Chapter 10
Ten
At the turn-off for Chase Lodge Christina stopped the car.
Sitting with the gentle hum of the engine ticking over, she drank in the view stretched out before her like a watercolour painting left in the rain, its edges soft and bleeding into one another.
The village of Brambleton nestled on the coast, its thatched roofs and stone chimneys creating a patchwork of textures that seemed to shift and dance in the afternoon light.
Either side of the village, the Devon coastline curved away, ribbons of golden sand where the waves rolled in with hypnotic regularity.
If only Chase Lodge had been built up here with that marvellous view.
Sighing, she turned down the rutted lane.
The glorious view disappeared behind her, replaced by stark woods, leafless and silent in the February chill, their empty branches forming a lattice overhead which, come spring, would block out the light entirely.
The car lurched over frozen potholes. The steep hill swallowed her descent, the house waiting somewhere at the bottom strategically positioned away from the coast, tucked into the landscape for safety.
Deep in the valley, Chase Lodge squatted in a blanket of overhanging trees which cast the house in shadow.
Its stone walls, pitted by centuries of weather, stretched upwards three storeys, with mullioned windows.
The eastern wall was tangled with ragged ivy, remnants of months of winter storms. On both sides, the outline of vanished wings was visible; subtle scarring in the stone where two once-grand extensions had been demolished, their absence leaving the Lodge slightly lopsided, as if it had lost weight too quickly.
The slate roof sagged in places, a few tiles missing like gap teeth in an old man’s smile, but the bones of the structure, solid Tudor timbers and dressed stone corners, stood proud and enduring.
Christina tried to see the beauty in it – imagining grand chimney pieces and oak-beamed halls – telling herself to ignore the surrounding woods, the shaded ground where flowers would never grow, and the immense, exhausting work it would take to make the house habitable.
‘It’ll be perfect for Hamish,’ she murmured, a small, forced smile lifting her lips. ‘A real Tudor retreat.’ She tried to convince herself it wasn’t too large, telling herself it was just four times the size of the cottage. Four times the work, yes, but also four times the potential.
She parked next to Penelope’s Range Rover, trying to picture herself here in the gloom, restoring silver; then when that picture failed to materialize, she got out of the car telling herself this was a golden opportunity; a proper Pemberton house – it could be a happy home, and it would rejuvenate her marriage.
‘Darling, what a magnificent project, I can see exactly what’s captured your fancy,’ Penelope purred, one polished fingernail adjusting her Hermès scarf. ‘It’s terribly . . . exciting, isn’t it? Rather like something one might find in a National Trust calendar.’
Buoyed by her friend’s enthusiasm, Christina inserted the key.
A small fizz of excitement rose in her chest, fragile as silver filigree, as though she were unwrapping a gift she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted.
The lock grudgingly turned; the door creaked open on a long, defeated sigh.
Pale light seeped through the warped lattice windows.
Shadows clung to the walls like lichen on old stone.
Christina paused on the threshold and drew in a breath. The air was musty and damp, with an undercurrent of wood smoke – as if the house was trying to remember a time when fires had warmed its rooms rather than merely haunted them. She clung to that faint scent, willing it to outweigh the mould.
Christina stepped into what had once been a reception hall. Her imagination scrambled to keep pace – Hamish, Elspeth, a roaring fire – but the reality was sagging beams, peeling plaster, and a flagstone floor furred with dust.
Behind her, Penelope inhaled theatrically, as though savouring a tragic opera.
‘Neglect,’ she announced, ‘but the bones, darling. The bones.’
Christina tried again. Be positive. She closed her eyes, tipping her face toward the soot-blackened hearth. ‘Can you smell that, Penelope? It smells like . . . like stories. Like the people who were happy here.’
Penelope’s laugh rang out, bright and dismissive. ‘Oh, Christina, you are amusing.’
She felt the breath on her shoulder as her friend leaned in. ‘This is precisely the sort of house dear Hamish’s family will adore. Character.’
Christina smiled tightly at the ruin around her, doing her best to see character rather than collapse.
