The Debutante

‘Cate.’

Jo pumped Cate’s hand with a firm handshake.

‘The woman’s in her eighties,’ she continued, scraping the chopped vegetables into a saucepan, ‘and she still thinks she can go cleaning her own gutters! Insane! I’m telling you, she gets up before I do, goes to bed later than

I do and gets out more than I do. What am I doing wrong? Are you a vegetarian?’

‘No,’ Cate laughed, leaning against the kitchen worktop.

‘Thank Christ for that! There would’ve been bugger all to eat last night if you had been.’ Jo opened the fridge and took out a chicken wrapped in foil. ‘Thought I’d do you cold roast chicken for lunch and a chicken hotpot for dinner. I know, chicken, chicken, chicken! A bit dull but I’m trying to clean out the freezer and everything. When you lot pack up that’s the end of it. End of an era.’

Cate watched as she drizzled some oil into the saucepan and popped it on top of the Aga.

‘How long have you been working here?’ she asked.

‘I grew up on the estate. My mother was the housekeeper all her life. To be honest, I was dying to get away from here when I was younger. Used to run a bed and breakfast with my second husband over on Majorca. Crazy, really. Just swapped one beach for another. But when that marriage split up, I came back to keep an eye on Mum. And I just fell into looking after Irene as well. She was a good woman. But she used to be very funny about having new people in the house. She paid me twice the going rate just so as not to have to break a new person in. “Let’s keep it in the family, shall we?” That’s what she used to say.’

‘It’s a wonderful house.’

‘Hmm.’ She gave the saucepan a shake. The kitchen filled with the savoury smell of browning onion. ‘It has its charms. And what about you? Are you from London?’

‘Yes. Well,’ Cate shifted, ‘yes and no…I’ve been living in New York.’

Jo’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I love the States! The people are so friendly! If I had the chance I’d move there and never look back.’

‘It has its charms,’ Cate agreed.

‘It’s more than that.’ Cate watched as she unwrapped a fresh loaf of bread from a shopping basket on the table. ‘Have a slice of toast,’ she commanded, taking down a breadboard and a knife. ‘I mean, they haven’t got all this class malarkey going on. No one’s listening to the sound of your voice, trying to figure out which drawer they should shove you into.’

Cate took a sip of coffee. ‘Hmm.’

Mrs Williams had undoubtedly been seduced by the things all English tourists were enchanted by on their two-week holidays in Florida – the ruthless chirpiness of the American service industry; bright helpful hotel staff, smiling waiters who beg you to ‘Have a nice day’ while pouring you a second cup of coffee.

‘In New York, class matters a great deal. It’s just what defines it that’s different.’

‘Really? I went to Disney World two years ago and everyone was just wonderful. I loved it!’

‘It’s a great country,’ Cate agreed, slicing a piece of bread. It was fresh and soft. She tore a bit off and popped it in her mouth.

‘Don’t you want that toasted?’ Jo moved the vegetables off the heat.

Cate shook her head. ‘It’s delicious the way it is.’

‘My mum makes it. Puts me to shame as a cook. She came to the house as a lady’s maid when she was fifteen but when the war started they had to let everyone go. So she taught herself to cook. She has some hysterical stories. Like the time she decided to warm the silver serving dishes in the oven to keep the food hot and when she opened the door, nothing but a bunch of silver balls rolled out! Can you imagine? She only melted some of the best family silver! Bless! Of course she was only a kid at the time.’

‘And you grew up here?’

‘Yes.’

‘It must’ve been magical.’

Jo leaned back against the worktop. ‘It’s a wonderful old house. Though we grew up on the estate, not actually in Endsleigh. You’re in Irene’s room, aren’t you? It has a lovely view, don’t you think? Of course, you must see houses like this one all the time.’

‘Well, not exactly.’

‘The library is special. And plenty of people have commented on that dome. Palladian. A very early Robert Adam. Of course it was never properly finished; the restoration work was interrupted during the war.’

‘Really? I like the gold room.’

‘Gold room?’

‘Yes. The way the sunlight dances off the gilding is magical.’

