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‘Vera Delamere. And this is my husband, Harold.’
I shook his gnarled and liver-spotted hand too, while he stayed sitting in his chair. ‘I’m so sorry to have frightened you. I shouldn’t have come around the back. I was just so desperate for a glimpse inside. And I wasn’t even sure if the house was occupied at all…’ Oops, was I implying it looked derelict? I felt myself blushing again. I thought quickly, and changed the subject. ‘You know about the St Clairs?’
‘Not all of them, but we’ve heard of Barty St Clair,’ said Harold. ‘When we moved here in 1959 a lot of people hereabouts remembered him still. He was quite a character, by all accounts.’
‘Really? What do you know about him? He was my great-great-great-uncle, I think.’ I counted off the ‘greats’ on my fingers.
Vera sat down beside Harold and gestured to me to take a seat as well. ‘I remember old Mrs Hodgkins from the Post Office telling me about him. Apparently he wouldn’t ever let anyone in the house or garden. He wasn’t a recluse – he’d go out and about in the village every day and was a regular in the pub every night. But he had this great big house and let not a soul over the threshold – no cook or cleaner, no gardener, no tradesmen. Mrs Hodgkins thought he must have had something to hide.’
‘Ooh, intriguing!’ I said. ‘Perhaps he had a mad wife in the attic or something like that.’
Vera laughed. I smiled. Thank goodness we’d broken the ice now. ‘Well, by the time we moved in there was no evidence of any secrets. Mind you, that was many years after Barty St Clair’s day. It was a probate sale when we bought it. It had been empty for a few years and was in dire need of modernising.’ She sighed, and gazed at the peeling paint on the patio doors. ‘And now it’s in dire need of modernising again, but we don’t have the energy to do it.’
She stood up, suddenly. ‘Why are we sitting out here in the damp? Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ll make us all a cup of tea, and then give you a tour, Katie.’
Harold chuckled. ‘Then you’ll see for certain we have nothing worth stealing, young lady.’
I grinned as I watched Vera help him to his feet, then followed them around to the kitchen door on the side of the house. I felt a tingle of excitement. Whatever secrets the house still held, I longed to discover them.
Chapter Two: Hampshire, November 1876 (#ulink_e48ba236-656e-5a39-bd90-8cda81166271)
Kingsley House, November 1876
My dear Barty
I have rested for a day or so, filled my ink-well, replenished my paper store and summoned the courage I need to begin my confession. And begin it I must, for the date of my death grows ever nearer.
Barty, I shall write this confession as though it were a story, about some other man. I will write ‘he did this’, and ‘he said that’, rather than ‘I did’, and ‘I said’. At times I will even write as if in the heads of other characters, as though I know their thoughts and am privy to their memories of those times. It is from conversations since then, and from my own conjectures, that I am able to do this, and I believe it is the best way to tell what will undoubtedly become a long and complex tale. It is only by distancing myself in this way, and telling the tale as though it were a novel, that I will be able to tell the full truth. And you deserve the full truth, my true, best-loved son.
We shall begin on a cold, snowy evening nearly forty years ago, when I first set eyes upon the woman who was to become my wife.
Brighton, January 1838
Bartholomew St Clair leaned against a classical pillar in the ballroom of the Assembly Rooms, watching the dancers whirl around. There was a good turnout for this New Year’s ball. He ran his fingers around the inside of his collar. The room was warm, despite the freezing temperatures outside. He could feel his face flushing red with the heat, or maybe that was due to the volume of whiskey and port he’d consumed since dinner.
He scanned the room – the dancing couples twirling past him, the groups of young ladies with their chaperones at the sides of the room, the parties of men more interested in the drink than the dancing. He was looking for one person in particular. If his sources were correct, the young Holland heiress would be at this ball – her first since she came out of mourning. It could be worth his while obtaining an introduction to her. Rumour had it she was very pretty, but more than that, rich enough to get him out of debt. A couple of bad investments had left him in a precarious position, which only a swift injection of capital would resolve.
