Chapter 4 #2
Rachel relaxed slightly as Peter scurried off with the papers.
‘I’m having lunch with Gran and Grandad,’ she said.
She patted the briefcase she had propped up against the back of a chair whilst they talked.
‘I’ve had their portrait restored. You know the one that used to hang in the green bedchamber when we were kids?
It was the only one they took with them when they downsized. ’
‘I remember,’ Owen said. Their grandparents had handed Winterhill Hall over to the Swan Power Trust with all its contents when they moved into a retirement village near Wantage a few years before.
There had been no space for the fixtures and fittings of a sixteenth-century manor in their brand-new two-bedroomed flat and Owen had thought they had seemed relieved.
Being the custodians of a piece of history was a heavy responsibility and one he was glad they hadn’t passed on to him.
Rachel had opened the case with a soft click and was unwrapping the small painting from its folds of protective cover.
‘I took it to L.D. Clarks in London,’ she said, ‘as they are one of the top art restoration companies. They’ve done a great job but they’ve not been able to find out much about it, unfortunately.
No artist details, other than that it’s probably mid-Tudor and rather na?ve in style, by which they mean the artist was probably self-taught.
Oh, and obviously there’s no provenance for it.
I told them Grandad found it in the attic fifty years ago and they laughed because it’s such a cliché. ’
‘Sometimes a mystery is more intriguing than knowing all the answers,’ Owen said.
He was staring at the picture which seemed to glow with an inner light, even in the stark artificial glare of the meeting room.
He remembered how transfixed he had been by the painting when he was younger, by the beauty of the sitter, a woman with red-golden hair and deep lavender-blue eyes, whose lips seemed to be tilted on the edge of a smile.
There had been a warmth about it – about her – that had seemed to reach out to him when he had been orphaned and felt very alone.
Even now, he felt slightly shaken to see it again.
Rachel was watching his face and he saw her smile at whatever emotion she saw reflected there. He knew she had always thought he had been a little in love with the woman in the painting.
‘They did find out one thing about her,’ she said softly.
‘Here…’ She pointed to the little metal plaque on the bottom of the wooden frame.
‘There’s a name etched very faintly into the metal.
It was illegible before it was cleaned up but they think it says “Marris North”, although the restorer couldn’t be absolutely sure.
’ She repacked the portrait with her usual deftness.
‘Anyway, I think Gran and Grandad will be pleased with it.’
‘I know they will.’ Owen gave her a spontaneous hug. ‘You’re a very thoughtful person, Rach.’
‘Go and see them before you dash back to London,’ his sister said, her voice slightly muffled against his chest. ‘You know they would love it. So would Jack.’
Owen laughed, releasing her. ‘Jack is never pleased to see anyone,’ he joked. ‘You know he’s a misanthrope.’
‘He’s an introvert,’ Rachel corrected. ‘And that’s unfair, Owen. You know he loves us, even if he never says so. Where would we be without him?’
‘That’s very true,’ Owen said. Jack, their eldest cousin, was the only other member of the extended family who had stayed in the local area, farming land over the Berkshire Downs near the town of Wantage.
Nine years older, he had been a lifesaver when Owen’s parents had died and he, a grief-crazed teen, had gone off the rails.
In his own quiet way, Jack had been a rock-solid, utterly reliable presence, silently pulling Owen out of the pub before he was busted, sending the preying drug dealers packing and even speaking up on occasion, to give Owen both a well-deserved dressing down, or equally deserved comfort.
Owen felt a slight pang of guilt. He saw his family regularly and they never nagged him to visit, but he knew he was always on the move and they would love to see him more.
His work as an angel investor took him all over the world, a situation which had, until recently, been ideal for him.
Perhaps it was the fact that Rachel was now so happily settled, or perhaps – he shuddered – it was that he was getting older and the freedom of a high-octane lifestyle was growing less appealing.
He gave himself a little shake. He’d be looking in estate agents’ windows for a country cottage if he wasn’t careful.
