Chapter Thirty
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’m in one of the Red Borders, deadheading fiery red dahlias – ‘Bishop of Auckland’ and ‘Grenadier’. It’s the last Friday in September and my little robin friend is back again. Yesterday he hung around as I was weeding in Mrs Winthrop’s Garden and taking cuttings of the blue and yellow salvias . The day before, I saw him when I was hedge-cutting on the Long Walk and collecting seeds from the blue globe thistles growing in the Old Garden. And now he’s perching on the giant leaf of a red banana plant, chirping.
Maybe it’s not the same bird, but I like to think it is.
I’m smiling as I pick up my trug.
I love working at Hidcote. It’s in a hamlet in the North Cotswolds, nestled amongst rolling hills, and it has the most beautiful Grade I-listed garden, the first garden-only property that the Trust acquired.
The garden rooms here are formed off a central axis that runs east to west and north to south, and each has a different character. Near the house, they’re smaller and very formal, but as they expand outwards, they morph into more natural areas that blend in with the surrounding countryside.
The property is tiny compared to Berkeley Hall, but I feel so much safer here. It’s such a relief being employed by an organisation that I respect, trust and believe in rather than finding myself at the mercy of a single powerful individual. I still can’t think about Peter Berkeley without feeling physically sick.
But now my future feels full of possibility. I don’t plan on leaving Hidcote anytime soon, but it’s exciting to think about the opportunities I might have to work at other properties in the future.
I’m finishing work a bit earlier than usual today as in the morning I’m off on holiday for a week in Southwold. I’ve already packed and I’m looking forward to a seaside break in Suffolk, even if there’s a part of me that will miss the gardens here.
‘I’ll be back in a week,’ I tell the little robin. ‘Will you wait for me?’
I talk to birds now. No madness in my family.
I pop by the office to say goodbye to Lottie and collect my things. She’s been reviewing the planting for next year – looking at the balance of texture, height and colour of the foliage and flowers. I’ve learned so much from her.
Right now, she’s sitting at the desk, staring at her laptop screen, catching up on some admin.
‘Isn’t Berkeley Hall the place you worked at?’ she asks casually, glancing over her shoulder at me as I pick up my tote bag.
My chest violently constricts.
‘Yes?’
She returns her attention to the screen. ‘A head gardener position has come up there.’
I frown at her. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Work email.’
‘From the National Trust?’
She nods and I slowly put down my bag.
‘Why is the NT featuring gardening positions at Berkeley Hall?’ I ask carefully. ‘It’s privately owned.’
‘No, we acquired it earlier this year,’ she corrects me.
‘What?’
I feel as though the blood has drained from my body as I read over her shoulder.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
It’s been just over two years since I left Berkeley Hall and it took me a good long while to recover. But this year, thanks to a lot of counselling that I finally stopped shying away from, I’ve begun to feel like my old self again.
I was traumatised by what happened – the lack of control I’d had over my job, the power Ash’s father had wielded over both Ash and me, the falling-out with my colleagues, the way Ash turned to Beca, time and time again. Coupled with the pressure of finding somewhere to live and starting a new job, I felt as though I was cracking up.
I’d thought I was prepared for losing Ash. I wasn’t. Looking back now, it’s obvious that I had some sort of breakdown.
My counsellor has helped me to work through not just what happened at Berkeley Hall, but everything in the years that led up to it. I’m still reeling from what we uncovered in our sessions, but my journey makes more sense now.
A couple of months ago, I wrote my parents a letter. Really, it was my mum I most wanted to say my piece to. I was nervous at the thought of her reading my words, or worse, not reading them, but to my surprise she texted within a couple of days to ask to speak.
I can still remember the timbre of her voice, the unnerving hesitation before ‘I’m sorry’ left her lips.
I know how much it cost her to say those two words, but they lifted a weight. I carry hope now for a future where we might have some sort of relationship.
Thinking of Ash is still so painful, but I haven’t ruled out the possibility of one day trying to find closure with him too. Presently, though, the thought of him being married to Beca makes me feel as fragile as cracked glass, so for now I need to leave him in my past.
But with this news of Berkeley Hall’s acquisition, I won’t sleep until I find out exactly how this happened. Did Peter Berkeley die?
I make it only as far as my little blue Renault ZOE in the car park before I’m typing ‘Viscount Peter Berkeley’ into the search engine of the new iPhone I got a few months ago so I could listen to audiobooks on my commute to work. I’m still on a hiatus from social media after I went onto Instagram one time and couldn’t resist checking out Evan’s profile. He’d obviously left Berkeley Hall, but I felt so raw at seeing his face and being taken back to that time, I deleted the app.
The results for Viscount Peter Berkeley turn up contact information, a Wikipedia entry and … an obituary:
Viscount (Peter) Berkeley has died, aged sixty-five.