He watched as a pretty young girl in a black silk gown spun past him, on the arm of a portly man in military uniform. Her white-blonde hair was in striking contrast to her dress, piled high on top, with soft ringlets framing her face. She was smiling, but something about the way she held herself, as distant from her dancing partner as she could, told Bartholomew she was not enjoying herself very much. He recalled that the Holland girl was currently residing with her uncle, an army captain. This could be her.
The dance ended, and now the band struck up a Viennese waltz. Bartholomew kept his eyes fixed on the girl as she curtsied to her partner, shook her head slightly and made her way across the room towards the entrance hall. He straightened his collar, smoothed his stubbornly curly hair and pushed through the crowds, to intercept her near the door.
‘You look hot,’ he said. ‘May I get you some refreshments?’
She blushed slightly, and smiled. ‘I confess I am a little warm. Perhaps some wine would revive me.’
He took a glass from a tray held by a passing waiter, and gave it to her with a small bow. ‘I am sorry, I have not even introduced myself. Bartholomew St Clair, at your service.’
She held out her hand. ‘Georgia Holland. I am pleased to meet you.’
So it was her. She was even prettier viewed close up, in a girlish, unformed kind of way, than she was at a distance. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her skin was soft and smooth. ‘Would you like to sit down to rest? Your dancing appears to have exhausted you.’
‘It has, rather,’ she replied, as he led her towards some empty chairs at the side of the room. ‘I am unused to dancing so much. This is my first ball since…’ She bit her lip.
‘Since…a bereavement?’ he asked, gently. Sadness somehow suited her.
‘My father,’ Georgia whispered. She looked even prettier with tears threatening to fall. ‘He died a year ago. I have only just begun to rejoin Society.’
‘My condolences, Miss Holland. Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone for you?’
She shook her head. ‘I am quite well, thank you. You are very kind.’ She took a sip of her wine, then placed it on a small table beside her chair. She stood, and held out her hand. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr St Clair. But I think I must take my leave now. My uncle is here somewhere. Perhaps he will call a cab to take me home.’
Bartholomew jumped to his feet. ‘I shall find your uncle for you. Though I could fetch you a cab myself.’ And accompany you home in it, he hoped, though it would not be the normal course of behaviour.
‘My uncle is my guardian,’ she said. ‘I live with him. So I must at least inform him that I wish to leave.’ She scanned the room.
‘Ah, there he is.’ She indicated the portly man in a captain’s uniform with whom he’d first seen her dancing.
So that was the person he needed to impress. From the way she’d held herself when dancing with him, it seemed there was no love lost between them, on her side at least. Interesting. Bartholomew took her arm, and led her through the crowds towards the captain, who was talking with a group of people in a corner of the room. She seemed tiny at his side – her slightness contrasting with his fine, strongly-built figure.
‘Uncle, this is Mr St Clair. He has very kindly been looking after me, when I felt a little unwell after our last dance.’
Bartholomew bowed, and shook the captain’s plump, sweaty hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘Charles Holland. Obliged to you for taking care of the girl.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Bartholomew. He took a step forward and spoke quietly. ‘Your niece wishes to return home. With your permission, I shall call a cab for her.’
Holland turned to regard him carefully. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You wish to continue taking care of my niece. You may do so. She has money, as you are no doubt already aware.’
‘Sir, I assure you, your niece’s fortune is not of interest…’
Holland waved his hand dismissively. ‘Of course it is, man. It’s time she married and became someone else’s responsibility. You look as likely a suitor as anyone else, and perhaps a better match than some of the young pups who’ve been sniffing around. You may take her home.’ He nodded curtly and turned back to his companions.