‘Gilding?’ Jo snorted. ‘There’s no gilding in this house!’

‘Sorry, I mean the one in the far wing, overlooking the rose garden.’

‘The far wing?’ Jo’s expression hardened. ‘That room is locked. It’s always been locked.’

A flush of colour rose in Cate’s cheeks. ‘Mr Syms gave us some keys…they open…’ She stopped, mid-lie. Suddenly she felt about five years old.

Jo folded the tea towel and put it down. ‘Show me. Let’s see what you’re talking about.’

Cate marched reluctantly behind Jo out of the kitchen and up the main staircase. At the top of the landing, Jack came out of his room, dressed for the day ahead. Cate was conscious of still being in her dressing gown.

‘Hey!’ He looked from one to the other. ‘What’s going on? I’m Jack, by the way,’ he introduced himself, offering his hand.

‘Jo Williams,’ she said, shaking it. ‘Your friend here says she’s found something – a room.’

He looked across at Cate. ‘Really?’

‘While you were resting yesterday…I had a look around,’ she explained, half-heartedly.

‘Well, let’s see it.’ He tried to sound light, but she caught a twinge of irritation in his voice.

She began to feel irritated too. It wasn’t her fault the damn thing existed! Heading down the long hallway, she stopped in front of the last door and swung it wide. ‘Here it is.’

The morning sun was softer; it was a west-facing room and although there wasn’t the same blinding light as the previous afternoon, it was still stunning.

Eyes widening, Jo walked slowly into the centre. ‘I’ll be damned!’

All traces of defensiveness disappeared. ‘Look!’ Cate opened the French windows leading on to the terrace. ‘Isn’t it charming? Have you really never been here? Didn’t you ever wonder about it?’

Jo shook her head. ‘During the war, most of the house was shut up. They lived in just a couple of rooms, which were blacked out, to conserve energy. And afterwards, there was only the two of them – Irene and the Colonel. They never really opened the house up again properly. When you work for someone, you learn not to look too hard or question too much. Everyone has their little ways, after all.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Jack agreed. ‘Really extraordinary.’

‘I know!’ Cate was excited. ‘But doesn’t it strike you as odd that this, this hidden, locked room, is the most lovely room in the house?’

He looked across at her. Standing in her silk dressing gown, face free of make-up, she looked fresh, younger than her years; full of unguarded enthusiasm. Was this the same woman who was so darkly knowing last night? There seemed to be two of her, or rather, at least two.

‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly, turning away. ‘Perhaps a touch of our famous English eccentricity.’

‘Look at these books. They’ve never been read. Here.’ She pulled one out and handed it to Jack. ‘Every single one of them is new.’

He leafed through it.

‘Why would anyone lock it up?’ Jo wondered.

The question hung in the warm morning air.

‘Perhaps the heating didn’t work or the roof leaked.’ Jack handed the book back to Cate. ‘It’s not uncommon for old houses to have whole wings sealed off.’

‘It’s a mystery,’ Cate insisted.

He shook his head, laughing. ‘A locked door is hardly a mystery!’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the shoebox. She even went so far as to open her mouth. But then she shut it again, quickly. It was private. Her secret discovery.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed, letting it go. ‘Perhaps it all comes down to a leak in the roof.’

Cate headed back to her room, adrenalin pumping. The room had been locked for over a generation – not even Jo knew about it.

Something happened; something she felt certain was connected to the box.

Why else would it be locked? she thought, turning on the taps in her bath and putting in the plug. Maybe Irene planned to have a family to fill this old house but her husband was called to the war. Afterwards, when he returned, who knows? Perhaps he was injured or couldn’t bear to be touched.

Or maybe she’d fallen in love with someone else.

It was a riddle; a puzzle to be solved.

She opened the bathroom window, looking out across the expanse of green meadow and the limitless view beyond.

What life had Irene dreamed of for herself as a young woman? Here, overlooking the sea, she must’ve felt that nothing could fail, that she had everything she’d ever imagined. A beautiful house, a titled husband…Now there was only an old house with a locked room, books that were never read and a shoebox, filled with strange tokens and memories – like a message in a bottle.

