Authors: Lulu Taylor
‘Oh right.’ Ben nodded. He was an adolescent mixture of confidence and self-doubt, obviously terrified of Flick, who was an old hand in papers and had no fear of speaking her mind and administering a good tongue lashing when she felt like it. ‘I’ll tell the picture desk. Fuckin’ morons,’ he added, to pass off responsibility for wasting Flick’s time.
Flick leaned forward again. She put one hand to her dark blonde ponytail and started whirling the hair round her fingers in the habit she had when she was thinking. She stared at the pictures. ‘The old one. Tara. She’s not looking happy, is she? I suppose that’s what it’s like when it turns out your old man’s up for grand theft and facing a stretch inside.’ Flick examined the pictures a little more closely. ‘But the funny thing is, she’s not doing the usual rich wife thing of standing by him. I mean, he’s only stolen some money, he hasn’t
buggered
any farmyard animals or anything – not as far as I know, anyway. Most wives would do their best to keep their bloke out of prison, wouldn’t they?’ She became thoughtful. ‘And now these girls have actually got their hands on the family millions, they’re not looking too happy about it, are they? Pretty damn miserable, if you think about it.’ She turned to the young reporter. ‘What do you notice about most of these pictures, Ben?’
‘Errr …’ Ben gazed at them all intently as if thinking hard but his mind was obviously blank. ‘Errr … dunno.’
‘Wanna be an investigative journalist, do you, kiddo? Try turning on your fucking brain. Nearly all these pictures have the girls entering and leaving the same place. Their family company.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘So these rich bitches have never had to do a day’s work in their lives! OK, apart from the oldest,’ Flick conceded, ‘she’s a banker or something. But the other two … wafting through life like a couple of pretty butterflies sucking the nectar. And here they are, going to work every day almost like normal people.’
Ben frowned. ‘So what?’
‘So what? So I get the feeling there might be a story there, you great bloody numbskull!’ Flick sat back in her chair. ‘Remember when the blonde one went out with that rock star? No one could get enough of her. Then she went and married some lord, their wedding pictures were all over the place, supposedly
they
lived happy ever after. You don’t see ’em together much, though, do you? Well, I think it’s time we all found out what happened next to the Heiresses, don’t you?’
Ben nodded, smirking.
38
‘LORD HARRY’S BEEN
called away this morning,’ the housekeeper said frostily. ‘Something to do with estate business. The new manager.’
‘OK, Teri. Thanks.’
The housekeeper turned and stalked away, leaving no doubt as to her lack of pleasure at seeing Jemima back at Herne. As for mentioning the new manager … well, Jemima knew exactly what kind of point Teri was trying to ram home. She could forget it. There was no way Jemima was going to let any sly little digs get to her.
She left her bag in the hall, a long stone-flagged room with high mullioned windows and a large fireplace, big enough for a man to stand up in, at either end. Over each fireplace hung a vast portrait of one of Harry’s ancestors. One was a florid, Regency buck, in a tight scarlet jacket, buff breeches and high buckled shoes. From his white stock rose a plump red face, the dark hair on top brushed forward in the
neo-classical
fashion of the day. He was painted against a torrid background of grey clouds and distant fields and villages, no doubt supposed to represent his large estates. The other painting portrayed a Cavalier and his wife, the lord in a suit of blue satin with a high lace collar of intricate work and long boots, his lady with similar rich lacework at the bosom and sleeves of her flowing silk gown, her fair hair falling in short, pretty ringlets round her forehead and over her ears. Her hand rested on the jewelled collar worn round the neck of an elegant greyhound.
For how many centuries had Harry’s ancestors enjoyed wealth and influence? How many Lord Calthorpes had strode across this hall, warmed themselves in front of these fireplaces, and talked about the political issues of the day? Jemima smiled wryly to herself. How many had made their poor wives miserable?
She had been dreading this trip to Herne. It felt as though she were about to get some bad news, a negative prognosis. Something that would change her life yet again. She didn’t want to face it.
