Three Graces (14 page)

‘I’ve always liked it too,’ Mrs Travis said. ‘It has that feminine touch which I often find lacking in some of the other rooms, if you don’t mind me saying, Lady C.’ Mrs Travis managed to control her blushing before continuing. ‘I’m afraid the women of the house have very little say when it comes to décor. They make suggestions but it really isn’t their place to make alterations on a grand scale. The private rooms are an exception, of course.’

‘And is this classed as a private room?’

Mrs Travis’s mouth tightened. ‘Yes and no. The wallpaper is quite old and I believe his grace would not want that changed but you’re welcome to hang your own pictures and place your own ornaments here, if you wish.’

Carys thought of the few decorative objects she’d had around her home and which hadn’t yet been unpacked at Amberley. A pretty Victorian vase painted with flowers, a blue and white bowl in which she kept a handful of sherbet lemons, her collection of liberty photo frames and some bright glass figurines bought on a holiday in Venice. It wasn’t much of a contribution to such a grand house but it would be enough to make the room feel like her own.

For a moment, she wondered what Francesca had placed on the shelves and mantelpiece. What had she taken with her on departing?

‘You must try to make yourself at home here,’ Mrs Travis said as if reading Carys’s mind. ‘One of the curses of belonging to a family like this is that each death brings a great shuffling of people and roles. It’s very unsettling. But this room belongs to the lady of the house so do make it your own, my lady. Her grace always spent her mornings here: writing letters and so forth,’ she continued.

‘Is there a lot of correspondence to handle?’

Mrs Travis nodded. ‘Her grace dealt with a lot of the general enquiries about the house: film crews wanting to visit, historians asking questions, and charities getting in touch. You’d be surprised what gets sent our way. Her grace was also responsible for running the household staff and the collection, and took a great interest in overseeing the estate shop too. Then there was her charity work which, perhaps, you’d like to think about, and there will be the fund-raising events to take care of too.’

So, Carys thought, she might have some useful role in the running of Amberley after all. Her leisurely stay so far had been but an interlude. They had obviously been breaking her in gently.

‘Sounds like a full time job,’ she said.

‘And then some,’ Mrs Travis laughed. ‘Mrs Franklin comes in for two mornings a week to help out. She was her grace’s secretary and is happy to stay on if you need.’

Oh,
I need
, Carys said to herself, knowing, instinctively, that there was no manual for this job. She needed all the help and guidance she could get.

‘The desk has been cleared for you,’ Mrs Travis said. ‘You’ll find headed paper in the top drawer and there are always envelopes and stamps there too. There’s an electronic typewriter in the cupboard.’

‘And the computer?’

‘Her grace never liked computers. She said they filled the room with an unnecessary hum.’

‘I don’t suppose it would look right either,’ Carys said, looking towards the enormous mahogany desk. It was a piece of sturdy Victorian furniture that commanded respect rather than love. It gleamed darkly in the light from the large window, its many drawers set with decorative brass handles and its surface covered in a forest-green leather. A shapely wooden chair with balled feet stood close by. It looked very stately and very uncomfortable. That was the problem with these old houses, though. They were, invariably, built to impress rather than to comfort.

Carys turned back to her new old desk. There was no computer or printer; no in trays or out trays but there was a small mound of post waiting for somebody’s attention. It was as far away from her work station in her old office as anything could be. But she loved the room. The bookshelves heaved with colourful spines and she couldn’t wait to rifle through them.

Candy-striped chairs clustered round a tiny fireplace on which was perched a sweet wooden clock and two Staffordshire pottery spaniels. An enormous mirror hung above it, covered in bunches of thick gilded grapes. The walls were covered in a pretty wallpaper of cream with a burgundy print of roses and berries, and the carpet was a rich red like those in their private apartments which gave the room a cosy warmth.

Lamps were dotted around the room on occasional tables and there was a two-seater sofa resplendent in gold and pink and heaped with cushions. It was, Carys thought, the kind of room you could shut yourself away in and forget about the outside world. She could imagine curling up on the sofa, sinking back into the cushions, her feet tucked under her bottom, a hot cup of tea steaming on the table beside her and a good book to read and nothing to disturb her but the gentle chime of the clock on the fireplace.