She trailed her fingers in the warm bathwater.

Did she have an affair? Who was the handsome sailor in the photograph? Did he give her the bracelet?

Slipping out of her dressing gown and nightie, she stood in front of the steamy bathroom mirror, pinning her hair up.

It was a mystery, no matter what Jack thought. He was too sure of himself for his own good, that was his problem. Self-satisfied and superior and, yes, prudish. So what if he was dismissive of her? She was the one who had the upper hand now and he didn’t even know it.

It gave her a thrill to have a secret in play.

It didn’t matter what he thought of her. In another day, they’d be back in London and she wouldn’t even have to speak to him again.

God, even at this early hour it was so hot!

She pushed the window wider, stretching her arms high.

Jack was standing on the lawn with a mug of coffee. How did she get into that room? He had the keys. There was no way she could’ve picked the lock. She didn’t look like she’d know how.

He paced back and forth in frustration. She wouldn’t conform to anything he wanted her to do or be. In his head he’d composed whole conversations; pleasant little scenes in which he took the lead, showing her what to do and how to do it. But instead she constantly slipped away from him. Despite her golden appearance, she was fast, dark and mutable; like mercury. He couldn’t get a grip on her at all.

And he had the unsettling feeling that she was indulging him; that she found him vaguely ridiculous. He was conscious of being constrained by professional protocol and social niceties while she, in contrast, found her way into locked rooms, landed unfamiliar jobs, slipped into strangely undefined relationships.

There was a noise.

He looked up.

Caught in a ray of light reflected from the windowpane, Cate was standing by the window, naked.

Unguarded and unaware, she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back. Her skin was creamy, her hair white in the sun.

He knew he should look away.

She turned. Her breasts were small, with surprisingly large nipples. They were the same colour as her lips, swollen and pink.

Then she disappeared again, like a fleeting apparition.

She hadn’t seen him.

Her body was different to what he’d imagined; the vague classical ideal of beauty he’d assigned her without even knowing it. Her nipples, swollen and erect from the heat, were instantly erotic. His chaste, romantic vision was corrupted by pornographic longings – licking, sucking…

Turning his back on the house, he forced himself across the lawn where the road joined a field filled with sheep. It was picturesque; the sky a faultless duck-egg blue above a silver strip of sea.

She’d done it again – knocked him sideways as completely as if she’d kicked his chair out from under him. He was left reeling, grappling with desires that had long been dormant. And he resented it. As much as he loathed the numb monotony of his existence since his wife’s death, he hated the effect she had on him; it was narcotic, addictive. She left him longing for more of what he couldn’t have in the first place. For a moment he considered the possibility that she knew he was standing there; that she’d deliberately paraded herself in front of him.

Of course that was stupid.

Still, images piled up on themselves.

Stare at the sheep, dammit!

This is a job, he reminded himself, draining his coffee. Tomorrow it ended and then they would go back to London. Most likely she’d end up heading back to New York to that rich lover of hers.

The memory of her, naked and unaware, flashed up again. He pushed it firmly out of his mind.

He couldn’t even trust her.

This girl had no place in his life.

5 St James’s SquareLondon

12 September 1926

My darling, dearest Wren,

I am so, so grateful for your wonderful news and most of all that you have forgiven me! I couldn’t have lived knowing I’d caused you pain and now to hear that you are engaged is too, too thrilling! A sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds! I cannot wait to see it! And Muv must be so relieved. But my, you are a dark horse! What became of your shy Baronet? Were you using him as a screen to hide another love? You really have managed the whole thing in record time. Did he go down on one knee? Did he kiss you? I imagine the dampness is less distracting if you are kissing a man you love. How many times? Are you in love with him? You must tell me how Scotland is and his family; if they are terribly grand and if Muv is doing or saying anything ridiculous. (Details, please.) I hope they have given you a decent bedroom and that his mother is kind to you.