As she’d driven down the long drive towards the house, she’d been struck again by the beauty of Herne. How different it was to London, with its hot pavements and dusty roads and millions of people. Here, it was peaceful and cool. Early summer, she felt, must be the most beautiful time of the year in England. The park was clad in fresh lime greens, the trees dressed in new leaves, the grass young and juicy. The countryside was alive with activity and mad with life:
birds
darted in the hedgerows, chirruping madly, bees buzzed lazily in the warm air, eddies of tiny summer flies whirled about after their own strange devices. Amongst all this, the house sat, ancient, benign and almost heartstoppingly beautiful.
She had filled with sorrow as she took all this in. It could have been her home, the place where she belonged. But that would never happen now. It was becoming clearer and clearer that Harry couldn’t forgive her for what had happened. She wasn’t even sure she could forgive herself.
Harry had never understood how unalike they were, what different lives they led. He’d been worshipped all his life. His parents adored him, he’d been cherished from the day he was born. He didn’t know what it was to crave approval, to need love, to find it anywhere you knew how.
My problem
, Jemima reflected,
is that I never learned how to say no. Not to other people and not to myself
.
She didn’t want to stay in the castle on a day like this. It was always dark and gloomy inside and when the summer came, it felt emptier and lonelier than ever. Perhaps it could have been different if he’d allowed her to make it the home she’d longed for with him. Jemima had envisaged the most glorious parties at Herne. She’d wanted to invite all her friends for weekend after weekend. She’d yearned to throw open the doors, clean out all the rooms and have people to stay. What was this huge house designed for, if not people? Those lords in the Great Hall did not live in this place alone, or just with their wives and
children.
The place would have been crammed full of friends, relations, servants, staff, animals and all manner of passers-through. That was the nature of these homes. They were never intended to be private houses, they were built to be great and extraordinary public places, where a noble family could be observed going about its life, where dozens of people were fed and housed each day. They were not supposed to be shut up and closed off, with no one to admire the brilliance of the stonework, the ornate plaster, the rich tapestries and fine damask curtains; the paintings of long-dead people were staring out in their galleries at nothing.
Harry did not agree. He was desperate to preserve the house and that, for him, meant closing it away, mothballing it. No one would be allowed in save the honoured few, his friends from school and university, his close-knit little circle.
That was his way of saving Herne: cutting back, shutting down. The house was hardly heated in winter. The interior, save for Jemima’s own room, had not been touched in nearly twenty years. Money went on immediate and urgent repairs and just getting through another year. Harry would not hear of opening the house to the paying public.
‘They’d destroy it,’ he’d say stubbornly. ‘Besides, who’d want to see it in this state? It would be more trouble than it’s worth.’
Jemima had always felt that was a shame. There were so many treasures that no one ever saw. It was like Karl Lagerfeld designing his latest collection and
then
shutting it away for no one to see, enjoy and applaud. To her, beautiful things were made to be looked at. What else were they for?
She wandered through the deserted house. At the door to the estate office, she stopped, remembering the day almost two years ago when she’d gone in that fateful afternoon. She pressed her ear close to the door and listened. There was no sound from inside. Once, the door had stood open most of the time, Guy’s merry voice coming loudly from within as he chatted on the phone or to his assistant. Harry would bound in and out all day to chase up bits of estate business or just for a bit of time to relax and banter with Guy. Guy always made him smile. He was a ray of light in the house. Everyone gravitated towards him. Even Teri, whose favourite had always been Harry, couldn’t resist taking him cups of tea and plates of biscuits.
Now the office was closed up and deserted. The new estate manager must work off site, Jemima realised. Harry didn’t trust anyone any more, it seemed.
She let herself out of an external door and into the gardens. On this side of the house were the kitchen gardens, still faithfully tended by the gardener of twenty years, and they produced mounds of delicious fresh fruit and vegetables. It was too early in the year for the harvest to have really begun, but the signs were there: soon there would be strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants. The vegetable gardens would be teeming with lettuces, tomatoes, courgettes,
peas,
beans, corn and more. The greenhouses would provide yet more: grapes, cucumbers, peppers, Italian bell tomatoes, basil … There was far too much for the household to use. Harry sent most of it to local farm shops. Every little scrap of profit helped.