This could work. It had to work. If she could transform this place, make it beautiful once more, show them she understood the value of history and tradition.
‘But it will cost a fortune to renovate’ Christina said, her fingers tracing the weathered wood of a buckling window frame.
‘Charming proportions,’ Penelope said, sweeping a gloved hand around the dim chamber.
The Tudor windows were mere slits in the thick walls, grudging the grey February light.
Christina could see her own breath. She sighed.
She was trying – truly trying – to see what Penelope saw. ‘It’s bigger than I expected.’
‘Oh, my dear girl.’ Lady Penelope stepped delicately around a pile of rubble, her heels clicking against the flagstones with the measured precision of a metronome.
‘Chase Lodge is just a little hunting lodge. A Tudor holiday home. Perfect for the three of you. You mustn’t settle for your little cottage.
The Pembertons require something rather more .
. . substantial. As Banquo says in Macbeth:
“This castle hath a pleasant seat
the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
unto our gentle senses.”
Oh, sorry, you probably never read Macbeth at your school. Oxford drama society overcame me for a moment!’
Christina bit back the retort that the ‘pleasant seat’ Banquo was describing was to be the location of several murders. Instead, she forced herself to see the house through Penelope’s eyes. Just like Lady Flora, her friend measured worth in acres, and houses by the number of bedrooms.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Christina said reluctantly.
‘Of course I am, darling. You must be bold, not flinch at a bit of restoration. I will guide you with all the important decisions – I’ve seen much worse than this.
’ Lady Penelope moved closer, her voice dropping to a confidential level that somehow sounded both intimate and condescending.
‘You want to prove yourself worthy of the family, don’t you?
Show them you’re not just some pretty little thing Hamish picked up at university?
Then you need something that speaks their language. ’
‘Restoration, yes that’s all it is, and the house is . . . very atmospheric,’ Christina managed, eyeing a corner where the plaster had given up entirely and fallen to the floor in chunks.
‘Atmospheric! Yes, exactly!’ Lady Penelope beamed as though Christina had identified precisely the house’s best attribute. ‘A house with soul.’
Soul, Christina thought, and possibly ghosts. Definitely mould.
Attempting enthusiasm she said, ‘The windows are very . . . authentic.’
‘Aren’t they marvellous?’ Lady Penelope clasped her hands together. ‘Original Tudor glazing! You can’t buy that kind of heritage.’
No, Christina thought, peering through the narrow opening that let in approximately three rays of weak February sun. You certainly couldn’t. The room was so dark she could barely make out the far wall, and so cold her fingers were already numb.
‘And this space!’ Lady Penelope gestured broadly at the low-ceilinged chamber. ‘Just imagine it with a good fire going.’
Christina tried to imagine it. The chimney probably didn’t draw. ‘Cosy,’ she said weakly.
Penelope took the key from Christina’s hand and steered her toward the door. ‘As a Pemberton you must take your responsibilities seriously.’
‘But the cost . . .’ Christina began.
‘Oh, money.’ Lady Penelope waved a dismissive hand.
‘One finds a way, doesn’t one? Hamish is a professor, why not suggest he writes a book, becomes the next historical sensation?
Or borrow some money from the bank? Or from the family – after all, what’s the point of marrying into the Pembertons if one continues to live like a penniless romantic in a tiny cottage? ’
As they walked back toward their cars, the house seemed to scowl behind them; Christina told herself it was glowing, not scowling.
That its stone walls were weathered rather than shabby, its missing tiles marks of character rather than neglect.
With Penelope’s help she could transform this place.
Christina found herself calculating; she had a substantial deposit.
She had saved up the money they weren’t paying on rent and supplemented that with her ‘Ernest’ earnings.
They had about ￡50,000. She would speak to her financial adviser tomorrow and ask him how much they could borrow.
Yes, she thought, her pulse quickening with a mix of ambition and dread.
A proper house would change everything. With the right address – the perfect backdrop for their life together – everything else would fall into place: Elspeth’s behaviour, Hamish’s attention, his family’s approval, her place in their world.