thoughts on how they could keep the library within their living accommodation.
I was still at the desk when I heard voices and was shocked to see it was already half five. I’d been so absorbed in my work that I’d been oblivious to darkness falling. Moments later, the door opened and Oliver and Rosie appeared, both red-cheeked from a day in the cold.
‘Aren’t you chilly?’ Oliver asked, rubbing his hands together as he headed towards the fireplace.
‘Layers and these.’ I held up my hands to show off my fingerless gloves. I’d worked in so many old properties over the years, many of which were empty with no functioning heating, that I came prepared. A long-sleeved thermal T-shirt was the perfect base layer, topped with wool or fleece tops and a down-filled gilet; all ideal material for trapping heat. I also usually carried a chargeable hand warmer in my coat pocket.
The dogs lay down on the rug in front of the fire while Rosie scrunched up some newspaper and soon the room was aglow with the flames. They left the dogs with me while they went to get changed – Rosie out of her riding gear and Oliver out of his muddy hiking clothes – and said they’d be back shortly to find out how my day had gone. That should give me just enough time to finish off the sketches I wanted to show them.
The room was warming nicely and, by the time Oliver and Rosie returned, I’d shed my gilet and gloves and moved to the rug to stroke Toffee and Chester.
‘So, how’s your day been?’ Rosie asked, handing me a mug of tea.
‘Fantastic. I completely lost track of time and nearly missed my lunch. This place! Honestly, I can’t thank you enough for letting me be part of your plans.’
‘I spy a notepad,’ Rosie said, nodding towards my sketchbook. ‘Have you been working already? You were meant to be settling in.’
‘I couldn’t help myself. So many ideas I didn’t want to lose and I’ve got something major I want to run by you, although I can wait until later if you’d rather relax.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Oliver said. ‘Fire away.’
Oliver and Rosie were sitting together on one of the two-seater sofas and I felt a little unprofessional sitting cross-legged on the floor so I moved onto the sofa opposite them and placed my sketchbook on the empty seat beside me.
‘The plan we discussed was to convert the west wing into holiday accommodation. What’s the reasoning for that?’
They exchanged looks and shrugs.
‘We thought it would be easiest,’ Oliver said.
‘There’s no emotional connection to the east wing?’ I wanted to check I hadn’t missed anything.
Rosie glanced at Oliver and he shook his head.
‘So it’s a practical thing with the kitchen and your bedroom already being there?’
‘And because it’s smaller than the west wing,’ Oliver said. ‘It seemed the logical choice.’
‘It is the logical choice,’ I agreed, ‘and probably the easier conversion but I think you’d both regret it because it would mean losing the library. This room’s really special and it’s obvious it means a lot to both of you, so I was thinking you could convert the whole of the east wing and part of this wing into holiday accommodation but keep everything from the library and beyond for yourselves. There’s already external access through the room at the end so that could become your entrance porch and kitchen/diner…’
I moved to the armchair so I was closer and flipped open my sketchbook, showing them my rough drawings on how the west wing could be configured into their private space. I watched their expressions carefully and could tell that keeping the library was a huge hit, but a shadow crossed Oliver’s face when I mentioned upstairs so I closed the sketchbook and sat forward, my brows knitted.
‘There’s something about the space above us that makes you sad,’ I said to Oliver. ‘It’s not going to work as your living quarters, is it?’
Rosie placed her hand on Oliver’s thigh and her sympathetic expression as she looked at him told me I’d hit the nail on the head.
‘Do you want to tell Mel now?’ she asked him.
‘You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ I said, my voice reassuring. ‘We could make the ground floor your living space and convert upstairs into guest accommodation, or we can stick to the original plan. I just get the impression that this room is really important to you both and I’d love to find a way to keep it for you.’
Oliver’s gaze travelled round the room and he nodded slowly. ‘I would like to keep this room if we can and kudos to you that you’ve picked up on that, but you’re right about the upstairs. It holds bad memories for me, past and present.’
‘Understood. This has to be what’s right for you both.’
‘It is a good moment to give you an insight into the family history,’ Oliver said. ‘We were going to tell you anyway and I’d rather you get the truth from us than a variation of it from the rumour mill…’
Between them, Oliver and Rosie shared an unexpected and tragic tale of their past. Hubert Cranleigh – the man who Oliver had believed was his dad until shortly before Hubert’s death at the start of last year – had been a womaniser and an abuser. Kathryn had found comfort, friendship and, in time, reignited love with her ex-boyfriend Christian. Oliver had been the result of that relationship, although they’d kept it secret, fearful for the repercussions if Hubert found out. When Oliver was twelve, Kathryn had finally decided enough was enough and she was going to leave Hubert for Christian but was struck down by a short, fatal illness before she had the chance. Oliver was left alone in the hall with a man he hated and no idea that they weren’t blood relatives. He moved to the furthest bedroom in the east wing to put as much physical distance as he could between them and they lived separate lives until Oliver escaped to university aged eighteen. The next time he returned to the hall was after Hubert’s riding accident.
