Rumours

‘You have no children – offspring?’ She shouldn’t have said that – it sounded intrusive, impudent.

‘I had a son,’ Lydia said quietly. ‘And I have a daughter. She doesn’t want to live here. She lives with the Welsh.’ She made it sound as though her daughter had converted to an extreme religion and was living as part of a cult in a compound.

What could Stella say to that? Though desperate to know more, she bit her tongue and looked at her hands. Lydia’s were bony and long; papery skin over navy veins like very old corduroy. A signet ring loose on the little finger of her right hand, an antique diamond ring and thin gold wedding band on her left. Stella had a very strange impulse to lean right over the coffee table and take Lady Lydia’s hands in hers, give them a gentle rub. Perhaps Lydia sensed it because she took to her feet and demanded that Stella follow her on a tour of the house.

Sell? Sell all this? Is that really why I’m here? Me? Can’t be.

‘Of course, we’re the wrong way around,’ Lydia said of the drawing room. ‘When I was a girl, this was the dining room – one never had a south-facing drawing room because all the oil paintings would take a thrashing by the sun. That’s why the good paintings are currently in the dining room – which was once the drawing room because it’s north facing. That’s what my father told me – though my mother told me it was because my Fortescue ancestors were atrociously ugly.’ The slicing look Lydia sent Stella informed her that her giggle was inappropriate. ‘Hence them being consigned to a room less used.’ She was leading on, along the flagstone hallway, to the room in question. The same beautiful tall double doors and fanlight as the drawing room, the same lofty windows, but just two of them in here, east facing. The room was light but undeniably cold. The fireplace was bereft of logs, nor was there an electric heater in its place. The cherubs on the plaster frieze weren’t hunting stags here, but hefting urns about. Their naked little bodies made Stella feel the cold on their behalf. The eyes of generations of Fortescues appeared to glower at her from the confines of their florid gilt frames as if to say, who on earth do you think you are to sell our ancestral seat as though it’s a commodity akin to a sack of apples?

‘They’re not so ugly,’ Stella remarked diplomatically, ‘they just look a little – humourless.’

She checked Lady Lydia’s expression. She looked horrified. Stella shivered.

‘Bastard!’

‘Oh God – I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean … I only meant—’

‘Bastard bastard bloody dog! Barnaby! Mrs Biggins!’

It was then that Stella noticed a furl of turd that had been deposited (quite some time ago, it seemed) on the floor just by the head of the table.

‘It’s testimony to the airiness of the room that one cannot – detect it,’ Stella said.

Lydia stared at her, unblinkingly, before nodding slowly. ‘You are most certainly an estate agent,’ she said, but Stella was unable to tell whether this was a compliment or an insult. ‘You call it spin, don’t you. This way.’ They left the door open and the dog mess for Mrs Biggins to deal with; crossed the staircase and entrance hallway and went into the library. This room was as warm and inviting as the dining room was cold and uncongenial. Stella thought, I don’t care how common I might appear – and she said ‘Wow!’ out loud as she beamed at the three walls given over almost entirely to handsome mahogany bookcases – mostly carrying leather-bound volumes. Stella estimated the longest was at least twenty feet. Three leather Chesterton sofas at right angles to each other were set around a low table in front of the fireplace stacked with logs. A desk with a dark green leather inlay was positioned by one window, a writing bureau at the other. Stella perused the titles. French and English novels, encyclopaedias, dictionaries, atlases, monographs and a whole section of art books.

‘I studied art,’ she said quietly, as if to remind herself. She ran her fingertips gently over the routered wooden shelves right to the end. She stopped. It couldn’t be! She looked at Lydia and smiled.

‘May I?’ but she didn’t wait for an answer. Where the bookcase ended in a long, slim vertical column, Stella gave a little press and a pull and the front of the column popped open like a secret door to reveal that it was a false front – behind it, the shelves continued, with just three books’ width, for the full height of the bookcase. There were books on these hidden shelves too, but their spines were blank. ‘Are they very rude?’ Stella asked.

Lydia laughed. It was an unexpected warm, earthy cackle. ‘Eye-wateringly so – that is, if you were a dainty eighteenth-century lady prone to fainting at the very thought of even a naked forearm. Hardly the Kama Sutra. They’re frightfully tame to me, so goodness knows what you’d make of them.’ Insult or compliment – again Stella wasn’t sure and Lydia’s voice had become cool by the end of her sentence.