I’m so sorry to have missed you, but not the Holy. It’s bad enough having to be back in St James’s Square with the Consort on my own. All he does is stomp around glowering at me and lecturing from a book called The Great Threat, which claims the lower classes are poised to take over civilisation and thus end it through a combination of rapid interbreeding and sheer bad manners. It was probably a mistake to tell him I thought civilisation was overrated anyway, as the poor dear seems to take these things very seriously.(There’s a single vein on his forehead that throbs violently when he’s experiencing an emotion. It turned positively purple.) He called me ‘a Bad Seed’ and left for his club, taking his precious book with him and muttering furiously. I imagine supper will be unbearable.

Oh my darling! I have a shameful confession…Do you recall that Muv employed the Consort’s son Nick to bring me home from Paris? Well, he did. And he is neither fat nor old nor anything like the Consort at all. In fact, he’s surprisingly handsome and charming–so much so that when he approached me in the lobby of the Bristol Hotel, it didn’t occur to me it could be him. He has dark hair, the most elegant features and eyes that seem to be smiling even when his mouth is very serious. I was of course blubbering away like an idiot without a handkerchief. And suddenly I heard someone laughing, and when I looked up there was this man who for all the world looked like Ivor Novello, standing there, shaking his head. ‘It’s not as bad as all that, is it?’ Then he passed me his pocket hanky and sat down. ‘Really! You’d think someone had died!’

‘You don’t understand!’ I sobbed, trying to work out who he was, but glad for the hanky all the same. ‘I’ve made the most terrible, terrible mistake!’ (And then I blew my nose as delicately as I could, which WAS challenging.)

‘Only one?’

‘Yes, but a Big One!’ I insisted.

And then, my love, he did the most marvellous thing. He called the waiter over and ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne! I could hardly believe it, but the French must do it all the time, because the waiter just smiled and brought it to us straight away. Then he proposed a toast.

‘To getting it wrong!’

Well, I’ve never really had champagne before. I took the tiniest sip and he laughed and said, ‘Now, drink up, Baby! It’s good for you. Besides, this is a celebration.’

‘Of what?’

‘It’s not every day a person is introduced to their feet of clay.’

And he looked at me with those smiling eyes of his and I had another sip and suddenly the sun started to shine and my nose stopped running and going home to London didn’t seem like the most hideous disaster that had ever befallen a human being. And when it was time to go, I felt quite woozy and had trouble walking and he let me lean against his arm. Oh, the smell of him! Too moreish–like freshly cut lemons and warm summer rain. And on the boat and the train he was so kind and clever and funny. He never once chided or lectured…And although he calls me ‘Baby’ (which I pretend to be vexed about but secretly adore), he is the only person who treats me like a grown-up woman.

He’s gone back to the Continent now. Apparently he and the Consort can hardly bear to speak to one another, which shows you what good taste he has.

Oh Irene! I know he’s our stepbrother and old enough to be my father but I can’t stop thinking of him. Do you think I’m very depraved? Please don’t tell ANYONE! Why has he never married? Do you know?

Yours, always,

Baby

That day they worked through the house room by room at an exhausting pace. Jack clearly wanted to finish as quickly as possible; his manner turned brisk, almost curt. Every time Cate asked a question or made a comment, he frowned. The more she tried to soften the atmosphere between them, the worse it got, until finally she gave up. It was clear he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.

When they took a break, Cate excused herself and went for a walk into the sheltered Italian rose garden instead of going into the kitchen for lunch. It was still and peaceful; a haven where the minutes felt suspended in amber light. After being indoors for so long the air smelled fresh, of wind and sea, the sun caressing like a warm hand across her shoulders. White roses, plush and fragrant, danced in the breeze, their perfume thick and luxuriant.

Cate wandered over to the sundial, tracing her fingers along the edge. ‘The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking, The night’s long hours still find me thinking, Of thee, thee, only thee’ How romantic and sad.

Sitting on one of the stone benches, she took a deep breath. Despite the lovely surroundings, loneliness pressed like a solid weight against her chest, an unwanted, uninvited companion. It frightened her that she’d managed to alienate Jack; frightened her to be alone, far away from everything she’d grown used to, with a man who clearly found her irritating and inadequate.

She wanted to go home.

But what did the word mean now?

