The Emerald Comb

He clutched her arm as she slipped in the snow. ‘Be careful! Hold on to me, or you will do yourself more damage than cold feet.’

She tucked her arm through his and held on. Bartholomew enjoyed the warmth of her hand on his arm, the closeness of her hip to his. Her breath made delicate patterns in the cold night air, and he imagined the feel of it against his face, his lips… Yes, she would do nicely. He smiled, and led her across King’s Road onto the promenade. It was deserted, and the snow lay pristine – white and untouched, apart from a single line of dog paw prints. On the beach, the partially covered pebbles looked like piles of frosted almonds.

Georgia sighed. ‘So pretty.’

‘Indeed,’ said Bartholomew, watching her as she made neat footprints in the snow, then lifted her foot to see the effect. She had tiny, narrow feet, and the slippers had a small triangular-shaped heel.

‘See my footprints? We could walk a little way, and then you could pick me up and carry me, so when others come this way it will look as though I had simply vanished.’ She giggled, and pushed back the hood of her cloak to gaze up at him.

Her eyes glinted mischievously, and even in the subdued moonlight he could see they were a rich green. He was seized by the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

‘Let’s do it!’ he said, taking her hand to walk a dozen more steps along the prom. Then he scooped her up, his pulse racing at the feel of her arms about his neck, her slight figure resting easily in his arms. Her hood fell back and tendrils of her golden hair fell across his shoulder. For a moment he stood there, holding her, gazing into her eyes and wondering whether she would respond to a kiss.

‘Well, come on then, Mr St Clair – you must walk now, and make your footprints look no different to before. You must not stagger under my weight, or it will be obvious what has happened. Gee up, Mr St Clair!’ She gently kicked her legs, as though she was riding him side-saddle.

‘Yes, ma’am!’ he laughed, and walked on along the prom. After a little way she twisted to try to see the footprints he’d left, and he, feeling he was losing his grip on her, put her down. She instantly walked on a few more steps and turned back to see the effect.

‘Look, I appeared from nowhere!’

‘Like an angel from heaven,’ he said. ‘Come, I must escort you home. It is late, and the snow is beginning to fall again.’

Georgia tilted her head back and let a few large flakes land on her face. ‘It’s so refreshing. Thank you, Mr St Clair. Since meeting you I have had a lovely evening. We can walk to my uncle’s house, if you like – he lives in Brunswick Terrace.’

Bartholomew noted she had not said ‘we live’ – clearly she did not feel as though her uncle’s house was her home.

‘On a fine evening, Miss Holland, I could think of nothing better than to take your arm and stroll along the promenade as far as Brunswick. But I shall have to postpone that pleasure for another day. Your feet will freeze, even more than they already have. Look, we are in luck, here is an empty cab.’

He waved at the cabman who brought his horse to a skidding stop beside them. They climbed aboard and Georgia gave the address. She shivered and pressed her arm tightly against his. Minutes later the cab halted outside the grand terrace, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the wintry moonlight.

Bartholomew paid the cabman and asked him to wait. He helped Georgia down from the cab and led her up the entrance steps of her uncle’s house. The door opened as they approached, and a maid ushered them inside, into a grand hallway where the remains of a fire smouldered in the grate.

‘Oh, Miss Georgia, I am so glad you are back. Mr Holland were back a half hour ago and he said you had left the ball before him. I were fretting about you.’ She bustled around, taking Georgia’s cloak and exclaiming over the state of her shoes.

‘Agnes, I am perfectly all right. Kind Mr St Clair has been looking after me. We decided to walk part of the way home.’

The maid glanced accusingly at Bartholomew. She was a striking-looking woman, blonde like her mistress but with more mature features, as though she had grown into her looks. She was an inch or two taller, and looked, he thought, as Georgia might in a few years’ time, when she’d outgrown her childish playfulness. Beautiful, rather than pretty.

‘Sir, forgive me for speaking out of turn but my mistress were not wearing the right sort of shoe for a walk in the snow. See, the silk is ruined and her poor feet are froze. Sit you down here, Miss Georgia, and I will fetch a bowl of warm water to wash them.’ With another stern look at Bartholomew, she hurried along the hallway towards the kitchen stairs.