Finding out that Hubert Cranleigh wasn’t his biological father wasn’t the only unexpected discovery for them last year. Rosie’s mum, Alice, had been the victim of a hit and run on the road into the village a couple of years after Kathryn died – a horrendous incident I remembered from when Noah was a baby. Alice’s physical injuries had healed but her mental ones hadn’t and she’d struggled to leave the safety of the estate. The police had never caught the driver but, during a storm a couple of weeks after Hubert died, a tree came down on top of the boat house behind the hall. Hidden inside was the vehicle which had struck Alice. For nearly two decades, Alice had believed it was out of kindness that Hubert had let her and Rosie stay in Horseshoe Cottage and had placed a temporary manager at the riding stables until Rosie had finished school and could take over. Evidently it was a combination of guilt and fear of being caught – or perhaps just the latter.
It was a heartbreaking story of loss and deception but it was also a tale of hope and second chances. Oliver and Rosie had been a couple for a while during their teens but their relationship had ended badly. His return to the hall under difficult circumstances had brought them back together and had also saved the hall. Oliver had wanted to sell it but Rosie had presented him with a vision of how it could be financially viable as a business.
Oliver and Rosie’s relationship and an exciting new future for Willowdale Hall weren’t the only second chances. Alice and Rosie’s dad, Xander, had been reunited following the funeral. Alice had always believed that Xander – who was Hubert’s cousin – had abandoned her when he learned that she was pregnant with Rosie. She hadn’t told Rosie the identity of her father, wanting to protect her from the rejection. Following the funeral, it emerged that Xander hadn’t actually known about Rosie and had only left because he’d been led to believe that Alice wanted nothing to do with him.
Finding the car in the boat house and discovering that a man she’d considered a friend had been responsible for her accident had understandably been extremely traumatic for Alice. She had a breakdown and spent some time in a care facility, determined to regain control of her life. Xander had been and still was an incredible support to her. The pair had steadily become closer but had been adamant they were just friends but, over Christmas, they’d admitted that they were a couple, much to Rosie’s delight. Xander had two children from a previous marriage, one of whom had a child and another on the way, and Rosie was loving getting to know her extended family.
A further second chance had been for Oliver and his biological father. Christian had been Oliver’s favourite teacher at school and a mentor to him for many years afterwards, but they’d lost touch. When Oliver discovered his true parentage, he’d reconnected with Christian and they now had a really strong relationship. Christian had a daughter, Emma, from a relationship before Kathryn, and the half-siblings had met for the first time in the summer. Emma now ran an alpaca-walking business in the grounds, which sounded wonderful. I couldn’t wait to meet her and her herd of seven alpacas.
‘Apologies for throwing a million names at you and so much information,’ Rosie said. ‘I promise there won’t be a test tomorrow on our dysfunctional family tree.’
‘I don’t know if I should admit it, but I’d probably ace it if there was. I have a thing for retaining names and dates. Georgia often says I have filing cabinets instead of a brain. Thanks for sharing that with me. A lot of the projects I work on are changes of ownership but, when the owners are staying, it really helps to understand the family history and what the place means to them.’
Rosie had produced a bottle of wine partway through our conversation and I paused while she topped up my glass.
‘After what you’ve told me, I can definitely see why you’d be reluctant to convert the west wing bedrooms into your living quarters,’ I said. ‘Bad memories can be difficult to handle, but I can’t help thinking that the whole estate held bad memories for you, Oliver. You’ve overcome those to the point where you’re totally in love with this place and are about to invest heavily in it to secure its future and let others enjoy it. I’m guessing there are good memories here too which have made it easier to find your peace with the estate. I understand you not having positive memories from upstairs, but they are just rooms, which means they can be changed. When you change the furniture and décor, a room can become unrecognisable and, once it looks completely different, it feels different too and those bad memories fade with new happier ones taking over.’
Realising I was in danger of sounding like I was making a sales pitch when it really made no difference to me which part of the hall they kept as their own, I shrugged apologetically. ‘And that’s the last I’m going to say on the subject. Completely up to you what you do. I’ll continue to explore and you can let me know whatever you decide.’
‘Thanks, Mel,’ Oliver said. ‘And don’t worry that you’ve overstepped because you haven’t. We’re comfortable with you challenging us on anything about the build. You’re the expert and you’ll be much better at stepping back and seeing things we’re too close to. We’ll come back to you when we’ve had a chance to talk it through.’
* * *
I sat on my bed several hours later, reflecting on everything I’d learned from Oliver and Rosie across the evening. They had a vision of Willowdale Hall becoming a place of sanctuary and healing but it sounded to me like it already had been for both of them, for Rosie’s parents, for Oliver’s dad Christian and for Oliver’s half-sister Emma. Granted, many bad things had happened here but those involved had recovered and were in a happy place now.
Could Willowdale Hall be the place to heal me?