Authors: Lulu Taylor
‘Oh my God!’ Jemima had exclaimed. ‘What a magnificent house!’
‘It’s a castle, actually,’ Harry had said with a grin, turning to her. She had been in love with him then, pure, fizzing, tummy-turning-over love. It was hard to remember how it had felt, now that their relationship had deteriorated so badly.
She’d loved Herne then, before she’d realised what it really and truly meant. It had looked like a fairytale, the kind of castle the heroine is taken to at the end of the story, where she will live happily ever after – but that was a disguise. The truth was that Herne was a burden; it was a parasite, ready to suck away the lifeblood of anyone who lived there, as they grappled with what caring for this great lump of stone, brick and glass entailed.
And yet Harry loved it with a passion that he’d never been able to show for her.
The car pulled up in front of the house, its windows glowing in the darkness. The door opened, illuminating
the
stone steps in front, and the housekeeper came down to greet them.
‘Lord Harry, welcome home.’ She bowed her head slightly in Jemima’s direction. ‘Your ladyship.’
‘Hello, Teri.’ Jemima coolly stalked past their housekeeper into the front hall. Teri had always hated her. They all did – all of the staff who’d worked here since before she and Harry had married. She knew what they thought of her: that she was a flighty, fluff-headed socialite who cared only about fashion, money and parties. They all worshipped at the shrine of Harry’s mother, the late viscountess, who’d been an angel on the earth, helping the poor, opening hospitals, raising money for the sick, and, above all, had been loyal to Herne to her very last breath.
Well, they can fuck off, all of them. I’m not changing my ways, especially not for a pack of bolshy servants
.
Jemima had less than no interest in acting the lady of the manor. She did what she had to do and then scarpered back to London as fast as she could, back to the life she knew and where she felt secure.
How could she be happy in this huge, draughty, dark house, with a husband who loathed her guts? No way. She remembered one time early in their affair when Harry had brought her to Herne. He’d been showing her round the house when some bell or other had summoned him away. He’d left her in front of a painting of the River Thames at Abingdon and told her to wait there; he’d be right back. She’d lingered for a while in front of the picture, studying every aspect of the old church and the riverside, the swans and the boats.
Then
she’d started to become wary of the quiet and gloom, and wondered where on earth she was, and where Harry was, and how she would find him again. She began to walk down the corridor but must have missed a turning somewhere and ended up in a dark, narrow little hallway lined with locked doors. The house became suddenly frightening, menacing. She thought of the people who had once lived in this place, the ghosts that perhaps lingered on, and she began to spook herself. Turning back the way she’d come, she started to run along the corridor, breathless and cold, but found herself again somewhere entirely new, somewhere she hadn’t been before.
‘Harry! Harry!’ she’d cried, almost sobbing. Where was he? Then she’d burst through a heavy red baize door and appeared on the grand walkway above the great marble staircase. She ran down, relieved to recognise her surroundings. She found Harry, talking away to Guy in the estate office. He always forgot the time once he and Guy got talking about all the business of the day. She’d fallen into his arms and he’d hugged her tightly. Burying her face in his neck, she had at once been comforted by his sweet, musky smell, his rough wool jumper holding the scent of bonfires and pine needles. The fear vanished. She was safe again.
Now she knew Herne much better. Although there were plenty of rooms she’d never entered and whole wings she’d only wandered round once, she was unlikely to get lost. But she’d never forgotten how threatened she’d felt that day she lost Harry. Whenever she was at Herne, she could never entirely shake
that
fear away. It was why she couldn’t wait to get back to London.
