Authors: Lucinda Riley

Tags: #Historical, #Contemporary, #Romance

The Orchid House (64 page)

BOOK: The Orchid House

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‘Granny, that’s awfully kind of you but …’

‘Hush, Julia, let me finish,’ Lidia chided. ‘Then, when we speak last week, you tell me Wharton Park is for sale, because you cannot afford to pay off debts or restore the house. So … I decide
I
will buy it. It will be mine.’ Lidia clasped her tiny hands together in glee.

‘You want to live here?’ asked Kit, confused.

‘No, Kit. Julia know how I hate the cold. I will be your landlady. You will live here and, with money I pay you for Wharton Park, I entrust you to pay off debts and oversee the restoration for me. And, of course, this task is also for yourselves and future generations of our family,’ she added softly. ‘On my death, Julia, Wharton Park will become yours.’

There was a pause, as Kit and Julia took time to comprehend what Lidia was suggesting.

‘My goodness! It’s awfully generous of you, Lidia,’ Kit replied finally, realising Julia was too overwhelmed to speak.

‘Well, I think it is good joke,’ Lidia’s amber eyes sparkled, ‘that the poor Thai girl, abandoned all those years ago by the owner of this house, buys it for her granddaughter, almost sixty-five years later. Do you not think so too?’

Julia nodded, still stunned into silence.

‘It is all very perfect,’ smiled Lidia happily. ‘When Julia marry you, Kit, my granddaughter will finally be Lady Crawford of Wharton Park. And the journey Harry and I start together all those years ago will have been completed. Please tell me you think well of my idea?’ She looked at Julia anxiously.

Julia finally spoke. ‘Lidia, are you sure this is what you want?’

‘Julia,
Ka
, I have never been so sure of anything in my life. Kit, do you feel comfortable about my plan?’ she asked.

‘Lidia, we all know that, by rights, this house should be Julia’s anyway.’ Kit turned to Julia and reached for her hand. ‘And I’d be very happy to stay and do my bit to help return Wharton Park to its former glory. I love the place too. And I know how much you do, darling,’ he added, gently reassuring Julia with his eyes. ‘It really is the most wonderful offer, Lidia.’

‘All I ask is, occasionally, I may be welcome as your guest here and meet your English family. Your father, Julia, and of course, Elsie, who take care of my daughter with so much love.’

‘Of course you can,’ Julia finally found her voice, ‘whenever you want. I’ve told Elsie all about you, and she would so love to meet you.’

‘So,’ said Lidia, ‘there is little more to say. Tell me you agree, Kit, and I can sign all papers before I return to Thailand next week.’

‘Of course I agree,’ answered Kit. ‘It’s a wonderful offer.’

‘And you, Julia?’ Lidia asked gently.

‘I love this house so much, Lidia, it would be very difficult for me to say no.’ Julia’s voice was choked with emotion. ‘I just can’t believe we can stay here. Thank you, thank you so much.’ Julia stood up and hugged Lidia tightly.

‘All this in return for one favour, Julia,’ Lidia added, taking Julia’s hands into her own. ‘I wish to go back to the drawing room, so I can listen whilst you play for me, on my Harry’s beautiful grand piano.’

The three of them entered the drawing room and Julia sat down in front of the piano.

Kit watched Lidia’s eyes fill with tears as the opening notes of Chopin’s ‘Études’ fell effortlessly from her granddaughter’s gifted fingers.

He realised the circle had been completed; each of them with their own place in the story that had spanned generations, reunited here together at Wharton Park, which itself had played such a major role in the tapestry they and others had woven.

All that remained now, Kit thought, was to begin a new circle.

He looked down at Julia and knew that, together, they would.

Epilogue

Wharton Park

December, eleven months later

It is Christmas Eve. I am standing by the window in the bedroom I share with Kit, overlooking the park. The scene outside is not as it is in high summer but, as the sun rises, making the frost glitter on the barren winter landscape, it has its own particular beauty.

I turn away from the window and step back into the warm room, my feet sinking into the newly laid carpet. I admire the wallpaper, hand-painted to copy the original, and enjoy the faint smell of fresh paint.

