4. Geoffrey
4
As Geoffrey watched the two men follow Mrs Netherway up the stairs, the years fell away. The last time River had climbed the flight of stairs leading from the grand hallway he had been a boy. A teenager on the cusp of manhood. Tall and awkward, with limbs that seemed too long for his body.
Now he was thirty-one years old, and even taller, but broader and more in proportion. He was a grown man. When had that happened? How had he, his father, missed so much?
Geoffrey, a man not prone to strong emotion, was surprised by an almost physical lurch of pain that made him shudder.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Clara.
He glanced at the young woman who’d come to stand beside him.
‘Of course I am,’ he said abruptly, not happy that anyone had noticed a wobble in his demeanour. He could almost hear his father’s voice in his ear: It’s up to us, Geoffrey, to set the tone. To behave in an appropriate manner and keep our feelings to ourselves.
Geoffrey had certainly made a good fist of that over the years, even when the people in his life had disappeared: his stepmother, Audrey, his wife, Lucia, and River. His upper lip had remained stiff and his shoulders set.
And yet, older age appeared to be undermining him. His emotions were closer to the surface these days and less easy to suppress. But suppress them he must, especially now, when he knew what was coming. Otherwise he and everything around him would descend into chaos.
The girl was still standing there, looking at him with her soulful grey eyes. She bore a strong resemblance to her mother without whom this house would falter. Mrs Netherway almost single-handedly kept the house running, and yet she was blissfully unaware of the changes afoot.
He looked away from her daughter, feeling guilty. ‘I think I’ll retire to the library for a while. Thank you, Clara.’
Avoiding catching anyone else’s eye, he slipped away into the library and sat in the leather armchair that faced the window to the garden.
He loved this room with its old books lining the walls, and a pervading smell of ink and dust. He would sit in here and read as a child when life became overwhelming, and it remained his refuge, even now that he was in his mid-seventies. When had he become so old?
Geoffrey gazed out of the window, across the grass and trees, to a flash of blue sea. He used to sit here and wonder why she did it. Why Audrey, the stepmother he’d loved so much, had decided to wade into the sea one cold autumn evening. Why her life here hadn’t been enough. Why he hadn’t been enough.
He remembered how happy she’d been at the grand ball held here in the ballroom all those years ago. How radiant she’d looked in her beautiful lemon-yellow gown during that exciting evening when the house was filled with music and laughter. That was the last time he’d seen her smile. After that, everything had changed.
Geoffrey gave his head a shake to banish the maudlin thoughts and tried to focus on the present. His son was home, albeit not for the best of reasons, and he should take advantage of his company. Perhaps he could heal the rift between them, though he feared they had little in common. Even their appearance placed them miles apart – he, pale and cultured, in corduroy and tweed, and River looking rather like a hippy with his long hair, golden tan and jeans.
Geoffrey had to admit he had more in common with Bartie, whose company he had missed over the last few years.
A small cough made Geoffrey jump and, when he looked up, Clara was standing beside him. She was carrying a tray with a steaming china cup on it.
‘I thought you might like some tea after the excitement of this morning.’ She placed the tray on the side table next to him.
Geoffrey smiled at this unexpected kindness, especially after his brusque reply to her earlier question. Clara usually kept her distance from him. He wasn’t sure if she liked him or not. But the tea was a kind thought.
‘That’s good of you, Clara. Thank you.’
He expected her to leave but she stayed standing beside him. And when he glanced up and followed her gaze, she was staring at the framed black and white photo that sat on the windowsill. The picture was a formal portrait of him as a child, with his father, Edwin, and Audrey standing behind him.
‘That’s a lovely picture,’ she said, before sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.
‘It’s one of very few I have of my father and stepmother together. My father destroyed a lot of family photographs after my stepmother’s death but I managed to salvage a small number.’
Geoffrey stopped talking, surprised that he had said so much.
‘It’s such a shame what happened to Audrey…your stepmother, I mean.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry…I probably shouldn’t bring up such a difficult subject.’
No, she shouldn’t. And he wasn’t about to say any more about such a personal issue, even though Clara had been around the manor all her life. He had never talked properly about it with anyone. Not with his wife, and certainly not with his father, who had burned most of the photos on a bonfire in the garden and placed the painting of Audrey in storage. Her name, after that, had rarely been mentioned.
But Geoffrey had put the painting back on the wall soon after his father had died, and he liked to display this photo that seemed to be interesting Clara. There was some comfort in seeing Audrey’s beautiful face that would never grow old as his had done.
‘It was all a long time ago,’ he murmured to Clara. ‘Thank you so much for the tea.’
As he’d hoped, this shut down any prospect of more conversation and Clara walked to the door. But she hesitated, her fingers gripping the door handle.
‘I expect you’re delighted to have River back home, and Bartie too.’
Geoffrey sat back in his chair, noting the curiosity in her gaze. Clara, always a bright spark, knew there was more going on here than a son’s return to the family fold. But she’d find out soon enough.
‘It is very…’ he chose his words carefully, ‘…pleasing to see River back at Brellasham Manor. Bartie, too. We have much to discuss.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Clara, giving a tight smile before slipping out of the room.
Geoffrey sipped his tea and went back to staring through the window. There would be lots to do tomorrow but for now he would allow himself the indulgence of remembering the past.