And if he was at home more, he could get a dog of his own, rather than simply looking after Hugh and Rachel’s spaniel every so often…
‘I’ll go and see everyone at the weekend,’ he promised. ‘If I stay over with you, we could all have Sunday lunch together.’
Rachel’s face lit up. ‘That would be awesome.’
They went out of the boardroom together, along a corridor where the dark polished floorboards creaked underfoot and the faded runner on the floor had definitely seen better days.
Winterhill had a very fine oak staircase with carvings of books, musical instruments and even an artist’s brush and palette.
As children, he and Rachel had loved picking out the images but they had been terrified by the wooden scorpions that scuttled up and down the newel posts.
Their father had told them they were the symbol of Sir William Sharington, the builder of Winterhill Hall; later, on their first archaeological excavation in Turkey, Owen remembered seeing real scorpions for the first time and being transfixed by them.
A muted hum of voices reached them from the Swan Power offices as they descended into the hall and Rachel waved to the receptionist on the way out.
She hopped into her car whilst Owen strolled across the park, heading towards the teashop.
As always, he felt lighter once he was in the open air.
Whatever he had said to reassure his sister, he didn’t like being at Winterhill very much.
There were too many bad memories here. When their parents had died, he and Rachel had lived at the hall with their maternal grandparents for a couple of years.
It had not been like the carefree visits when they were children; both of them had been grief-stricken and traumatised, as no doubt their grandparents had been too.
Rachel had messed up her A levels the first time around because she had been in pieces, but the following year she had scored a place at Oxford University.
He, in contrast, had rebelled fiercely but had also worked like a fiend because he was so desperate to escape.
He’d headed off to Harvard at eighteen. Hell, even America hadn’t felt far enough away from Winterhill.
Owen deliberately forced himself to relax.
It was fourteen years ago now. Time was ticking by.
Rachel was happy and settled with Hugh and Humphrey, and he…
Well, Winterhill Hall might not be his favourite place, but at least the priory café was good.
He pushed open the door and stooped slightly under the lintel to go inside.
The place was packed with people, all with the same idea as him to grab a coffee or early lunch.
There was nowhere to sit. He’d just decided to skip coffee and head off back to London instead when he spotted one empty seat in a small corner under the eaves, across the table from a woman who was reading a leaflet about the archaeological dig.
Her head was bent; her long red-gold hair shadowed the line of her cheek.
He realised it was the woman he had seen in the priory grounds earlier.
As though aware of his scrutiny, she looked up and directly at him.
Her eyes were a startling lavender blue.
At close quarters, Owen could see that she bore a remarkable resemblance to the woman in the Tudor portrait.
He felt a tug of emotion, as though a connection long-forgotten had been reforged in that moment, without a word being spoken.
‘Marris.’
He wasn’t sure whether or not he said the name aloud; he only knew that he recognised her instinctively with a certainty that was as unshakeable as it was inexplicable. It was simultaneously disturbing and intriguing. He’d never felt like this before in his life.
He ordered a coffee and took a sandwich from the shelf, all the while trying not to stare at her.
He didn’t want to freak her out. Even though he felt a strong urge to go over to talk to her, he didn’t want to come across like a stalker.
He told himself that if there was another table free when he had paid, he would take that instead.
Turning away from the till, he saw that someone else also had their eye on the spare seat, a burly hiker in a checked shirt with a huge backpack, who was causing mayhem as he tried to fit between the tables. The server was tutting.
‘I hate it when people bag a seat before they even place their order…’ She gave Owen a meaningful look.
Squeezing through, he just made it to the table ahead of the hiking guy.
The woman looked up, met his eyes, and Owen felt his heart turn over.
If it hadn’t been ridiculous, he would have said that his knees felt a bit unsteady.
But the hiker was closing in from the other side, allowing no time for hesitation.
‘May I?’ he said to the woman as he slid into the spare seat two seconds ahead of the other guy. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he added, giving her the opportunity to tell him to go to hell if she chose.