‘I think I’m going to be very happy here,’ she said.

Mrs Travis smiled. ‘Don’t forget, there’s the telephone. There’s a list of extension numbers for the house if you need anything.’

Carys nodded. So ropes with bells on the end had lost favour, had they?

‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea before you begin?’

‘Oh, thank you,’ Carys said.

As Mrs Travis left the room, Carys looked around, wondering if there was a socket and table where she could keep a secret kettle and supply of teabags. She so hated being reliant on staff for the most basic of things.

She walked round to the chair at the desk. It looked so austere as if it were daring her to sit on it. Carys trailed her fingers across the green leather top, wondering how many letters had been written there and how she was going to take over that role now. Could she do it?

She cleared her throat, pulled out the chair and sat down.

‘There,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t so hard.’ And the chair didn’t feel that hard either. Although she could probably do with a couple of cushions for reassurance.

She looked around the empty acres of desk. She would buy herself some nice desk stationery. Yes, that was it. A nice pot for her pens and a letter rack. A cheery coaster or two for the cups of tea she was going to need. Maybe even a mouse mat if she was daring enough to introduce a computer to the world of Amberley.

For a moment, she just sat, staring at the room around her. Then she cleared her throat again.

‘How do you do? I’m the Duchess of Cuthland,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Do sit down. Now, how can I help you?’ she said, her mouth suddenly full of plums and her eyebrows rising in a haughty manner. ‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t possibly agree to sell these books. You see, they’ve been in my husband’s family for generations. They’re heirlooms. Priceless, don’t you know.’

She paused, her head cocked to one side as if listening to somebody. ‘That’s an extraordinarily generous offer. Yes, I’m quite aware we could replace the entire roof for that amount but, and I think I’ve said this before, the contents of Amberley remain at Amberley.’

She gave a coquettish laugh. ‘My dear man. Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’

Suddenly, the telephone rang, making Carys jump.

‘God!’

What was she meant to do? Was that an internal call or not? If she picked it up, it might be a real person - from the outside world.

‘Keep calm,’ she said. Hang on a minute. It was an internal call, wasn’t it?’

Her hand reached for the receiver and she picked it up. ‘He-hello?’ she said, not sounding like the over-confident, flirtatious duchess she’d portrayed so beautifully just a moment ago but more like an office junior on their first day.

‘Lady C?’

‘Mrs Travis?’ she cried in delight.

‘I’m so sorry, my lady, but did you want Earl Grey or camomile?’

‘Earl Grey,’ Carys almost laughed in relief.

Once her heart rate had returned to normal, she did as anyone who takes possession of a new desk does: checked the drawers. It was a pedestal desk with two columns of four drawers and a long horizontal drawer in the middle. Being right-handed, Carys began with the top drawer on her right-hand side. The ornate brass handle pulled the drawer away smoothly and it was so wonderful to observe its neat emptiness. In the past, when she’d inherited a desk, it would invariably be full of out-of-date memos, bent paper-clips and a bottle of congealed Tipex. No such tat in this desk. It had been loved and respected. Its owner had taken pride in its use. It wouldn’t be a chore to sit at a desk like this, Carys thought, even though the job might seem strange to her at this moment, she felt that it must be made easier by being surrounded by beautiful objects. The aristocracy knew that, didn’t they? They knew that the long passage through life was made all the sweeter by having lovely things around them. Not that a Queen Anne walnut chair could mend a broken heart, and a Chippendale bureau might not be able to chase the blues away, but they could make you feel a little happier by just looking at them.

Carys was enjoying this. She’d never been able to afford beautiful furniture before. Her pieces at her old home were cheap and functional and not many of them were made out of solid wood either. They had a
wooden veneer
or were made from the dreaded MDF. Was that her generation’s gift to the world? Was this where the glorious timeline of wood end? Oak, walnut, mahogany, pine - and MDF? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine the antique collectors of the future sweating with enthusiasm over a piece of MDF.