‘Have you had them valued?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Cart the lot off to Christie’s for them to be pored over so publicly? Lady Lydia, your collection of two hundred years of pornography might fetch one hundred pounds at auction.’ Stella laughed – but Lydia gave her a look to silence her. She led on, back through the hallways and up one side of the double staircase.

‘Now that,’ Stella murmured, ‘is a backside to behold.’

‘You insolent young woman.’ Lydia rounded on Stella who, for a split second, feared she might be pushed down the stairs. She’d already tripped over a threadbare section of runner.

‘Lady Lydia – no! I didn’t mean—! I was referring to – that.’ Stella was holding on to the banister with both hands so she moved her head fast as if banging it against an imaginary wall, to signify where she was looking. It was a huge oil painting of a horse and rider, portrayed from behind. Only an eye and an ear of the horse were visible, while the rider looked most uncomfortable turning around in an already cumbersome military get-up. It was the horse’s rump which all but filled the canvas, its tail mid-swish, revealing its arsehole.

‘I’m sorry, I—’ Stella glanced at Lydia who was staring at her. ‘I studied art. It was my world before I—’ And then Stella thought, Oh, for God’s sake, the woman’s not going to bite you. And then she thought, I studied art before all the shit fell on me from a great height and I clawed my way out and am where I am today. And then she thought, But this woman doesn’t need to know that. ‘Before I went into property.’ She made it sound like a sensible choice, that her current career was as dignified and hallowed as the study of art. Lydia’s ice-pale blue eyes were still scoring straight through her, like a welder’s flame through sheet metal.

‘This painting was a gift – to Lord Frederick Makepeace William Fortescue, the first Earl of Barbary, who built this house.’

‘Is it Mallory Beckinsford?’

‘As I just said,’ Lydia said slowly, witheringly, as if Stella was dim as well as deaf, ‘Lord Frederick Makepeace William Fortescue, the first Earl of Barbary, who built this house.’

‘I’m so sorry, I meant the artist – is it Mallory Beckinsford?’ Stella could tell Lydia hadn’t a clue who the artist was, and hitherto hadn’t been remotely interested.

‘Beckinsford,’ Lydia said, in what she thought was a cleverly non-committal way. ‘It’s a portrait of the Prince Regent.’

Stella dared to take one hand from the banister. ‘It’s just Beckinsford was taught by Reynolds – and Reynolds painted a similar portrait of the Prince Regent.’

Lydia brushed the air. ‘Longbridge is full of portraits. Fortescues, royalty, Fortescues with royalty, with swords, guns, with horses, dogs – it’s who we are.’

Stella worked hard to keep her tone conversational, but she was excited. ‘I think this painting would have been given to Lord Frederick Makepeace William Fortescue, the first Earl of Barbary – but as a rather barbed gift. It’s a slur – an elegantly concealed two fingers – from the Prince Regent. He did it to others. A very nicely painted insult, quite literally shoving his horse’s great big bum in the face of Lord Fortescue. But no doubt the Earl knew that and turned the joke on its head by graciously accepting it and hanging it right here, pride of place.’

Lydia was looking at the painting again, her eyes travelling over it in little bursts. She turned to Stella and nodded.

‘So one oughtn’t to look a gift horse in the mouth – but up the arse?’

‘Something like that,’ Stella smiled at the painting. ‘You might want to have it valued. Do you know of any fracas between the Prince and the Earl?’

‘There is some salacious family rumour about the Earl and one of the Prince’s mistresses and the billiards table right here at Longbridge.’ Lydia’s tone suggested it was all beyond ridiculous. ‘I’ll be sure to call Christie’s,’ she said. ‘They can come and sift through all the historic backsides at Longbridge – human and equine – whether hidden in the library or hanging, bold as brass, right here.’

She sounded sharp and Stella felt deflated. Best leave all art in the past – her own as well as the Fortescues’. Leave it behind. Move on. Here to sell the house, remember. Then a notion sent a shot of adrenalin which almost winded her.

‘How many bedrooms?’ Stella asked, taking a sweeping glance at a queue of closed doors and that was just in this semicircular landing of the house.

‘Five.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Only five bedrooms? Here? At Longbridge?’

‘What are you talking about? Twelve bedrooms including the three in the Victorian wing,’ Lady Lydia said.