In the past year, Kit has overseen this transformation single-handedly. I can take no credit, as I was busy on other projects. Wharton Park looks as it did, yet everything inside and out is on its way to being restored, to protect another seventy years of Crawfords, who will play out their lives within its walls. Soon, it will be Kit’s turn to follow his own dream, still tucked safely within the walls of Wharton Park, but using his talent and experience to help children outside of them.

I am the new Lady of the house. On the day of my marriage to Kit, I wore the necklace and earrings that Olivia, and generations of Crawford brides, wore before me. They are mine now, to hand on to my son’s bride when he marries.

As with Olivia, Wharton Park must always play a big part in my life. But I have learnt, through stories of the past and my own experience, that everything must have a balance. I will use and appreciate the gift I have been given to nurture and protect my family and my talent, but never allow it to destroy them.

Alerted by the faintest sound, I leave Kit sleeping and pad silently through the bathroom to the small room beyond. This was once Harry Crawford’s dressing room, but we have converted it into a nursery. I peep over the cot and see that the perpetrator of the sound is still asleep, his thumb stuck firmly in his rosebud-shaped mouth.

Everyone tells me he looks like me, but I know he doesn’t. He looks like himself.

‘Today, Harry,’ I whisper to him, ‘is a special day for you.’

He lies, innocent in sleep, unaware that his family – some of whom have travelled from the other side of the world – are gathering to watch him undertake his first rite of passage as he is christened in the small church on the estate. One day, his last rite of passage will also take place there, and he will be laid in the Crawford family vault and reunited with his forebears for eternity. But his tapestry has only just begun and I can only hope it will contain many more stitches than his half-brother’s before him.

He does not realise the link he provides to the past and the future. Or the weight of responsibility his privileged start in life will give him. I have sworn to him it will never hold him back from living the life he chooses. Or from spending that life with the woman he loves.

I gather the six weeks of new life gently into my arms, relishing this moment alone with him. After this, there will be little time for me to enjoy him, for I have much to do today. The house is full of guests, here to enjoy Christmas at Wharton Park with us. The tree has been cut from the woods and installed in the entrance hall, bedecked with twinkling lights and the same decorations that have been used for generations.

I kiss his sweet-smelling forehead, look up and call upon God to protect him, understanding so well that my powers as a mother are limited, and I know I must accept that.

Through the pain and the joy of the journey I have made in the past two years, I have learnt the most important lesson life can offer, and I am glad of it.

The moment is all we have.

Acknowledgements

Mari Evans and all the team at Penguin, who bought the book. Jonathan Lloyd, my agent, who has believed in me through thick and very thin. The ‘Coven’ – Adriana Hunter, for the ‘
oui
’ pub and the commas, Susan Moss, Rosalind Hudson, Helene Rampton, Tracy Blackwell and Jenny Dufton, whose generous support during difficult times got me through.

In Thailand, the amazing staff of the Oriental Hotel, especially
Khun
Ankhana, who generously shared her memories of life in Bangkok in 1945, Kitima, Thanadol, Lidia, Jack, Laor and Jeab. In France, Tony and Fiona Bourne for the gin and the forest fire, and Agnes Sorocki for help with my bad French and lifts to the airport. And the amazing Kathleen Mackenzie, my Fairy Godmother, who is always there when I call for her and is the most special person I know.

In England, the fantastic Jacquelyn Heslop and Sue Grix, and Pat Pitt, my typist. Jonathan Walpole, whose house helped inspire Wharton Park. The late Jack Farrow, a Sergeant in the 5th Royal Norfolks, whose moving and descriptive diary of life as a POW in Changi helped me to create an accurate picture of the suffering our brave boys were subjected to.

My mother, Janet, my sister, Georgia, and Olivia, my step-daughter, who over the years have all encouraged me to keep going. Stephen, my husband, who has taught me so much about life; without his love and support, I would not have written this book. And my children: Harry, who helped me type in edits with such, er … grace, Isabella, whose zest for life always cheers me up, Leonora, my sensitive, artistic ‘mini-me’, and Kit, my chocolate and Stoke City obsessed ‘baby’. They are used to a blank stare when they interrupt me to ask me a question and I am so very proud of them all.

And finally, my late father, whose wanderlust and genuine interest in the world and the people in it, I have gratefully inherited.

Table of Contents

SIAM, MANY MOONS PAST …

Hothouse Flower