Ah, yes. That’s a very early piece. Look at the craftsmanship
.

MDF just wasn’t the sort of thing to make record prices at auction houses, and she doubted very much that there would ever be books lining the shelves of Amberley’s library entitled:
A History of MDF
.

There was a polite knock on the door and Mrs Travis came in, placing the cup of tea on Carys’s new old desk.

‘Everything in order, my lady?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Just call if you need anything.’

‘Thank you. I will,’ Carys said.

No sooner had Mrs Travis left than the phone rang again. This time, it was definitely an outside caller.

‘Hello,’ Carys said tentatively.

‘Is that Carys?’

‘Yes,’ Carys said, not recognising the lady’s voice at the other end.

‘Good. This is Valerie,’ the lady said, pausing as if expecting Carys to recognise the name. ‘Valerie Buckley Stewart - the Countess of Eastmoreland.’

‘Hello,’ Carys said again, remembering that she and her husband, the earl, had been at their wedding but not actually remembering what they looked like.

‘I was hoping to talk to you sometime. I thought you might like to come over - see the place - that sort of thing. I mean, we’re practically neighbours.’

‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

‘Silly not to be friends, don’t you think. What are you doing tomorrow? Would ten o’clock be all right?’

‘Well, I-’ Carys blinked.

‘We could get to know each other - swap notes and stuff. No use listening to the rubbish our husbands come out with, is it?’

Carys frowned. She knew that there was some hostility between Richard and Roland Buckley-Stewart but she hadn’t yet managed to get to the bottom of it.

‘I’ll be able to give you some advice on running that home of yours too,’ Valerie added. ‘I dare say you don’t know where to start. Am I right?’

Carys couldn’t help smiling. ‘I could do with a few pointers, yes.’

‘Then, that’s settled. I’ll see you tomorrow. Park outside the main entrance and explain who you are to old Tweedy on the door. She’ll give you directions. Goodbye.’ And she rang off.

Carys laughed. How extraordinary.

It wasn’t until they were in bed that Carys broached the subject.

‘Richard?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘What exactly is it between you and Roland Buckley-Stewart?’

‘God! Do you have to mention his name in the sanctuary of our bedroom?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, thinking that wasn’t the best of responses. ‘I just want to try and understand. I was thinking of going over there-’

‘I don’t want you getting involved with them, Carys, okay? It’s no coincidence that we nickname their place Bastard Hall. The only reason you have to go over there is to suss out how they’re managing to stay afloat, okay?’

‘And I’ve already done that,’ she said, remembering the embarrassing dark glasses and large hat she’d worn as she’d poked around their house, grounds and shop in order to steal ideas.

‘We’ll stay on our side of the border and they’ll stay on theirs, okay?’

Carys nodded, deciding to keep quiet about her ten o’clock appointment the next day.

Sliding into her Marlva Prima the next morning, Carys breathed a sigh of relief. It felt a long time since she’d driven her own car and just been herself. She started down the driveway, under the green corridor of summer trees which dappled the road, and left the estate, pulling out onto the main road which would take her over the moors and into Eastmoreland. She couldn’t help feeling a little excited. She was rather looking forward to her trip to Barston Hall. Her last visit, which had also been her first, had been a disaster in her eyes. She’d been so self-conscious of her role as spy that she hadn’t allowed herself the pleasure of actually enjoying her visit. But she wouldn’t make that mistake today. As nervous as she was at meeting Valerie Buckley-Stewart, she wasn’t going to let that get in the way of spoiling her trip.

The moors were a shocking purple under the early morning sun and Carys wound her window down to inhale the peaty air. It was glorious up here. She’d have to bring the dogs up on a walk one of these days now that she was quite sure that they wouldn’t run away from her.

Her car bounced along the bumpy road across the border into Eastmoreland. It looked simply perfect under its brilliant blue sky; its moor stretching to the horizon and its forest blazing green.

Barston Hall was set deep in a valley not far from the border and Carys slowed her car to take the bends in the road. It was all well sign-posted - something Amberley could certainly benefit from, she thought, making a mental note to mention it at the next estate meeting - and she found the main entrance without any problems.