Bartholomew opened his mouth to say something more, but thought better of it. What rudeness! But if Charles Holland didn’t much care who courted his niece or how, at least it made things easier. He glanced at her. She was standing, hands clasped and eyes down, a few feet away. Probably too far to have heard the exchange between himself and her uncle. He took her arm and led her towards the cloakroom and the exit.
Outside, a thin covering of an inch or two of snow lay on everything, muting sound and reflecting the hazy moonlight so that the world appeared shimmering and silver. Georgia shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her.
‘Come, there should be a cab stand along Ship Street,’ Bartholomew said, steadying her as she descended the steps to the street. He grimaced as he noticed her shoes – fine silk dancing slippers, no use at all for walking in the snow.
‘It’s a beautiful night,’ she said. ‘I should like to see the beach, covered in snow. It always seems so wrong, somehow, to have the sea lapping at snow. Can we walk a little, just as far as the promenade, perhaps?’
‘But your shoes! You will get a chill in your feet, I fear.’
‘Nonsense. They will get a little cold but the snow is not deep. And the night air has quite revived me. I feel alive, Mr St Clair! Out of that stuffy ballroom, I feel I want to run and skip and – oh!’
He clutched her arm as she slipped in the snow. ‘Be careful! Hold on to me, or you will do yourself more damage than cold feet.’
She tucked her arm through his and held on. Bartholomew enjoyed the warmth of her hand on his arm, the closeness of her hip to his. Her breath made delicate patterns in the cold night air, and he imagined the feel of it against his face, his lips… Yes, she would do nicely. He smiled, and led her across King’s Road onto the promenade. It was deserted, and the snow lay pristine – white and untouched, apart from a single line of dog paw prints. On the beach, the partially covered pebbles looked like piles of frosted almonds.
Georgia sighed. ‘So pretty.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bartholomew, watching her as she made neat footprints in the snow, then lifted her foot to see the effect. She had tiny, narrow feet, and the slippers had a small triangular-shaped heel.
‘See my footprints? We could walk a little way, and then you could pick me up and carry me, so when others come this way it will look as though I had simply vanished.’ She giggled, and pushed back the hood of her cloak to gaze up at him.
Her eyes glinted mischievously, and even in the subdued moonlight he could see they were a rich green. He was seized by the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.
‘Let’s do it!’ he said, taking her hand to walk a dozen more steps along the prom. Then he scooped her up, his pulse racing at the feel of her arms about his neck, her slight figure resting easily in his arms. Her hood fell back and tendrils of her golden hair fell across his shoulder. For a moment he stood there, holding her, gazing into her eyes and wondering whether she would respond to a kiss.
‘Well, come on then, Mr St Clair – you must walk now, and make your footprints look no different to before. You must not stagger under my weight, or it will be obvious what has happened. Gee up, Mr St Clair!’ She gently kicked her legs, as though she was riding him side-saddle.
‘Yes, ma’am!’ he laughed, and walked on along the prom. After a little way she twisted to try to see the footprints he’d left, and he, feeling he was losing his grip on her, put her down. She instantly walked on a few more steps and turned back to see the effect.
‘Look, I appeared from nowhere!’
‘Like an angel from heaven,’ he said. ‘Come, I must escort you home. It is late, and the snow is beginning to fall again.’
Georgia tilted her head back and let a few large flakes land on her face. ‘It’s so refreshing. Thank you, Mr St Clair. Since meeting you I have had a lovely evening. We can walk to my uncle’s house, if you like – he lives in Brunswick Terrace.’
Bartholomew noted she had not said ‘we live’ – clearly she did not feel as though her uncle’s house was her home.
‘On a fine evening, Miss Holland, I could think of nothing better than to take your arm and stroll along the promenade as far as Brunswick. But I shall have to postpone that pleasure for another day. Your feet will freeze, even more than they already have. Look, we are in luck, here is an empty cab.’
He waved at the cabman who brought his horse to a skidding stop beside them. They climbed aboard and Georgia gave the address. She shivered and pressed her arm tightly against his. Minutes later the cab halted outside the grand terrace, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the wintry moonlight.