‘Agnes has been with me since I was fourteen. She does fuss, rather.’ Georgia sat on an uncomfortable-looking carved-back chair and rubbed at her feet. ‘But a warm foot-bath sounds just what I need. Perhaps, Mr St Clair, you would help me rub some life back into my toes?’ She looked up at him, a half-smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.

But Bartholomew was still gazing in the direction the maid had taken. For all Miss Holland’s coquettish ways, she was young and immature. Bartholomew was no stranger to women – he’d been near to proposing once to a merchant’s daughter in Bath, but she had accepted a better offer from a baronet’s son. He’d had a brief affair with the bored wife of a naval captain, until she tired also of him. And of course, there had been plenty of women of the night, who waited outside the Assembly Rooms to accompany lone men to their lodgings.

None of these women, however, had ever had quite the effect on him that the maid, Agnes, had. A thrill had run through him the moment his eyes met hers, leaving him hot with desire, his palms tingling, his heart racing. She was returning now, with the basin of water. She glared again at Bartholomew.

‘Sir, you are still here? You may think me bold to suggest it, but I think you ought to leave, afore the snow becomes too deep for cabs. I can ask the footman to fetch you a brandy if you need fortification before venturing out.’

He felt his blood thrill again at the forthrightness of the woman. A lady’s maid, who thought nothing of speaking to guests in her employer’s house, as though they were her wayward sons.

‘A brandy would be excellent, yes.’ He nodded at her, and she pulled on the bell-cord. A moment later a footman arrived, and Agnes sent him for the brandy. He was back a minute later, closely followed by Charles Holland, who had exchanged his captain’s jacket for a woollen dressing-gown.

‘Is that my niece back home at last? What do you think you are doing, keeping my staff up and waiting for you on such a night?’ He stopped in his tracks when he noticed Bartholomew. ‘Ah, I see. Sir, I thank you for bringing her home. Please, call on her again tomorrow morning. You will be most welcome.’ He nodded curtly and left.

Georgia smiled up at him. ‘You will come back tomorrow, won’t you? As my uncle said, you will be made most welcome.’

Bartholomew started. He’d almost forgotten about Georgia. The maid, Agnes, had filled his mind completely. But maids don’t have money, he reminded himself. And it was money he needed most. He dragged his gaze away from Agnes and returned Georgia’s smile.

‘Miss Georgia, you are forgetting yourself,’ scolded Agnes. ‘Come, dry your feet. I will help you upstairs. Sir, please ring the bell should you require anything more.’

Bartholomew gulped back the brandy brought by the footman, relishing the fiery warmth it brought to his belly. He watched as the two women crossed the black-and-white tiled hallway and made their way up the stairs. Each of them gave him one backwards glance – Miss Holland’s smile was cheeky and inviting; the maid’s glare was challenging, but with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow as though she had guessed the effect she’d had on him.

Without a doubt he would return tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. He left his empty glass on a side table and let himself out of the house. Thankfully the cab was still there, though the cabman grumbled about how long he’d had to wait in the dreadful weather. Bartholomew gave the address of his lodgings in Kemptown and sat back, huddled in his cloak, planning his ideal future which involved both of the women he’d met that night.

Chapter Three: Hampshire, November 2012

I followed Vera Delamere through a tired 1970s kitchen into a large wood-panelled hallway, and then through to a cosy sitting room. She flicked on the lights, and crouched at the fireplace which was already laid with a mixture of logs and coal. As she struck a match, Harold shuffled in and sat down beside the fire, leaning his stick against the side of the mantelpiece.

‘Good-oh, we could do with a bit of warmth in here,’ he said, and she turned to smile fondly at him. They’d obviously been together for a very long time. I hoped Simon and I would be like them, one day. If we managed to resolve our differences and stay together long enough.

I looked around the room. A large built-in shelving unit occupied one wall. It was made of dark wood, and was clearly very old. It was beautiful.

‘That was here when we moved in,’ Mrs Delamere said, nodding at the shelves. ‘Riddled with woodworm, unfortunately, though we have had it treated.’

‘It’s gorgeous. I wonder if it was here when my ancestors lived here?’

‘I’ll go and make the tea,’ said Vera. ‘Sit down, Katie, do. By the fire, there. It’ll get going in a moment.’

I sat opposite Harold in a well-worn fireside chair. ‘This is a lovely cosy room.’

