Authors: Lesley Pearse
‘All of us have lives of our own now. That’s the way it should be too. Rob’s and my house will always be open to either of you, but we intend to start a family as soon as possible.’
Prue’s flat face seemed to close up, eyes narrowing and two red spots of indignation appearing on her cheeks.
‘But what will happen to this place if you don’t come here?’ James spoke up at last. Always the peacemaker, he was trying to find a middle way. He had grown another couple of inches since the funeral and despite his rather unkempt hair there was new maturity in his face. ‘It’s silly letting it lie empty, or just letting Margaret and Tom look after it for no one.’
‘Do you dream of living here one day?’ Charity asked him. He looked so much like Toby she often expected him to react in the same way. ‘Do you imagine living here with a wife and children?’
‘Give us a chance, Chas!’ he retorted. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Even after medical school I’ll have to be a junior houseman in hospital and work for a while in a general practice with other doctors. I could be thirty before I’m free to work from here.’
‘Are you saying you want Rob and me to sit it out here until then, putting all our dreams on hold?’
James looked sheepish.
‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that,’ he said quickly. ‘But I can’t possibly take responsibility now.’
‘So it’s down to you, Prue,’ Charity said, turning back to her sister. Prue was sitting very stiffly, bristling with indignation. ‘You work in Reading, you could easily commute. Do you think you might marry again, have children here?’
‘I’m settled now. I like living in the town.’ Prue’s face grew flushed and she picked distractedly at the bottom of her sweater.
‘As I see it, there’s only one choice then,’ Charity said. ‘To sell it and forget about it.’
‘But we can’t do that. It’s been in the family for four generations.’ Prue jumped out of her seat, eyes blazing. ‘Uncle Stephen would turn in his grave, and Grandfather.’
A presence had crept into the room. Charity felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She was reminded sharply that Stephen had been murdered in the room next door and she could almost hear the sound of his wheelchair, see his fat, florid face glowering at her.
‘Why should we carry on their selfish traditions?’ she snapped back, determined not to be undermined by ghosts. ‘What do we owe them?’
‘He left it to us, isn’t that enough?’ Prue scowled. Flouncing across the room she leaned one elbow on the mantelpiece.
Charity surveyed her sister dispassionately. The events of the past year had changed Prue in many ways, but today she was behaving much as she had in her teens, so full of her own importance she couldn’t think of anyone else.
James was watching both his sisters with a slightly bemused expression. Toby would’ve thrown in more fuel to turn it into a battle. James preferred to sit back and observe silently.
‘If Uncle Stephen hadn’t filled Toby’s head with grand ideas, he might not be dead now,’ Charity reminded them both. ‘Do you think I want my children to grow up in a place where people will tell them how one uncle murdered another?’
As she spoke the hasty words, she realised that this was her best reason for wanting to be free of this place. There was poison in every brick, however lovely it looked. A long line of conniving, arrogant men here had manipulated their way through life, stifled their women, treated their children with utter disregard.
‘I thought we’d agreed never to mention that again?’ James piped up, a little nervous now sparks were flying.
‘Other people will always mention it here,’ Charity said gently, a little ashamed that once again she had allowed Prue to provoke her. ‘If you two decide you want to hang on to it, that’s up to you. But I want no part in it.’
‘I bet you’ll want the money, though,’ Prue sniped, turning her back on Charity.
‘How dare you?’ Charity snapped, jumping up from her seat, on the point of slapping her sister. ‘I’ve never wanted a thing from this estate and well you know it.’
‘But it’s different now,’ Prue sneered. ‘Bet you won’t give your share away!’
Leaving the room was the only dignified thing for Charity to do. She ran upstairs, cheeks flushed with anger, sorely tempted to phone Rob and ask him to come later and collect her.
But as she opened the door of the bedroom Margaret had prepared for her, anger vanished. A fire had been lit, even though it was hardly necessary now central heating had been put in, and the warmth was soothing. This was where she’d spent her first night in Studley. The twin beds with high carved headboards, the matching wardrobe and dressing-table were just the same, but Margaret had woven a little magic here too.