She went straight to her bedroom. It was the one room in the house that Harry had allowed her to redecorate. She had been given free rein and had indulged herself with creating a simply gorgeous boudoir, and it was now the only room in the whole castle where she felt comfortable. Her vast white bed dominated the room. The stone walls were freshly replastered and painted a soft chalk white, and the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling had been picked out in black, so that it was dramatically accentuated against the white. Her bedroom was part of the original Elizabethan house with walls six feet deep and arched stone windows with tiny, diamond-shaped panes of glass – beautiful but draughty in winter. Thick oatmeal velvet curtains with an oversized purple damask pattern shut out the cold and the icy stone flags on the floor were covered in a pale sisal wool carpet and then finished off with lush white rugs. A chaise longue designed by Philippe Starke curved sensuously at the end of the bed. Jemima had had her pick of the most exquisite antique furniture in the house and her bedside table was a heavy Jacobean carved chest, the contemporary glass and silver lamp on top of it providing a wonderful contrast against the dark wood.
She sat down for a moment in front of her Linley dressing table, a simple piece of sycamore with rosewood stringing and burr ash inlay.
Mixed emotions coursed through her. Today she had buried her mother. Today she had discovered the
final
twisted trick the old woman had been hiding up her sleeve. Today she had had to face what life might be like without her juicy allowance from Trevellyan.
No. That will never happen! I won’t let it!
She stared at her white face and wide blue-grey eyes. Was that fear she could see in them? It couldn’t possibly be. Jemima Trevellyan was rarely cowed by anything. She laughed at authority and courted danger. She was a risk-taker, a game player. Wasn’t she?
But suppose, for a moment, she lost it all. Suppose she lost the independence that her Trevellyan money gave her … what would she be left with? A life at Herne with Harry. No Eaton Square flat to escape to. No more shopping, parties, excitement. Perhaps the press and media, which she had always scorned, would lose interest in her and there would be no more diary pieces or two-page spreads on her fabulous life and celebrity friends. Or worse, perhaps they would write fake sympathy pieces about her fall from grace and publish photographs of her in last season’s clothes, shopping in the village without make-up on.
She shuddered.
The worst of all was that if it was all taken away from her, it would be given to Jecca.
Evil, fucking, despicable Jecca, who’d done her best to destroy the family.
Jemima felt her fist clench.
How could Mother have done it? She hated Jecca more than any of us! What made her decide to give her Trevellyan?
She blinked at her reflection.
But only if we fail
, she reminded herself.
Her iPhone chirruped from her bag. She scrabbled inside and picked it up. Tara’s name was illuminated.
‘Hello, Tara.’
‘Mimi, where are you?’
‘Herne.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Tonight, I think.’
‘Tonight?’ Tara sounded worried. ‘It’s so late already. Are you going to drive?’
‘I was planning to.’
‘Mimi, I don’t think you should. You’ve had an incredibly exhausting day; you can’t drive from Dorset to London, it’s too much for you.’
‘You know how I feel about staying here. I can’t bear it.’
‘I know, darling … but really, you can come back first thing tomorrow. What’s another twelve hours? You’ll be asleep for most of that.’
Jemima thought of the four-hour drive ahead of her and then of the beckoning bed in the mirror behind her. ‘All right. I’ll stay till tomorrow. But I’ll be off first thing.’
‘Good. That’s what I was ringing you about. We need to meet with the Trevellyan board urgently. I’ve summoned Victor and his team, and the finance and account directors. We’ll meet in the boardroom tomorrow afternoon at four. Can you be there?’
‘Darling, all I have is an oxygen-blast facial, very easy to cancel. What about you? Your diary is a tiny bit more difficult, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry about that. This is an emergency. Roz
has
cancelled everything for me. We have to get this mess sorted out right away.’
‘For once, I’m in complete agreement.’
‘Good. Poppy will be there too. I’ll see you at Trevellyan House tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Bye, darling.’
‘Bye. Sleep well.’
6
POPPY TREVELLYAN STOOD
in the middle of the chaos in her bedroom and wondered what on earth she would wear.
She was spoiled for choice, that much was certain. Like her sisters, she adored clothes, but while Tara and Jemima took their pick of the most exclusive designers in the world, Poppy’s tastes were somewhat different. Her outfits came from market stalls, second-hand shops, antique markets and junk outlets. She loved the thrill of rifling through a rail or a pile of garments, and discovering the treasure that might lie under a mountain of forgotten nylon and Crimplene.