Harold nodded. ‘We think this was originally a study. There’s a much bigger sitting room across the hall, but it’s too hard to heat it. When there’s only Vera and me, this room’s just right for us. So, you’re a St Clair, are you? I thought old Barty hadn’t had any children. Certainly no one to leave the house to.’

‘You’re right, he didn’t. I’m descended from his younger brother, William.’

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Harold, nodding with satisfaction.

Vera bustled in with the tea tray. She gave it to Harold to balance on his lap for a moment as she tugged at a shelf in the old unit. It folded out, creating a desk, and she put the tea tray on it.

We chatted comfortably about the history of the house and my research while we drank the tea, then Vera offered me a tour of the house.

Harold had fallen asleep in his chair, his head nodding forward onto his chest. Vera gently took his tea cup out of his hand and put it on a side table. I followed her back into the huge hallway. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind showing me around? I must admit I’m dying to see the house.’

‘Oh, it’s quite all right. Lovely to have a visitor, if truth be told. Well, here’s the living room. Drawing room, I suppose I should call it.’

She ushered me into a large, cold room, with a window to the front of the house. It had a grand fireplace which looked original, brown floral seventies carpet and cream woodchip wallpaper. Family photographs showing a younger Vera and Harold with two cheeky-looking boys jostled for position on the mantelpiece, and heavy crushed-velvet curtains hung at the window.

‘We don’t come in here much, except in the summer when it’s the coolest room in the house,’ Vera said.

She led the way back through the hallway and into the dining room I’d peered into from outside. I crossed to the window and looked out. The garden was surprisingly small for such a large old house, and I commented on this.

‘It would have had much more land originally,’ Vera explained. ‘Most of it was sold off before we moved in. There would have been stables and other outbuildings – we think those stood where Stables Close is now. But what’s left is a lovely garden. It catches the evening sun. And we’re very fond of that tree.’ She pointed to a huge beech which stood against a crumbling garden wall.

‘I bet your children enjoyed climbing that,’ I said.

‘Oh, they did, they did! Tim would be sitting up there where the main trunk forks, and Mike would push past him and go up higher. I couldn’t watch, but Harold always thought it was better for boys to climb trees than artificial climbing frames in sterile playgrounds.’

I laughed. ‘My dad always says the same thing. My sister and I were both tomboys and spent half our childhoods up trees.’

‘Good for you! I think it’s essential for children to play outside. Shall we continue with the tour?’

She took me down a dark corridor to the kitchen with its walk-in pantry and a rather damp utility room which might once have been called a scullery. Then upstairs, where four large bedrooms and a bathroom occupied the first floor, and another two smaller attic bedrooms filled the second floor. I loved every inch of it. I suspected none of it had seen a lick of paint or a roll of new wallpaper since the sixties or seventies but the house oozed charm and character. I tried to imagine my ancestors here: Barty and his brother William, my great-great-grandfather, running up and down the stairs as boys; their father Bartholomew writing letters in the study downstairs; their mother serenely embroidering a sampler by the fireside in the drawing room. There would have been servants here too, living in those attic bedrooms.

We finished the tour and went back downstairs. Harold was still dozing beside the fire in the old study. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Delamere,’ I said. ‘I have really enjoyed imagining my ancestors living here. It’s a wonderful house.’

‘It is, yes.’ She shook her head. ‘Sadly it’s too much for Harold and me nowadays. We shall soon have to think about moving out and into somewhere smaller. But I hate the thought of developers carving it up into flats, and I’m certain that’s what would happen. We’ve been approached by a couple of developers already.’

‘Mmm, yes, I can see you’d want it to stay as it is.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind the idea of it being done up inside. Lord knows it needs it – tastes have changed and I know it’s very dated. But I’d want to think of it remaining as a single family home. Ah, well.’ She caught hold of my hands and leaned in to kiss my cheek. ‘Katie, it’s been so lovely to meet you. I hope you’ll come again – I’d love to hear more about how you researched your ancestors, and how you knew they lived here.’

‘Well, it was all via the census records,’ I said, as I slipped on my coat. ‘They’re available on the internet now, which makes it all pretty easy.’

Vera smiled. ‘I’m afraid we don’t even own a computer.’