It had been redecorated and now had flower-sprigged walls and pale pink curtains. The beds were covered in old patchwork quilts made by her grandmother, and the room was carpeted.
Charity drew the curtains, turned on the bedside lamp and flopped down on one of the beds, smiling at the little feminine touches. A couple of framed embroidered samplers made by her own mother, a vase of Michaelmas daisies and a row of garish paperbacks were intended to make it feel homely.
But it wasn’t homely. She wanted to live in a place where she could slop around in her dressing-gown all day if she chose.
‘Imagine wanting a cup of tea at two in the morning,’ she murmured, shuddering at the thought of going alone along all those dark passages. ‘Even using the toilet here takes courage!’
She took off her suit and pulled jeans and a sweater out of the bag Margaret had thoughtfully brought up. Prue probably had fanciful ideas about dressing for dinner, but Charity intended to be comfortable if further arguments were on the cards tonight.
She couldn’t go back downstairs until Prue had simmered down. Instead she wandered into her grandmother’s old room.
Margaret had been busy here too. The half-tester bed with its ornate carvings had been polished, the drapes cleaned. The mirrors on the dressing-table sparkled and each dainty brass handle gleamed. Even the old-lady smell had gone, replaced by a faint whiff of lavender.
Charity sat down on the stool in front of the dressing-table, picked up one of the silver-backed hairbrushes and ran it through her hair, absent-mindedly. She was thinking of the day Uncle Stephen sent her up here to get Grandmother’s jewellery box. It was in the bank vault now. What would they do with them? She couldn’t see either Prue or herself decking themselves out in such valuable things.
‘Perhaps Prue and I could have one of these each, though,’ she murmured, studying the intricate design on the brush. Like the sapphire earrings, they came from Grandmother’s family, possibly made by the silversmiths Grandmother had told her about.
Charity’s mother had been conceived and born in that bed. Was she kept by her grandmother’s side in those early days, in the ancient rocking crib she’d seen years ago in the nursery? Or did Grandmother pass her over at birth to a nurse and only look at her once she was fed and changed?
Charity smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She had put on the few pounds she’d lost after the accident and her skin had a rosy bloom which owed nothing to makeup. Her breasts were fuller too, pushing out her cream sweater. Turning sideways she studied her stomach: it was as flat as a board now; hips as narrow and boyish as always in her tight jeans, but inside a tiny life was growing by the hour. She hadn’t even told Rob yet. For now, it was just the most delicious secret to be savoured by her alone.
Charity had felt the moment of conception even though she knew most people would laugh at such a claim. Rob had taken her to a remote cottage in Wales for a weekend six weeks ago and they’d made love on a rug in front of a log fire. There had been so many memorable nights of love with him, but that had been the wildest, the sweetest of them all. A storm broke while they were lying in each other’s arms and although the tiny cottage was quivering with the force of wind and rain she had never felt such perfect peace or safety as she had that night. Rob had carried her into the bedroom later because she’d laughingly claimed she couldn’t move.
‘I’ll allow you to be idle tonight,’ Rob said, tucking her in with such tenderness it made her want to cry. ‘But don’t make a habit of it.’
Now she knew why she hadn’t wanted to move. That microscopic sperm was swimming towards its goal, maybe even at that moment it had fused with her egg, creating the greatest gift of all: their child.
The elation had grown daily since that night, blissful hours spent dreaming of what was to come. This child would be the distillation of everything they felt for one another.
She turned on the stool, reminding herself that maybe it was only a nesting instinct that made her so adamant about not living here, and studied the room carefully.
Setting aside the fact that this room was Tudor, the oak panelling and the tiled fireplace both original, there was the furniture to consider. If the house was sold, what would become of it? It was all too big and ornate to put in a smaller place. Yet could she really face seeing it auctioned off? To see family history wiped out at the drop of a mallet? She might not care personally about any of these pieces, but Prue and James might come to resent her cavalier attitude in years to come.
‘Americans would love to stay here,’ she mused, imagining the room made more sumptuous with fitted carpets and an en-suite bathroom fitted into the closet that led off it.
