The Debutante (6 page)

So why was it locked?

There was a single bed against one wall and a dresser. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Cate opened a drawer and dust ballooned into the air, making her cough. There was nothing inside.

Bookshelves lined the wall opposite. She examined the faded spines.
The Wind in the Willows, The Water-Babies, The Faithless Parrot, The Children of the New Forest
as well as
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
and works by Hans Christian Andersen and a large collection of Lewis Carroll. Pulling out
The Wind in the Willows,
she opened it. Its spine creaked stiffly. Apart from damage from dust and age, however, it was pristine.

Then, kneeling down, she noticed something. There was an anthology of Beatrix Potter books, small, taking up only half the width of the shelf. Behind them, an old shoebox was wedged into place, filling the gap, making all the rows look even. Cate carefully dislodged it. It was printed
in soft brown ink to look as if it were made of alligator skin and tied together with a salmon pink ribbon. It was heavy.

On the side of the box there was a label. ‘F. Pinet, Ladies’ Footwear’. In pencil beneath, written in a florid, old-fashioned hand, there was the shoe size, 4.

Cate untied the frayed silk ribbon and lifted the lid. Wrapped between layers of crumpled newspaper was a pair of delicate silver dancing shoes. They were made from rows and rows of fine braided mesh, finished off with rhinestone clasps. The handiwork was remarkable; intricate patterns of silver thread glittered across the back heel and along the toe. Judging from the style, the roundness of toe, they must have been from the late 1920s or early 1930s. And they looked expensive. Did they belong to Lady Avondale?

Cate turned them over. They’d been worn only a few times; the leather was barely scuffed. She traced her finger along the smooth leather arch. They were so small! Someone, presumably the old lady, used the box to even out the rows of books. But why? Why would anyone bother with such a detail in a room that was locked, virtually empty of furniture?

Picking up the box, she felt something slide to one end. It wasn’t empty. She lifted out the crumpled newspaper.

There, hidden underneath, was a collection of objects.

One by one, she took them out.

There was a worn, pale blue velvet jewellery box. Cate flicked it open.

‘My God!’

It was a tiny bracelet, fashioned from pearls, diamonds and emeralds. ‘Tiffany & Co, 221 Regent Street, W. London’ was printed on the white satin cover of the lid. Cate undid the clasp and held it up to the light. The pattern was a delicate combination of pearl flowers with emerald centres, interspersed with slender pearl ovals augmented by rows of diamonds. The diamonds were dulled by dust and age but the emeralds glittered in the sunlight. She tried it round her own wrist. It only just fitted. Incredibly finely made, it was probably extremely valuable.

Closing the clasp, she laid it neatly back in its case.

Next was a slim silver box with an elaborately scripted ‘B’ in the centre decorated with diamonds. Here was a battered green badge with a picture of a candle on it. It bore the inscription ‘The prize is a fair one and the hope great’, and in the centre were the letters ‘SSG’. A small tarnished brass key, too tiny for any door, had rolled into one corner. It fitted into the hollow of her palm like something from
Alice in Wonderland.
Perhaps it belonged to a desk or a locked drawer? And at the very bottom of the box, there was a photograph of a handsome dark-haired young man in a sailor’s uniform. He had even features and black, lively eyes. It was a formal photograph, taken in a photographer’s studio. He was posed against a vague classical backdrop of a Greek column, one arm resting casually against a pedestal draped in heavy cloth, the other placed confidently on his hip. ‘HMS VIVID’ was
embroidered on his hat. He couldn’t be older than twenty. Underneath, on the black border, the photographer’s name, ‘J. Grey, 33 Union Street, Stonehouse, Plymouth’, was written.

Cate felt a sense of building excitement. This was no random selection of objects but something personal. Each bit — the shoes, the bracelet, the photograph — were related somehow. Someone had gathered them, hidden them in the shoebox, and concealed them behind the books. But why?

A bee flew in through the open French windows. It buzzed wildly, looking for a way out.

She stared at the photograph of the handsome young man with the laughing, defiant gaze.

It was a chronicle, an archive — of something worth hiding — marked by diamonds from Tiffany’s, silver dancing shoes, beautiful young men …

Her memory tripped. Suddenly she was back in time, walking down the long corridor, into the ballroom of the St Regis Hotel, all gilt mirrors and low lighting. People were turning, people she didn’t know, smiling at her, staring. The soft green silk of her dress swirled around her legs. A jazz trio played ‘Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone’.

Something marked by diamonds, dancing shoes, handsome men …

He was there, in front of her. His hair smooth and glossy, sleek against his strong features; his eyes dark,
almost black. He wasn’t handsome but rather compelling; dominating.

‘Some people are afraid of success. Afraid of really being alive.’ His tone was challenging, his expression amused. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘Nothing frightens me,’ she had answered coolly, turning away.

Cate closed her eyes.

In truth she had been afraid; afraid of everything, everyone. But she had lied. She had walked away and he had followed, through the crowds of men and women in evening dress, waltzing and turning, their reflections spinning in the mirrors lining the walls.

The bee veered out of the open window, into the vast freedom of the garden.

Cate watched it disappear.

If only she’d known then that soon he’d be the one walking away and she’d be the one following, stumbling behind.

There was a noise.

Cate tensed as she listened to Jack cross the landing at the end of the hallway.

He was looking for her.

Gathering the things together, she put them back in the box, hastily retying the lid with the ribbon.

It ought to go back where she found it. Or she should show it to Jack.

That was the right thing to do.

‘Cate? Cate?’ He was heading down the stairs. ‘Cate!’

Instead she tucked the box under her arm, racing soundlessly along the corridor, heart pounding, back to her room.