Bartholomew paid the cabman and asked him to wait. He helped Georgia down from the cab and led her up the entrance steps of her uncle’s house. The door opened as they approached, and a maid ushered them inside, into a grand hallway where the remains of a fire smouldered in the grate.
‘Oh, Miss Georgia, I am so glad you are back. Mr Holland were back a half hour ago and he said you had left the ball before him. I were fretting about you.’ She bustled around, taking Georgia’s cloak and exclaiming over the state of her shoes.
‘Agnes, I am perfectly all right. Kind Mr St Clair has been looking after me. We decided to walk part of the way home.’
The maid glanced accusingly at Bartholomew. She was a striking-looking woman, blonde like her mistress but with more mature features, as though she had grown into her looks. She was an inch or two taller, and looked, he thought, as Georgia might in a few years’ time, when she’d outgrown her childish playfulness. Beautiful, rather than pretty.
‘Sir, forgive me for speaking out of turn but my mistress were not wearing the right sort of shoe for a walk in the snow. See, the silk is ruined and her poor feet are froze. Sit you down here, Miss Georgia, and I will fetch a bowl of warm water to wash them.’ With another stern look at Bartholomew, she hurried along the hallway towards the kitchen stairs.
‘Agnes has been with me since I was fourteen. She does fuss, rather.’ Georgia sat on an uncomfortable-looking carved-back chair and rubbed at her feet. ‘But a warm foot-bath sounds just what I need. Perhaps, Mr St Clair, you would help me rub some life back into my toes?’ She looked up at him, a half-smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.
But Bartholomew was still gazing in the direction the maid had taken. For all Miss Holland’s coquettish ways, she was young and immature. Bartholomew was no stranger to women – he’d been near to proposing once to a merchant’s daughter in Bath, but she had accepted a better offer from a baronet’s son. He’d had a brief affair with the bored wife of a naval captain, until she tired also of him. And of course, there had been plenty of women of the night, who waited outside the Assembly Rooms to accompany lone men to their lodgings.
None of these women, however, had ever had quite the effect on him that the maid, Agnes, had. A thrill had run through him the moment his eyes met hers, leaving him hot with desire, his palms tingling, his heart racing. She was returning now, with the basin of water. She glared again at Bartholomew.
‘Sir, you are still here? You may think me bold to suggest it, but I think you ought to leave, afore the snow becomes too deep for cabs. I can ask the footman to fetch you a brandy if you need fortification before venturing out.’
He felt his blood thrill again at the forthrightness of the woman. A lady’s maid, who thought nothing of speaking to guests in her employer’s house, as though they were her wayward sons.
‘A brandy would be excellent, yes.’ He nodded at her, and she pulled on the bell-cord. A moment later a footman arrived, and Agnes sent him for the brandy. He was back a minute later, closely followed by Charles Holland, who had exchanged his captain’s jacket for a woollen dressing-gown.
‘Is that my niece back home at last? What do you think you are doing, keeping my staff up and waiting for you on such a night?’ He stopped in his tracks when he noticed Bartholomew. ‘Ah, I see. Sir, I thank you for bringing her home. Please, call on her again tomorrow morning. You will be most welcome.’ He nodded curtly and left.
Georgia smiled up at him. ‘You will come back tomorrow, won’t you? As my uncle said, you will be made most welcome.’
Bartholomew started. He’d almost forgotten about Georgia. The maid, Agnes, had filled his mind completely. But maids don’t have money, he reminded himself. And it was money he needed most. He dragged his gaze away from Agnes and returned Georgia’s smile.
‘Miss Georgia, you are forgetting yourself,’ scolded Agnes. ‘Come, dry your feet. I will help you upstairs. Sir, please ring the bell should you require anything more.’