The article waxes lyrical about his important work, his varying interests and the history of his family, so I skim over the words, feeling ill at the sight of his smug face and steel-grey eyes, until I reach the bottom.
The heir to his viscountcy is his only remaining son, Ashton.
I quickly scroll back up to the top to check the date and I’m shaken to discover that Peter Berkeley died in the middle of January, five months after I’d left Berkeley Hall.
Did Ash try to reach me? Did anyone ? This was around the time I’d changed my phone, but my number should still have worked. I’m disturbed by the way my stomach has become taut with tension.
I’m trembling as I type ‘the Honourable Ashton Berkeley’ into the search engine before deleting it and typing ‘Viscount Ashton Berkeley’ instead.
Very little comes up about him, but I do find the news of the house sale to the National Trust, as well as the mention of his engagement to Rebecca. There appears to be no coverage of their wedding.
The hope that floods my chest at this scares me. I’m not thinking straight as I open my contacts and curse out loud at the reminder that I only transferred over the details that I wanted at the time.
Back to the internet: I start with Sian and find her on LinkedIn. I’m surprised to read that she’s left Berkeley Hall and now works near Cardiff at Dyffryn Gardens, which is run by the National Trust.
Using the same standard configuration for all NT staff members, I type out an email.
Subject: Hello stranger!
Sian! How are you? I hope you don’t mind me emailing you out of the blue – it’s been a long time, sorry – but I’ve only just heard about the acquisition of Berkeley Hall. Do you know anything about it? I’d love to talk to you. If you could give me a call, I’d really appreciate it.
I sign off with my name and number and then start the ignition, turning my attention to driving home.
My phone rings with a number I don’t recognise soon after I’ve arrived back at my apartment.
I’ve just been reading what I can about Beca. She seems to be living in London and working for a fashion PR company, and her Instagram page shows images of her on holiday in Crete, draped over a hot man with an eagle tattoo on one arm.
The sight of her with someone other than Ash makes my pulse race with frightening speed, but I don’t dare hope, not until I know for sure what’s going on. I haven’t found any more news about Ash.
I answer the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Ellie!’
‘Sian!’
‘It’s so good to hear from you!’
Some of the tension in my body begins to ease at the sound of her warm voice.
‘Thank you for calling me,’ I say.
‘I was so happy to see your name in my inbox. I’ve thought about emailing you so many times, but I never quite manage it. It all became so weird at the end.’
‘I know,’ I agree.
‘But enough about the shit old days. How are you?’
‘I’m well, thanks. I’m still at Hidcote – I love it. I see you’re at Dyffryn?’
‘Yeah, can’t believe I made the change after so long at Berkeley, but I haven’t looked back. Celyn and Catrin tied the knot last summer, I don’t know if you know that?’
‘I haven’t stayed in touch with anyone,’ I admit.
‘I hear from Bethan from time to time. Harri left too, after they split up, but she’s seeing Jac now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, I know! I always thought he was such a lad, but they live together at number two.’
‘You mean at the workers’ cottages? They weren’t sold?’
‘What planet have you been living on? No, I don’t know what all that was about, but Lord Berkeley seemed to lose interest in the idea after you left. Or maybe the sale was ticking along in the background, but then he had his stroke and was incapacitated—’
‘Peter Berkeley had a stroke?’
‘Two, in the end. The second one took him out.’
Am I cruel to feel no sympathy?
‘What happened to Ash?’
‘Well, obviously he inherited because he sold the place, but Lady Berkeley is still at the house. Ash did a deal with the NT so she could carry on living there.’
My insides are a writhing tangle of nerves. ‘I couldn’t find anything about his wedding to Beca.’
‘Wedding?’
‘I saw an engagement notice online.’
‘Fake news! God knows where that came from.’
I’m barely able to concentrate on what she’s saying. My head is buzzing, my pulse tripping.
Is it possible that Ash is out there somewhere with no ties to anyone or anything?
Hope blooms bright, lighting my insides, and the daisies inside my chest cavity lift their heads and reach for the sun.
‘Do you know where Ash is?’ I interrupt Sian to ask outright.
‘I’m afraid not, but Celyn might. Do you have his number?’
‘No. Could I have it? Does he still live at number five?’
‘As far as I know, but I made it a point not to ask. Let me find his contact details.’
Celyn doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter. I can try again once I’m on the road.
Just before I leave, I open the Airbnb app, find my booking in Southwold and press the button to cancel, not even flinching at the penalty I’ll be paying for the late cancellation.
I dread to think what would have happened if I’d heard this news earlier in the week – I suspect I might well have walked out on the best job I’ve ever had.
I need to be in Wales right now, looking for answers.
Finding Ash.
I’m terrified.