They began their work at the front of the house, with the entrance hall, working fastidiously at what seemed like a painfully slow speed. Little stickers went on each item with a number. Each number corresponded to a description dictated to Cate by Jack and then they took a photograph, sometimes several from different angles. Every figurine, every painting, every detail of the lives that were once lived here were recorded and priced for quick sale.

Each piece had an estimated value. Cate filled in the figures next to the descriptions in uncharacteristically careful, neat handwriting, the total mounting by the minute. It was mind-numbing. How sad that all these objects, acquired and beloved through generations, were to be reduced to nothing but a few lines in a catalogue. Endsleigh had been a home once — a refuge against life and the world. Some of these things had been favourites; treasured. Now she and Jack were the last people ever to stay there in its incarnation as a private home. A couple of strangers; strangers to the house and its history, strangers even to each other. Soon bulldozers would be knocking down Mrs Williams’s low-ceilinged cottage to make way
for a luxury spa; the front hallway transformed into a reception area and bar. Already she could imagine the delight of tourists as they arrived for their country-house weekend.

Jack was good at his job, clever and concise, reeling off complicated accounts of styles and conditions of objects without pausing for breath. And Cate was grateful for the lack of demanding interaction between them. He dictated; she recorded. She was invisible and it soothed her to forget for a while who she was and how she’d ended up here. By the time they stopped at seven, her fingers ached from the effort of trying to write clearly and yet at speed.

‘Shall we leave it here for tonight?’ he suggested.

She nodded gratefully, filing away the forms in a folder.

‘I think I can smell something cooking,’ he added, yawning and stretching his arms above his head.

They wandered into the kitchen. Mrs Williams had been hard at work — the shepherd’s pie was browning nicely in the oven and two place settings were laid out on the long pine table along with a green salad, a bowl of fruit and some cheese.

‘Thank God for that!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m famished!’

‘And yet where is the invisible Mrs Williams?’ Cate wondered, leaning up against the worktop. ‘This is like something out of a fairy tale;
Beauty and the Beast.’

‘Don’t we all wish we had staff like that?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Oh, and here’s just the thing!’ Jack picked up a bottle of red wine airing on the worktop next to two glasses. ‘Can I pour you one?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Then he remembered his conversation with Rachel, some mention of her father being an alcoholic. Of course, he wasn’t meant to know anything about her. He poured out a glass. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Why would I mind?’

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘No reason.’

Feeling self-conscious, he smiled and sipped, as if to prove that he was completely ignorant of her family history.

Cate frowned, unable to disguise her irritation. Rachel had obviously been talking. ‘It’s so hot in here!’ She turned away, looking out of the window.

‘You’re right. Let’s eat outside instead.’

‘Fine.’

Once out in the garden, the tension relaxed. It was good to get away from the heat of the kitchen with its ancient Aga. They sat under the chestnut tree again at the same low table where they’d had their tea, carrying the food out on trays.

A cool breeze rustled through the foliage. And suddenly, after the pleasant anonymity of working together for hours, the strangeness of being alone was palpable again.

‘So,’ Cate pushed her food around on her plate, ‘have you always been a valuer?’

It sounded dry and stupid.

Jack looked across at her. ‘No. You’re an artist, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She hadn’t expected him to bat the conversation back at her quite so quickly.

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I paint. Reproductions.’

Up shot an eyebrow. ‘Really? You mean
Whistler’s Mother
and that sort of thing?’

She tore at a piece of bread. ‘I specialise in French and Russian eighteenth-century Romantic painting.’

‘The Enlightenment?’

‘Yes.’

He chuckled.

‘What?’

‘Rachel didn’t tell me you were a faker.’ He looked at her sideways. ‘Ever try to pass anything off?’

‘It’s all real,’ she said, jabbing the bread into a pocket of gravy. ‘It’s just not original. And yes, pieces get “passed off” all the time. Most of the work I do is for insurance purposes. Very few people can afford to lose a masterpiece, even a minor one, to theft or fire.’

‘I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. My mother always told me I had the social skills of a cabbage.’

‘I’m sure she was just being kind.’

He laughed. ‘Mothers are bound to be indulgent. So,’ he tried again, ‘why that period?’

‘I sort of fell into it.’

‘Into the Age of Reason?’

‘Someone asked me to do some work for them. A
trompe l’oeil
in a quite amazing flat overlooking the park. I found I had a certain aptitude for it. Also, there’s considerably more scope for economic success. After all,’ she took a bite, ‘if you hang a copy of
Sunflowers
on your wall, everyone knows you’ve got a fake. But if you choose something more elusive, unknown …’

‘Very clever. Was that Constantine’s idea?’

His astuteness caught her off guard. She shifted. ‘Well, the commission did come through a client of his.’

‘He’s always been, shall we say … enterprising.’ He took another sip. ‘And what about your own work?’

‘This is my work.’

‘Of course. I just meant your own subject matter.’

Again, she felt wrong-footed. ‘I get paid very well. And there’s nothing particularly worthy about starving to death in a garret.’

He said nothing. But his expression was amused.

‘This is more sustainable.’

‘Well, yes. We must do what’s sustainable.’

‘Have you always been a valuer?’ she asked again, crisply.

He looked up, grinning. ‘No. My father had an antiques business in Islington. I trained as an auctioneer at Sotheby’s one wayward year after university before I came up with the brilliant idea of becoming an architect. Then, unfortunately, my father became ill. Parkinson’s. And
I took over the business.’ He paused. ‘I should’ve sold it and moved on; just been brutal and done it that same year. Instead, I got stuck.’