And so the tour continued, at breakneck speed; through to the morning room, the study, gun room, the flshing-tackle room, the pantry, the silver room, the main kitchen with its long pine table and cool flagstone floors leading into the second, smaller kitchen and cellars. It was a winding maze of a house. No amount of cleaning could remove the faint smell of dust and damp, embedded into the soft furnishings from generations of use. And despite the heat, there was a permanent chill in the air, as if it were standing in an unseen shadow.
Mr Syms returned to the sitting room, unlocking the French windows. They stepped outside into a walled garden at the side of the house where a rolling lawn, bordered by well-established flower beds led to a small, Italian-style rose garden. It was arranged around a central sundial with carved stone benches in each corner. In the distance, the coastline jutted out over the bay; the water sparkling in the hazy afternoon sun.
Mr Syms guided them to the far end of the lawn where a table and chairs were set up under the cool shade of an ancient horse-chestnut tree. Tea things were laid out; a blue pottery teapot, two mugs, cheese sandwiches and a plate of Bourbon biscuits.
How perfect! Cate smiled. Thank you!
Mr Syms didnt sit, but instead concentrated, going over some internal checklist.
The housekeeper, Mrs Williams, thought you might need something. Her flat is there. He indicated a low cottage at the back of the property. Shes prepared a shepherds pie for tonight. And apologises if either of you are vegetarians. He checked his watch. Im afraid, Mr Coates, that I have another appointment and must be going. Its my understanding that you and Miss Albion will be spending the night, possibly even two, while you value and catalogue the contents of the house. Is that correct?
Yes.
Heres a set of keys and my card. If you need anything while youre here, please dont hesitate to contact me. Otherwise, you may leave the keys with Mrs Williams upon your departure and I anticipate hearing from you in due course regarding the value and sale of the contents.
Jack took the keys, frowning. And is everything to be sold? There are no pieces the family would like to keep?
There is no family left in this country, Mr Coates. The entire estate has been purchased by developers who wish to turn it into a luxury hotel, the proceeds of which go to a number of charitable causes. So, sadly, no. Again, if I can be of any help
Forgive me, but who were they? Cate interrupted, settling into one of the chairs. Who lived in Endsleigh?
Mr Syms gave her a look, both surprised and slightly suspicious. I thought it was common knowledge. The late Lady Avondale, more famously known by her maiden name, Irene Blythe, lived here. She died two months ago, aged ninety-two. She was a wonderful woman; very loyal and generous. Lady Avondale was an extremely active campaigner for childrens causes, especially of UNICEF. She received her OBE in 1976. Unfortunately, of course, its her sister everyone knows about. But thats the way, isnt it? he sighed. The good in this world are never as glamorous as the bad. Im sorry but I really must go. Im reading a will in Ottery St Mary in an hour. He nodded to them. It was a pleasure to meet you both. Mrs Williams is always on hand if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your stay. Then, with a small bow, he took his leave, cutting across the lawn with long strides.
Is it just me or does it feel like hes running away? Cate poured out two mugs of tea. Sugar?
No, thank you. Jack picked up a sandwich. He wouldnt be the first. I have that effect on people.
Ive never heard of the Blythes. She passed him a mug. And who is this infamous sister?
Diana Blythe. The beautiful Blythe sisters. They were both debutantes; famous for being famous between the wars. Do you really not know who they are?
Cate shook her head. Am I just a mass of ignorance? Tell me everything you know.
Well, he admitted, to be honest, thats it. I know Diana went missing during the war and was never found. Some say she went to live in America. Others think she was murdered. Im surprised you havent heard of her.
Obviously my education is lacking. Cate sipped her tea. How strange and romantic!
You have a very odd idea of romance.
I have odd ideas about a lot of things. The wind blew across the lawn, gently ruffling her skirt. What an old relic!
The house?
Hmm.
You dont think its charming?
Well, it may be. But its sad too. And so staid; a great big cliché of a house.
All these houses have a sameness about them. Ive seen dozens and dozens over the years. Its the position and the grounds that make this one special. I love looking out over the sea. And although its only small
Small!
Ten bedrooms is nothing. He settled into the chair opposite. I mean, it mustve been wonderful for entertaining but its no size, really.