‘Pardon me, I thought you said five and I thought to myself surely not—’

‘You are pedantic – it’s tiresome,’ she barked. ‘These days, five of the rooms have beds in them – so the other rooms are not bedrooms, are they?’

Stella was tempted not to bite her tongue, she was tempted to say, well, if I’m pedantic, you’re downright rude. ‘Logical,’ she said instead. ‘It’s the estate agent in me – we’re trained to call even a store cupboard a bedroom if the headroom is sufficient and it is physically possible for someone to stand and also sleep in it.’

‘The more bedrooms, the higher the price?’

‘Square footage is the priority,’ Stella said, ‘and you certainly have that at Longbridge Hall – never mind the quota of bed frames.’

‘Well,’ said Lydia, ‘you’d better see if the servants’ rooms right at the top count too.’

‘How many bathrooms?’

‘Three.’

‘I don’t mean with baths – I mean, rooms in which there is the relevant plumbing.’

‘Three,’ Lydia said loudly, giving the ‘r’ a good roll around her tongue, as if Stella had reverted to dim and deaf again. ‘Mind you, there was only one until after the War.’

Oh dear, Stella thought. Three bathrooms? That’s it?

‘Chop chop,’ said Lydia, leading on; opening door after door and giving Stella just enough time to walk to the windows and back. ‘Do keep up.’

‘In there?’ Stella motioned to a door they passed that Lydia didn’t open.

‘Slaves.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say “What”, say “I beg your pardon”,’ Lydia snapped. ‘It’s one of the slaves’ quarters. We don’t have them any more – not even Mrs Biggins. She’s a useless slave because she won’t do a thing I ask. But the house was once full of them.’

‘Staff,’ Stella said, relieved, when she went into the room and realized it was a sizeable store for linen and laundry.

‘The Fortescues have always called them “slaves” – in jest, of course. No one has ever minded,’ said Lydia. She ran her hand lightly over the butler’s sink by the window. ‘At least, no one said they minded.’ She looked around the room. ‘We didn’t call them slaves to their faces – we didn’t say, “Slave! Come here!” The youngsters were called by their first names, which was fairly liberal of the Fortescues. And the senior staff by their surnames. Apart from the housekeeper, who was allowed to keep her title. Hence, Mrs Biggins – though, really, she ought to be called Useless Woman.’

‘I love this,’ said Stella, fingering the embossed brass plate above the three taps. ‘Hot. Cold. Soft.’

‘For rainwater,’ said Lydia. She ran the tap and placed her hand under the water. She kept it there, as if the feel of it hastened a memory just coming back into focus and one that she wanted to revisit. ‘All the children had their hair washed in this sink – rinsed again and again with the water from “Soft”.’

Corridors that started poker straight and then suddenly veered off at angles with stairs to trip and confuse. Room after room after room. With clever wording in the particulars and positioning of furniture for the photos, Stella reckoned she could list twelve bedrooms at least. The three bathrooms were a worry though, not least because the most modern of them all, the only en-suite, was a homage to 1970s design with a corner bath, bidet, basin and toilet in a dull avocado shade.

It surprised her to find they were back on the ground floor. She’d quite lost her bearings.

‘Kitchen,’ Lydia said, opening a door and revealing a space so sizeable that even Mrs Biggins, ensconced in the Daily Mail, looked diminutive. Stella’s heart sank a little. Of all the rooms she’d been fascinated to see, this was the one she’d built up in her imagination. She’d anticipated flagstones and a vast range, scullery, pantry, cold store, gleaming copperware and all manner of utensils of historical importance. Instead, she stood in a large space in which rather nondescript units varnished an unpleasant amber sat haphazardly under a melamine worktop, like bad teeth. The fridge and the oven were free-standing and akin to those she remembered her grandmother having in her small flat in Wheathampstead. At least there was an Aga, if a relatively small one. It was some consolation finally to be shown a sort of pantry with lines of shelves painted soft white and an impressive run of slate worktop. Most of the shelves were empty; the ones that weren’t were stacked with jars of all sizes filled with jam.

‘I’m tired now so you must go,’ Lady Lydia announced, still walking ahead and not turning to look at Stella. ‘You will come back again tomorrow. To see the grounds. To see Art. Eleven a.m. Prompt, please. Mrs Biggins, show Miss Hutton out please. Goodbye.’

And with that, Lydia went.

‘Coat,’ said Mrs Biggins, bundling it into Stella’s arms. ‘Ta-ta, duck.’ And she chortled a little as if, perhaps, this was a scenario that had been re-enacted many times over the years.