As I left the house I sensed someone’s eyes on me, and turned to look back. Vera was standing at the study window, watching me go with a wistful expression on her thin face. I waved, and she smiled and waved back. I crossed the street and took a few photos of the house for my records, then headed back home to Southampton. As I drove back down the motorway I wondered what kind of mood Simon would be in. Hopefully he’d have got over himself by now. I was buzzing with excitement about having seen inside my ancestors’ home and wanted to be able to share it with him.

Simon was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of bolognese sauce for the kids’ tea. I put my arms around him from behind, stretched up and kissed the back of his neck.

‘Mind out! You nearly made me knock the pan over.’ He shrugged himself out of my hug.

‘Sorry. I’ll take over if you like.’ I gave the pot a stir then waltzed off around the kitchen. Our four-year old, Thomas, came in pushing a small yellow digger along the floor and making engine noises. He giggled when he saw me dancing. I scooped him up and danced with him.

‘Hey, not while I’m cooking!’ said Simon, brandishing his wooden spoon. ‘There’s no space in here for mucking about. I take it from your happy dance that you found what you were looking for?’

‘Yes, I found the house!’

‘What house was this?’

‘Oh, Simon, I told you this morning!’ I put Thomas down. He retrieved his digger and resumed excavations in the hallway. ‘It was the house where the St Clairs lived, for over a hundred years. My great-great-grandfather William St Clair would have been born there, and his father Bartholomew before him.’

‘Ah, yes. You’ve been rummaging around in the pointless past again while I look after the future, a.k.a. our children. So you got a photo of this house?’

‘More than that – I went inside! The owners are a lovely elderly couple called Harold and Vera Delamere and they remember how the older folk in the village told them stories of Barty St Clair when they moved it. Apparently he was a bit strange. Very sociable but wouldn’t let anyone in the house. Maybe he was hiding something – ooh, maybe there’re some skeletons in my ancestors’ closets!’

‘Good stuff. I don’t get this obsession with your ancestors, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose.’ He grinned, and patted my shoulder. His way of apologising for the morning’s row. I smiled back, accepting the apology.

‘Kids! Dinner’s ready!’ Simon called. He plonked three plates of spag bol on the table, then left the kitchen. Looked like supervising the kids’ dinner time was going to be my job, then. Fair enough. I’d had my time off. I helped Thomas climb up onto a chair, and ruffled Lewis and Lauren’s hair as they sat at the table.

‘Hey, mind the gel!’ Lewis ducked away from my hand. Only ten but already spending hours in front of the mirror before school each day.

‘What do you want to put gel in your hair for, you’re not a girl.’ His twin sister Lauren flicked his ear. ‘With those spikes you’ll puncture the ball when you next play rugby with Dad.’

‘You don’t head the ball in rugby, derrr,’ retorted Lewis. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

‘More than you, stupid.’ Lauren swished her blonde mane over her shoulder and stuck out a bolognese-encrusted tongue in his direction.

‘That’s enough, you two,’ I said. ‘Eat up and if you can’t speak nicely to each other don’t speak at all.’

They glared across the table at each other but otherwise got on with it. Little Thomas, as usual, was keeping his head down and out of trouble. He caught my eye and flashed me a winning smile. Apart from the strand of spaghetti that was slithering down his chin it was one of those expressions you just wish you’d caught on camera.

I made myself a cup of tea while the children finished their dinners. Once they were finished and the kitchen was clean, I sat down at the table sipping my cup of tea, and drifted off into a pleasant fantasy in which the Delameres sold up and somehow Simon and I could afford to buy the house, move in and discover all its secrets.

Chapter Four: Hampshire, December 2012

‘I know,’ I said, decisively, ‘let’s take Mum and Dad out for Sunday lunch at the pub this weekend, rather than cook it here. It’s always a squash when they come for dinner, and it’d be lovely to have someone else do all the work.’ It was a few weeks after my visit to Kingsley House. Simon and I had managed not to row again, mainly because I’d not said a single word more about my ancestry research, and he’d foregone another rugby practice to take the whole family out to see The Polar Express at the cinema.

Simon put down the book he was reading and peered over his glasses at me. ‘OK, and maybe your dad will want to pay…’

I threw a cushion at him. ‘No, we’ll pay, you tight git. It’s supposed to be Dad’s birthday dinner, after all. Anyway, we can easily afford to since your promotion and pay rise.’