She was brought up in a two-bedroom flat in Highgate with her mother, but that was gone. There was a draughty studio, filled with canvases, above a dry-cleaner’s in New York’s Alphabet City. That wasn’t a home. It wasn’t even a refuge.

Home was something else. It was a sense of herself; a mixture of serenity and hope for who she might become. Cate stared at the great Georgian exterior of Endsleigh. Perhaps that’s why people clung to land, to houses – so that they could enjoy a feeling of permanence and solidity. Yet even Endsleigh, with all its English-heritage glamour, harboured secrets and unresolved questions, cracks through which the true identities of its occupants slipped into elusive darkness.

It reminded her of a piece she’d made at art school; an enormous foldout drawing of a doll’s house in pencil and ink, over six feet tall. At first glance it appeared to be a very traditional, beautiful Victorian structure that, with closer observation, was just slightly wrong. A world that seemed picturesque and charming but was plagued by staircases that led nowhere, rooms with boarded-up windows, doors with no doorknobs. Post piled in a heap, unanswered, blocking the front door; tea things that were never cleared, rotting on china dishes; a hole in the carpet from a stray cigarette; fish floating dead to the surface of the flshbowl – all presided over by stiff, exquisitely dressed dolls, staring blankly into space, passively waiting for someone to determine their next move. Now she had the eerie feeling of living in an equally unyielding world – only not of her own construction.

That piece had won her an award that year. But it all seemed to belong to another lifetime. How long had it been since she’d produced anything original? Could she even do it any more? Or had her imagination completely atrophied? And yet it came about almost by accident, her new career. There was no long discussion; no real debate or even a period in which she’d gone away to think about it. Like so many of the defining moments of her life, it was little more than a wavering; a yielding to what seemed easiest in that moment.

‘He’s been in the business a long time and is highly respected,’ Paul had told her, scribbling Derek Constantine’s address on the back of an envelope for her. ‘At least he can introduce you to people. You never know.’

She’d rung him as soon as she’d got off the plane. Still jet-lagged, she’d stumbled along the Upper East Side clutching the envelope in one hand and her portfolio in the other, eager to be on time and make a good impression.

Derek’s shop was tiny but, like everything about his aesthetic sense, fastidiously and ruthlessly defined. She’d never seen anything quite like it, even in London. It had a lush decadence about it. Here it was permanently evening, forever bathed in dim lighting that mimicked candlelight, softening edges, smoothing out flaws. The walls were lined with black silk taffeta; the air was scented with cedar candles imported from Paris; the bare wooden floorboards were polished till they shone. He had only a few pieces, but they were exquisite, once-in-a-lifetime acquisitions. He made his reputation on being able to provide antiquities of singular quality and rarity. A lone ebony Empire chair was displayed in the window, lit by a rose spot from above. Passers-by stopped in their tracks, arrested by the beauty and symmetry of it; the shocking good taste of displaying it on its own. Derek had an eye for Empire pieces. With their over-the-top opulence and narcissistically soothing classical proportions, they best seemed to fit the personality of his particular clientele.

His pièce de résistance was a large, round eighteenth-century convex mirror. Its elaborate gilt frame was fashioned with intricate golden sparrows and twining ivy leaves, shining luminously against the shimmering inky wall. Derek said that there wasn’t a week when someone didn’t make an offer on it, but he would never sell. He’d dragged it with him all the way from London and practically had to prise it from another dealer, who’d badly miscalculated its value. And it made a statement.

It couldn’t have been ten minutes into their first meeting when he suggested it to her.

‘Can you fake?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Can you fake, darling? Let me see your portfolio.’ She showed it to him.

Frowning, he leafed through. ‘I’ve got clients who would pay handsomely for some original art. Of a more traditional vein.’

‘That’s not my forte. But I’ve got some ideas about a large abstract series based on a modern-day version of The Three Graces…’

The expression on his face stopped her mid-flow. ‘Do you want to rent a broom cupboard in a flat-share in Brooklyn for the rest of your life?’

‘Alphabet City.’

‘Whatever.’

‘No, not at all. But I thought that if I could just get a body of new work together…’