The rain had stopped, everything glistened and shone but Stella shivered and put her coat on, hugging it tightly around herself as she walked across the driveway to her car. Inside, she put the heat on high and realized how that old house had quite chilled her to the bone. She thought again of Tess Durbeyfield, how Tess had wondered about Mrs d’Urberville.

‘If there is such a lady, it would be enough for us if she were friendly …’

Chapter Nine

Stella gave herself a stern talking-to as she raced to pick up Will from after-school club.

Lady Whatnot didn’t say you won’t be representing Longbridge.

She said you’re to come back tomorrow.

Money she may have – manners she has none.

She’s just an old dragon.

But Stella felt despondent – as if she’d failed a test and a carrot that had been dangled in front of her had been snatched away in a harsh peal of upper-class laughter; as if she’d been one of the balls hit around in a game of croquet. Why would she want to work for the old battleaxe anyway? She felt impotent – it seemed she didn’t have a choice. It appeared if Lady Up-Her-Bum wanted Stella, then Stella she would have.

‘Shall we go over and see the Twins? Aunty Ju said it’s fish and chips for supper.’

Will was delighted. Actually, Stella had food prepared at home for Will but her need for adult company – sane, sweet, adult company – overrode her usual timetable of homework, supper, telly, bath, bed and a long evening alone muttering at the telly. She’d phoned Juliet who was only too pleased to hear from her and to be able to help.

‘But it’s a school night, Mummy.’

‘I know!’ Stella said, as if it was the coolest, most daring concept ever.

With Will upstairs with Pauly and Tom, happy not to touch a thing, just to look at their stuff and be in their company as if hoping their cred was catching, Juliet had Stella to herself downstairs.

‘You all right, chook?’ Juliet asked nonchalantly while rooting around the cupboard for the ketchup.

‘Can I borrow a suit, do you think? One of yours?’

‘Well, I hardly thought you meant Alistair’s. Yes, of course.’ She looked at Stella, who looked glum and distracted. ‘But why? There’s not a funeral I don’t know about, is there? Uncle MacKenzie?’

‘No – Uncle Mac is still hanging on. I just need to look a bit more formal and estate-agenty tomorrow.’

‘Charming! Is that your sartorial judgement of me, then?’ Juliet gave her a long look, up and down, as if assessing which suit Stella would be entitled to. ‘You’re not wearing my Paul Smith then – I’ll dig out my old one from Wallis for that!’

Stella laughed. ‘You know what I mean – and I just need not to look like a waitress in a gastro pub.’

‘Firstly – you don’t, you look lovely. Secondly – why?’

‘Awkward client.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lady Up-Her-Bum Fortescue-Barbary OK-Yah Di-Fucking-Da.’

‘Oh,’ said Juliet. ‘Her.’ She paused. ‘Who?’

‘Lives in a Georgian pile over at Long Dansbury. It’s worth millions. She called for me – and then spent most of this morning being rude yet demanded I come back tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you send someone else from the office?’

‘She asked for me by name.’

‘Perhaps it’s just her manner.’

‘She may be a Lady – but she has no manners. She’s horrible.’

‘Yes, but blimey, Stella – have you calculated the commission?’

‘Exactly – it could be the solution to everything. That’s why I have to go. I’ll have to swallow my morals and sell my soul to the old devil – but hence the need for your suit.’

‘And you think she’ll be more polite if you dress the part?’

‘She said I was to see the grounds and art.’

‘Then you ought to go in wellies and a Puffa – with your own clothes underneath. Not your worky-waitressy garb – your off-duty clothes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because first and foremost you’re an art historian – and that’s who you are. Not a suity person. Dress as the real You.’

‘I’m an estate agent.’

‘In the interim.’ Juliet looked at her sternly. ‘Remember – that’s your game plan.’

Stella’s head dropped a little as she nodded. She fiddled with a frozen oven chip that had missed its place on the tray.

‘And my divorce came through.’

And then Juliet thought, sod the suit – that’s not why she’s here. ‘Good,’ Juliet said. She wiped her hands on her jeans and put her arms around Stella. ‘At long bloody last.’

‘I know.’ And Stella was shocked to feel tears scorch the back of her throat. She attempted to cough them away. ‘Actually, it came last week.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Juliet was upset.