An image of Bermuda-shorted people made her smile. They would be clicking their cameras non stop, asking if there were ghosts and secret passages, and ‘Did Charles I really stay here? In this bed?’
She thought of the library, the drawing room with its magnificent fireplace and Gothic ceiling, the gracious dining room, all crying out to be used and seen. Then there were the north wing, shut off for so many years, the octagonal chapel, the outhouses, the stables which hadn’t seen a horse for over thirty years.
An idea was coming to her, images jumping into her mind so fast Charity felt a surge of excitement. She jumped up and ran out of the room, wanting to tell Prue and James straight away, but knew she must think it through first.
She opened the doors of all the bedrooms, viewing them as dispassionately as a tourist would. They all had attributes of one kind or another, whether it was sloping floors and beams, amazing old beds fit for royalty, or just stupendous views over the surrounding countryside.
Closing the doors she walked down the corridor, past the spiral staircase which led to the attic rooms once occupied by servants, and opened the door that led to the north wing.
She paused, hands sliding over the massive oak-framed doorway. It was icy cold here and smelt musty. Someone had put in electric light, but the naked bulb overhead was dim, making the passageway almost ghostly.
For a moment she was deterred, especially when the door swung to behind her with heavy finality. Her feet echoed on the uneven stained wood floor, which creaked ominously as she attempted to soften her step. The first two rooms she came to had no light bulbs and all she could make out was old-fashioned bedsteads, the mattresses long since thrown out.
The time warp was complete. These rooms were unchanged since this part of the Priory was added in 1666. She could imagine little maids scurrying in and out, helping their mistresses to arrange their hair, lace up their stays; she could even see men in velvet doublets with huge lace collars.
Another staircase led down to the chapel and all those other rooms untouched for years. Once when this was a nunnery a church and cloisters had stood down below, but these had been demolished during the dissolution of the monasteries and the buildings converted to a manor house.
Charity stopped in the passage where oil paintings were stacked against the wall, and tentatively lifted the layers of sacking and newspaper. When she had come here all those years ago she hadn’t had even a shred of interest in all those gloomy pictures of previous owners of the house, but now she wanted to see them. As she pulled back the covers and found a severe-looking military man staring disapprovingly back at her, she laughed aloud.
‘Thank goodness someone had the presence of mind to take them down and protect them,’ she said aloud, her voice echoing in the dusty passage. The gilt frames were undamaged, and though candlelight and big fires had dulled the colours, she knew a restorer could bring them back to life.
Finally the nursery wing right at the end. An old rocking horse, a wooden cart big enough to be harnessed to a small pony, a tiny table and minute chairs made with love stood in the playroom. Next door in the schoolroom, where the young Stephen and Gwen had had their lessons with a governess, the small lift-top desks were still in place, dust almost concealing the gouges made by pen nibs. Someone, perhaps Toby, had drawn a smiling face on the blackboard, there was a huge globe, an old piano and an ancient sewing machine, but perhaps a more poignant reminder of how these children were brought up was the thin, smooth cane still lying on the governess’s desk.
Charity felt cold now and she turned back without bothering to look in the night nursery or the room that had presumably belonged to the nursemaids. The distance from here to the main part of the house told of parental neglect, and in her present state she didn’t want to dwell on it.
Once back in the warm main wing, she heard Prue and James’s unexpected laughter wafting up with a smell of roast beef. She stopped at the bathroom to wash her hands. This and the new kitchen installed below were really the only evidence that they were in the 1970s. The old kitchen with its black range and huge pots was still there, shut up for years along with the laundry, stillroom and buttery, all still equipped, unless Margaret had taken it upon herself to have a clearout.
A bang on the gong startled Charity and she smiled at the pretentiousness of being called for dinner in such a way. Uncle Stephen had insisted on it, even when he was the only person being summoned, because it had been used when he was a boy.
As Charity walked down the stairs, James and Prue were coming out of the drawing room. Prue looked up at Charity and smiled bleakly, as if she felt she ought to apologise but didn’t know how.