She walked up and down the pathways between the beds, savouring the fresh, green scent of the gardens, the earthy, peaty smell of plants soaking up sunshine and feeding their fruit with it. The red-brick walls were reflecting the morning heat. She pulled off her pink cashmere jumper and found it was plenty warm enough to wear only her little white Comme des Garçons T-shirt. From the gardens, she walked towards the old stable block, now empty. Harry kept two hunters but he no longer stabled them here. He didn’t have the time or staff to manage their upkeep, so they were at stables a couple of miles away where they could be cared for and exercised properly.
The stables were cool and dark, scented with hay and the faint tangy aroma of manure. Old tack hung on the walls and bits of ancient farm machinery had been dumped here too.
‘Another waste,’ muttered Jemima to herself. ‘It’s all falling further into rack and ruin.’
She looked at her watch. Surely Harry would be back by now. She wandered slowly to the house, reluctant to leave the peace and quiet of the old stable block and carriage houses. They were so picturesque, with their quaint arched doorways, battered wooden gates and flagged floors. But she knew she couldn’t put off seeing Harry much longer.
She was coming back to the side door when she heard the roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel in front of the house. Harry had returned. Inside the house, it seemed gloomier than ever in contrast to the bright day outside. She walked along the corridor towards the hall. Suddenly, a dark shape appeared in front of her. She blinked.
‘Hello, Jemima,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Good to see you.’
He came towards her, his outline resolving in the full, flesh and blood Harry she remembered so well.
‘Hi, Harry.’ She tilted one cheek up for him to kiss.
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s go and do that. Teri’s laid something out for us on the terrace.’
They went out to the terrace. It was beautifully warm, sheltered from the breeze, the old grey stones already toasty from the absorbed rays of sunshine. Teri had put on a spread of cold ham, chicken, cheese, salads and fresh brown bread. A Pouilly-Fumé was chilling in a bucket beside two crystal wine glasses.
‘This is very nice,’ Jemima said, sitting down.
‘It feels like summer’s really here, doesn’t it?’ Harry joined her. ‘God, I love this time of year.’
‘Even though you can’t shoot anything.’
‘Plenty of other things to keep me occupied.’ He passed her a plate.
‘How is everything at Herne?’
As they ate, Harry told her how the estate was progressing: the farm was doing well, the yields were
high.
The price of wheat was helping, of course, and he was glad he’d stuck to arable when people were urging him to turn more land over to dairy production. Rents were good and steady. But the house was still sucking away most of his income. The bequest from Jemima’s mother was earmarked for the roof, and just that one job would use almost all of it.
‘So there’s still a lot to do here. As soon as one problem gets cleared up, another raises its ugly head,’ Harry said. He sipped at the cold white wine. ‘And you? How’s the Trevellyan project going?’
‘Things are certainly quite different to how they used to be,’ Jemima said almost wistfully. ‘We’re progressing well but I’m afraid I will have to sell my flat.’
‘What, Eaton Square?’ Harry looked concerned. ‘Really?’
Jemima nodded. ‘It’s worth a lot. I’ve got to free up the cash. We desperately need it.’ She told him briefly about the situation they’d found themselves in, about the way that the French department store managers had been so dismissive of her, and how their English counterparts had been much the same when she had tried to approach them, if a little more friendly in the way they did it. She explained about the cost of launching a new perfume and of her struggle to come up with a famous face for the brand. And the fact that unless they could break into the American market, they were doomed to remain just a small-time niche perfume house for ever.
By the time she finished, Harry was smiling at her.
‘What?’ she said, slightly cross. ‘It’s not funny, you know.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just so strange to hear all these things coming out of your mouth. Not so long ago, it was all about your society friends. I mean, what’s Tiggy up to? And Martha? And Gigi de Monte Carlo, or whatever that ridiculous princess’s name was?’
‘They’re all fine.’ Jemima shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen anyone for ages. Just my closest friends, really. And my sisters. We seem to spend all our time together these days. I’m too exhausted after a day in the office to go out much.’