Who do I want to be today?
she wondered. Bearing in mind that she was going to an office, perhaps she ought to be suited in tailored lines and sober tones.
No. I saw enough of that yesterday at the funeral. And Jemima and Tara do suits all the time. I need something else …
She began to search through her wardrobe, flicking
through
dresses, shirts, skirts and trousers. She found what she was looking for: some tweed shorts, jaunty and sexy with cute little turn-ups. To go with these she found a seventies canary-yellow polo neck and a black swing cardigan fastened with three giant buttons down the left side. To finish it off, she selected her favourite purple patent knee-high boots with stack heels.
When she was dressed, she twirled in front of her long mirror.
Just the thing for a lady of property
, she thought.
She laughed out loud. The very idea that Loxton Hall and everything it contained belonged to her was ridiculous. While all Jemima and Tara worried about were things like the furniture and jewellery, Poppy could only think about the stupid practicalities of the whole thing.
What kind of council tax would she be liable for on a twelve-bedroom Victorian Gothic mansion? She daren’t even imagine.
Would she be expected to pay the staff wages? There was Alice, their housekeeper since they were children, and her husband Tony who’d always looked after the maintenance of the house. Then there were various cleaners, the gardeners and the temporary help from the village.
What kind of insurance was required? How often would the drains have to be checked and the radiators siphoned, or whatever it was that happened to radiators?
These silly questions floated into her mind before all the others. But in reality she knew that she would
never
have much to do with the house. It was part of her mother’s contrary nature that she had given it to her youngest daughter, the only one she could be sure didn’t really want it, just as she had probably taken pleasure in denying it to Tara, the one who yearned to be acknowledged by their mother, to be given the responsibility for something their mother cared about. As for Jemima – she probably couldn’t care less about the house but doubtless wouldn’t have minded some more cash and the family diamonds!
Poppy scrunched her dark hair into a loose ponytail, and finished the look off with some oversized dark glasses.
I know what I’m going to do. As soon as I’m in that boardroom with all those lawyers, I’m simply going to give Loxton back. I don’t want the damn house. I’ve spent my life trying to escape the trappings of the family name and all that it stands for. Mother’s not going to force me back now
.
Grabbing her vintage Dior pouch bag, she closed the door of her flat and ran quickly down the stairs. The one thing she had allowed her money to buy her was this flat, in an area she couldn’t possibly have afforded if she really was the poor artist she pretended to be.
She’d always loved London’s Bloomsbury, with its faded Georgian grandeur and atmosphere of creativity and learning. It was the old stomping ground of Virginia Woolf, Dylan Thomas and other literary greats, and it was full of old bookshops and antiquarian print galleries. Close to the British Museum, the British
Library,
and university and hospital buildings, it seemed to house the heart of the city’s intellect. Its aura of old glamour had a distinctly artistic air, being home to the Courtauld Gallery, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, and many distinguished music and literary venues. But it was an extremely expensive place to live. So Poppy had allowed herself to dip into her trust fund far enough to buy a two-storey flat at the top of a Georgian townhouse in an old square built around an enchanting private garden.
The upstairs floor had a spacious attic room with a glass ceiling that let in masses of daylight and Poppy used this as her design studio. She felt that having this work space justified the money she had spent on the basis that she could now begin to achieve her ambition of making her own way in the world without needing to use her famous Trevellyan name.
But it had been four years now since she had graduated from the Royal Academy Art School and she was no closer to finding what she really wanted to do in life. She had studied fine art but after graduating, she’d decided that she didn’t want to spend her life painting pictures at an easel. She had flirted with lots of other artistic outlets, and still painted from time to time, but she was drifting.
It didn’t help that her painful break-up from Tom, her boyfriend of almost five years, had completely stifled her creativity.
Poppy pulled the front door closed behind her and looked up at the sky. The rain clouds of yesterday had completely vanished and it was a bright, blue spring
day.
She would walk to Trevellyan House, she decided. She couldn’t bear using the Underground on such a beautiful afternoon and she was strict with herself about using taxis too often. It was something she and Tom always used to argue about.