Bartholomew gulped back the brandy brought by the footman, relishing the fiery warmth it brought to his belly. He watched as the two women crossed the black-and-white tiled hallway and made their way up the stairs. Each of them gave him one backwards glance – Miss Holland’s smile was cheeky and inviting; the maid’s glare was challenging, but with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow as though she had guessed the effect she’d had on him.
Without a doubt he would return tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. He left his empty glass on a side table and let himself out of the house. Thankfully the cab was still there, though the cabman grumbled about how long he’d had to wait in the dreadful weather. Bartholomew gave the address of his lodgings in Kemptown and sat back, huddled in his cloak, planning his ideal future which involved both of the women he’d met that night.
Chapter Three: Hampshire, November 2012 (#ulink_ee027627-11cb-5ea0-b0ab-3992619da47e)
I followed Vera Delamere through a tired 1970s kitchen into a large wood-panelled hallway, and then through to a cosy sitting room. She flicked on the lights, and crouched at the fireplace which was already laid with a mixture of logs and coal. As she struck a match, Harold shuffled in and sat down beside the fire, leaning his stick against the side of the mantelpiece.
‘Good-oh, we could do with a bit of warmth in here,’ he said, and she turned to smile fondly at him. They’d obviously been together for a very long time. I hoped Simon and I would be like them, one day. If we managed to resolve our differences and stay together long enough.
I looked around the room. A large built-in shelving unit occupied one wall. It was made of dark wood, and was clearly very old. It was beautiful.
‘That was here when we moved in,’ Mrs Delamere said, nodding at the shelves. ‘Riddled with woodworm, unfortunately, though we have had it treated.’
‘It’s gorgeous. I wonder if it was here when my ancestors lived here?’
‘I’ll go and make the tea,’ said Vera. ‘Sit down, Katie, do. By the fire, there. It’ll get going in a moment.’
I sat opposite Harold in a well-worn fireside chair. ‘This is a lovely cosy room.’
Harold nodded. ‘We think this was originally a study. There’s a much bigger sitting room across the hall, but it’s too hard to heat it. When there’s only Vera and me, this room’s just right for us. So, you’re a St Clair, are you? I thought old Barty hadn’t had any children. Certainly no one to leave the house to.’
‘You’re right, he didn’t. I’m descended from his younger brother, William.’
‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Harold, nodding with satisfaction.
Vera bustled in with the tea tray. She gave it to Harold to balance on his lap for a moment as she tugged at a shelf in the old unit. It folded out, creating a desk, and she put the tea tray on it.
We chatted comfortably about the history of the house and my research while we drank the tea, then Vera offered me a tour of the house.
Harold had fallen asleep in his chair, his head nodding forward onto his chest. Vera gently took his tea cup out of his hand and put it on a side table. I followed her back into the huge hallway. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind showing me around? I must admit I’m dying to see the house.’
‘Oh, it’s quite all right. Lovely to have a visitor, if truth be told. Well, here’s the living room. Drawing room, I suppose I should call it.’
She ushered me into a large, cold room, with a window to the front of the house. It had a grand fireplace which looked original, brown floral seventies carpet and cream woodchip wallpaper. Family photographs showing a younger Vera and Harold with two cheeky-looking boys jostled for position on the mantelpiece, and heavy crushed-velvet curtains hung at the window.
‘We don’t come in here much, except in the summer when it’s the coolest room in the house,’ Vera said.
She led the way back through the hallway and into the dining room I’d peered into from outside. I crossed to the window and looked out. The garden was surprisingly small for such a large old house, and I commented on this.
‘It would have had much more land originally,’ Vera explained. ‘Most of it was sold off before we moved in. There would have been stables and other outbuildings – we think those stood where Stables Close is now. But what’s left is a lovely garden. It catches the evening sun. And we’re very fond of that tree.’ She pointed to a huge beech which stood against a crumbling garden wall.
‘I bet your children enjoyed climbing that,’ I said.