‘I felt OK about it. Flat – but OK.’ Her throat still ached. A tear dropped. ‘Shit. I can’t believe I’m going to cry.’ She groaned at herself and stamped.

‘You haven’t heard from him, I suppose?’

Stella shook her head and then reached for some kitchen roll to blow her nose. ‘I’ve been fine – and I’m absolutely fine.’ She was frustrated – more at her tears and herself than at any number of the transgressions that could be pinned on Charlie. ‘Why am I crying now? I’m not really.’

‘I know you’re not. It’s just relief and closure and you’ve waited a long time for it. Welcome to the rest of your life. Come on, chook. Let’s go and raid my dressing-up box.’ Juliet led the way upstairs, pausing with Stella to watch, unseen, Will sitting on Pauly’s bed in utter heaven as one cousin strummed a few chords on his guitar and the other chewed gum and texted on his phone.

‘Try the Paul Smith,’ Juliet said, proffering it for Stella’s approval like a maître d’ presenting a Dover sole.

‘Is that because you feel sorry for me?’ Stella asked wryly, hauling herself back on form – a person who, once a good cry had been had, gathered herself together, dug deep for a smile and wore it until it worked independently.

‘Yes,’ said Juliet. ‘Of course not! Just try it on – the more it’s worn, the more the cost-per-wear goes down and the quicker I can justify the purchase.’

Stella undressed and, though she stood there in black socks and mismatched underwear, Juliet thought what a cracking figure she had. ‘Promise not to bite my head off?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Just – promise.’

‘I promise.’

‘Not to bite my head off.’

‘I promise not to bite your head off!’

‘Please let me sort out a date for you – please?’

‘When? To do what?’

‘No – a date, date.’

Stella wanted to bite Juliet’s head off but as a girl who’d never break a promise, she fell silent and just sent Juliet a black look instead.

‘Do you not feel ready, Stella – is that it?’

Stella didn’t answer, didn’t appear to have heard.

‘It’s been over three years, lovely.’

Stella shrugged. ‘I’m busy. I have Will. I’m fine. Actually, I’m just not interested.’

‘Then you ought to go to your GP and have your hormone levels assessed.’ Juliet thought that might have sounded a little sharp. ‘You’re bloody gorgeous – it’s a waste! And you’re denying yourself the chance to have someone really lovely in your life – not to fill a gap, just to enhance it.’

‘My life is good,’ Stella said and she really believed it.

‘Not all men are like Charlie,’ Juliet said quietly. ‘In fact, few of them are. You know that deep down. I know you know that.’

Stella turned for Juliet to zip up the skirt.

‘Look at your peachy bum, missus!’

Stella looked at herself in the mirror. ‘That’s the genius of Paul Smith tailoring,’ she said.

‘Rubbish!’ said Juliet. ‘It doesn’t look half as good on me, you cow.’ She held the jacket as Stella slipped it on. ‘Just look at you!’

Stella looked. And had to grin. ‘Blimey.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ Juliet said. ‘It would be nice for you to have a little fun,’ she said softly. ‘You deserve it. It’ll be good for you – for your self-esteem.’

‘You sound just like Jo – different vocabulary. She witters on about my mojo.’

‘Go, Jo.’

Stella didn’t want to be drawn. ‘I just don’t think I’m that bothered any more.’

‘If that’s the case, you’ve let bloody Charlie define the rest of your life – and yet he’s now out of your life. You’re really good in a couple, even when the other half was a prize shit. Don’t let what you went through change something that naturally suits you.’

Stella hadn’t thought about it that way. ‘But – Will,’ she explained, as if Juliet (like Jo) had missed the point. ‘It’s too complicated.’

‘No,’ said Juliet strongly. ‘That’s an excuse. It needn’t be complicated – and there’s no reason for Will to be involved. You need to have you-time, doing grown-up stuff. You need to pep up your self-confidence. You think your divorce has diminished you – but actually, it gives you your life back. You’ve probably forgotten what that’s like.’

Stella sighed. She stroked the suit as if it was living. ‘If I say yes, will you stop lecturing me?’

‘Yes,’ said Juliet.

‘But no gynaes.’

‘Roger.’

‘And no one called Roger.’

‘Noted.’

‘And no one too much older or too much younger.’

‘No grandpas, no toyboys.’

‘No facial hair.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

Juliet counted off on her fingers. ‘Mid- to late thirties. Height and weight proportionate. Clean-shaven. Anything else?’