Now theres only you and me and Mrs Williams. Cate closed her eyes. Its peaceful, she sighed. And the name is so evocative. Endsleigh!
The sea was too far off to be heard but the sound of the wind through the trees, the birds and the warm smell of freshly cut grass bathed in sunlight soothed her.
It is peaceful, Jack agreed.
The dull, persistent ring of a mobile phone buzzed, coming from her handbag.
Her eyes flicked open.
It continued to ring.
Arent you going to answer it?
I didnt think thered be a signal here.
Finally, it stopped.
So, Jack grinned, avoiding someone?
The look on her face was cold, like being splashed by a bucket of iced water.
I was only
It doesnt matter. She stood up. Its too hot out here.
Im going upstairs to unpack. Let me know when youd like to begin.
He tried again. Look, Im sorry if I
Its nothing, she cut him off. Its of no importance at all.
Taking her handbag, she walked across the lawn. Jack watched as she stepped between the layers of sheer fabric floating in the breeze by the French windows, disappearing into the house.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
13 June 1926
My dearest Wren,
Muv sent me a copy of the article in The Times featuring your lovely photograph. Miss Irene Blythe one of the Debutantes of the Season! And rightly so! How did they get your hair to look like that? Have you had it shingled? Remember that I want to hear every tiny detail, especially about anything that HAPPENS to youeven a brief fumble in a corridor is thrilling for me, as I am in EXILE till next year.
As for me, I am limp with boredom, despite the romance of the Greatest City in Europe. That is Madame Galliots constant refrain. You girls are spoilt! Here you are in Paristhe Greatest City in Europe your parents are spending a fortune on youon and on and onOf course she doesnt actually allow us to go anywhere, which is too vexing. Apart from our drawing classes and trips to Ladurée (the French cannot make a decent cup of tea) and endless expeditions to churchesyou can see she is truly exerting herself on behalf of my educationwe are rarely allowed to venture foot into Paris itselfa theatre or nightclub, let alone two Les Folies-Bergère. She also has perfected a sneer she reserves for me when she says things like, There are certain subtle refinements that simply cannot be taught, (cue said sneer), referring of course to the fact that you and I were not born into our class so much as thrust upon it. To her we are and always will be counterfeits. Which is why it is so thrilling to leave cuttings of The Times around for her to see!
Under her tutelage I have learned precisely three things:
* How to eat oysters.
* How to wear my hat at a beguiling angle.
* How to engage in surreptitious eye contact with men in the street, who, being French, are only too glad to ogle you back.
She has two other English girls staying with herAnne Cartwright, who is charming, great fun and not at all above herself (she has taught me how to smoke quite successfully and without the least bit of choking) and Eleanor Ogilvy-Smith, who is a great lump of wet clay. Eleanor lives in terror of any possible form of enjoyment and every time Anne and I campaign for some tiny inch of freedom, she immediately sides with Madame Galliot and suggests another outing of the religious variety. She also spends far too much time in the bathroom. Anne and I have bets as to what she does in thereall of which would offend your propriety.
So, please! More news of the Season and every man you dance with and every single dress you wear and what you have for supper (each course) and how many marriage proposals you receive this week and if they kneel and blush and stutter with nerves, etc., when faced with your overwhelming beauty or simply faint. Also, please, please, please give me some small commission here in Paris so that I may have a legitimate reason to set forth into some of the Forbidden Zones for example, do you need any gloves from Pigalle? Or stockings from the Lido?
I am too, too proud of you, darling! And I think Fa would be too. How am I ever to live up to my beautiful sister? Jai malade de jalousie! (See how my French improves!)
Send my love to Muv, who must be finding the fight to keep you both chaste and marry you off at breakneck speed quite an exhilarating moral dilemma. She does, as always, write the most fantastically boring letters. They read more like housekeeping accounts than anything else. How did a woman so dull marry so well? (Anne says she must have Hidden Longings, which is quite revolting, especially when you consider what our stepfather probably looks like sans clothes. I told her surely such things should be outlawed amongst the elderly and besides, ma chérie maman does a very good line in Virgin Queenismher poor Consort has Jesus to contend with now. I wonder she hasnt invested in a life-sized crucifix to hang above the bed, now that we are so hideously rich.)