He hugged the cushion and threw his feet up onto the sofa. It was a cold, dark evening – one of those where you wish you had an open fireplace instead of a gas fire, when you just want to cuddle up with a blanket and a good book. And maybe a glass of wine.

‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ I said.

‘Yeah, go on then.’ Simon swung his legs off the sofa and stood up to fetch a bottle. ‘Arrgh, what did I tread on?’ He hopped around then sat back down to investigate the damage to his foot.

‘Lego, I expect. Lewis had some in here earlier.’

‘When’s he going to grow out of Lego?’ grumbled Simon, kicking the offending piece under the Christmas tree.

‘About the same time as Thomas grows into it,’ I replied. ‘I’ll get the wine, seeing as you’re incapacitated.’

‘Thanks. What we really need is a bigger house. One with a playroom, so we can keep the lounge clear of toys and the kids can injure themselves on their own Lego without involving us.’

I went to fetch a couple of glasses and a bottle of Pinot Noir from the kitchen. Simon was right – we had outgrown this house. The two boys had to share a room, which didn’t work very well because of the difference in their ages. The kitchen was a reasonable size but had to double as a dining room. Just about OK for the five of us but hopeless if we had visitors. And the garage was stuffed to bursting with bikes, gardening tools and DIY debris.

‘Do you mean it?’ I asked, as I returned with the wine.

‘Mean what?’

‘What you said about wanting a bigger house.’

He frowned, stared at the ceiling as though looking for an answer written on it, then sat upright. ‘Yeah, I think I do. How do you feel about moving?’

‘Well, I love this house, but we do need more space.’

‘Right then, let’s start house-hunting.’ He grabbed my laptop from the side table which doubled as a desk, and started tapping the keys.

‘Really? Right now?’ Was he serious or just fooling? Sometimes it was hard to tell with Simon.

‘No time like the present, eh? And no harm in looking.’ He grinned and patted the seat beside him. I sat down, and a moment later we were browsing a list of houses in Southampton which matched our criteria: four bedrooms, garden, two reception rooms. It was nice to do something together, as well.

I pointed to a Victorian three-storey semi. ‘That one looks good.’

‘Bit pricey.’

‘What can we afford?’

‘Dunno, I’d have to do the figures. Say four hundred thousand maximum – that’ll give us an idea of what’s available. Good job I got that promotion.’

They all looked nearer the half-million mark. I began to get despondent as Simon scrolled through. There was no point compromising on size – might as well stay where we were. We wanted to stay in Hampshire near our parents. Mine helped out with childcare occasionally and Simon’s mum – adoptive mum – was suffering from dementia and needed support. And there needed to be good schools nearby.

‘Winchester would be good. That’d cut fifteen minutes off my commute to London,’ said Simon.

‘Yes, I like Winchester too.’ I reached over and selected Winchester from a dropdown list of areas, and we began browsing a new set of houses.

‘Period or modern?’ Simon asked.

‘Period, definitely. Something with character. More wine?’

‘Why not? Period for me, too. Cor, look at this one!’ He clicked on a thumbnail image to expand it. I gasped – I’d seen that house before. Kingsley House, up for sale! Simon would click onto the next house instantly if he knew, so I quickly covered my gasp with an exclamation.

‘Wow, gorgeous! What’s the asking price?’

‘Hmm, four-four-five. Bit out of our price range. Looks a bit run down. Could be worth a look, though.’

‘Really? You want to go and see it?’ My heart beat a little faster at the idea of having another look at that house. I wondered whether anything had happened to Vera and Harold Delamere to make them put it up for sale. They’d mentioned feeling they ought to move somewhere smaller but had seemed reluctant to put the house on the market. I hoped they were OK. I’d thought of them and the house many times since my visit.

Simon frowned at me. ‘Well, that’s how house-hunting works, isn’t it? You find something you like the look of, then go to see it.’

‘It’s just all a bit sudden. Have we actually decided we want to move?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Well, it makes sense, so I guess I do…’

‘Great! So do I.’ He clinked glasses with me. ‘So if we’ve made the decision to move, we might as well start looking at properties sooner rather than later. Don’t you think?’