Oh! To Be In London!
I do so long to join you and be in the thick of life at last!
Yours, as always,
Diana xxxx
PS Have just tried to cut my own hair with a pair of sewing shears and now look like the boy who delivers for the butchers. Anne has kindly lent me a cloche. Pray for me.
Cate walked up the central staircase, to the large open landing of the first floor. It was galleried, furnished with plush red velvet sofas and end tables. She sat down, gathering herself. There was no need to snap at him, she thought, cradling her head in her hands. She was on edge, that was all.
The truth was shed assumed Jack would be an older man, a contemporary of Rachels; some sexless uncle type who needed a helping hand for a few days. Not a man speeding around in a convertible, staring at her with intense blue eyes, asking questions.
She was safe, she reminded herself. This was England, after all. And here, hidden in this remote house, immersed, like a reluctant time traveller, she was protected, surrounded by the beauty and opulence of another, more elegant age. Nothing could touch her. Least of all a man she hardly knew.
Taking a deep breath, she looked around. It was such a luxurious expanse of space to have at the top of a staircase. People mustve congregated here, talking, laughing and smoking in their evening clothes before going down to supper. She tried to imagine their easy, urbane conversation; the air a cocktail of French perfume and thick, unfiltered cigarette smoke; flattery and flirtation. Running her hand along, she felt the lush, worn velvet, soft and inviting.
Still, she was tense, unsettled. Getting up, she turned down the hall, looking in each of the rooms until she found what was clearly the master bedroom, with its rich mahogany sleigh bed and dark, masculine furniture. She headed in the opposite direction. All the way at the other end of the long corridor was Lady Avondales suite, decorated with lighter, more restrained feminine touches. Soft primrose walls were covered in watercolours, the bed was in the French Empire style and blue-and-white chintz curtains were pulled back across the bay window overlooking the front garden. There was a view of the sea. Someone had opened the windows. Fresh towels were placed neatly on the dresser.
She was expected.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she tried to still her racing thoughts. It was useless.
Why was it that no matter how far she travelled from New York, it was never far enough?
Opening her handbag, she took out her phone. The number was withheld. A red light flashed a message. She threw it back into her handbag. Lying down across the bed she curled into a ball, arms wrapped round her knees.
The room was pretty, elegant, but it offered no comfort. She rolled over on to her back. There was the unfamiliar sound of birdsong. It shouldve been soothing but instead it felt insistent, nagging. She was used to car horns, the roar of traffic; too many people, too close together. Nature felt like a black hole into which she was falling, weightless.
Breathing deeply, she tried to relax, pressing her eyes shut.
But as soon as they were closed, the film began to play again. It always began the same way: with his touch on her skin, the musky scent of his cologne, the pressure of his lips, softly caressing against her bare shoulder
Go on. He dipped his finger into the glass of cognac, tracing it along his lips. I dare you. He leaned down, his breath warm against her cheek. Kiss me.
How many times had she promised herself she wouldnt? She wouldnt answer his calls; wouldnt go to him; definitely wouldnt drink.
He was like an invading army; he didnt want to love her so much as to occupy her. And to her horror, she wanted to be annihilated; overwhelmed. It took so much for her to feel anything at all.
She flicked her eyes open. These dreams were dangerous.
There were other memories, less palatable; even terrifying. So why was this the one that haunted her? The glamour, seduction; the full force of his desire and attention.
Sitting up, she caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror on the other side of the room. The slim, blonde woman who stared back was almost unrecognisable, even to her. When shed first gone to New York, shed been a brunette, hair halfway down her back, hanging like a veil, hiding her face. Her shoulders were hunched forward, rounding protectively over her solar plexus, which felt permanently tender and bruised.
She wanted to be someone else. Anyone else.
It was Derek Constantine who suggested she cut and dye her hair. Something timeless, classic.
But I cant afford it.
You cant afford not to be blonde, he corrected her. And, he sighed, his upper lip curling slightly as he looked down at her ankle-length skirt, we need to do something about all those black clothes. Youre not an Italian widow. This is a city of very fine social distinctions. Everyone nowadays has money, whats important is pedigree, exclusivity. Youre like a debutante, before the ball. With proper grooming and introductions to the right people, who knows how far you could go?