A Hopeless Romantic (16 page)

CHARTLEY HALL

Home of the Marquis of Ranelagh Built 1650

I
NIGO
J
ONES
H
OUSE
· H
OGARTH’S
“H
APPY
M
ARRIAGE”

G
RINLING
G
IBBONS IN THE
L
IBRARY

P
ICTURE
G
ALLERY
· T
EA
R
OOMS
· G
IFT
S
HOP

P
ONY
R
IDES
· C
ASTLE
D
UNGEONS

A Fun Day Out For All!

“Here we are,” said George, the excitement in his voice palpable. “On we go.”

They turned into the drive and crawled slowly down the potholed clay surface, bumping along gently.

“Imagine what it must have been like in a
carriage
,” said Angela, bouncing enthusiastically up and down in her seat.

Laura gazed out the window at the vast expanse of meadow framing the drive. No, she would
not
imagine what it must have been like in a carriage. That kind of behavior was over for her. Of course, the old her would have been busy thinking up fairy-tale stories. Thinking up some complicated scenario that involved her and her parents being asked to stay for supper, invited to a ball in the house that evening, the young marquis her dad was so excited about asking her to waltz….

Well, there you go. Apart from anything else, she was wearing a faded old cotton skirt and a ribbon-strapped top from Marks and Spencer—that wasn’t ballroom dancing gear. She’d seen
Strictly Come Dancing
. She couldn’t waltz, she reminded herself. She gazed out the window at the view unfolding before her. Surely even her new unromantic self could enjoy a view, that was allowed.

The landscape fell gently away, and she could see trees, a stream, rising up to some kind of temple in the far, far distance at the top of a hill. She could smell freshly mown grass, and she could hear the wind rushing through the trees, even across the wide stretch of open land. The car slowed down as they approached a cattle grid, and drew up beside a tollbooth.

It appeared to be empty, but there was clearly some form of life inside. It was shaking, and muffled shrieks and growls were coming from within its narrow, dark interior.

“Morning!” said George jauntily, unperturbed. “Three, please!”

There was silence inside, then a muted coughing noise, and a remarkably pretty girl stood up suddenly. She was a few years older than Laura, with milk-white clear skin scattered with the darkest freckles, dark brown eyes that were almost black, and tousled auburn hair, which she flung out of her face as she smiled at them. She had on a strappy white top and a lot of jewelry, and she played with a thick gold costume necklace round her neck as she said, “Hi there.”

Her voice was strangely mesmerizing, slightly transatlantic, slightly posh, slightly offhand. It was low and smoky. She smiled at George, biting her top lip. “How are you?”

“Er…” George looked round wildly, as if to ask his wife for the answer. “Er…I’m fine.”

“Good, good,” said the vision soothingly. “So…you want some tickets, yeah?”

Something in the bottom of the tollbooth made a shuffling, clunking sound, and the girl giggled huskily and stamped her feet. “Sorry…sorry about that.” She glanced wickedly down. “Naughty. Right, then, tickets. Yeah?”

“Tickets…” said George again, seeming entranced by the girl.

Just as Laura was thinking she might have to get out of the car and slap her dad back into rational thought, her mother intervened.

“Three, please.”

“Great,” said the vision. “Great. How much is that?”

“Well,” said Angela, much disconcerted by this question. “I don’t…well, I don’t know, do I?”

Suddenly the sentry booth spoke. “House and grounds, or just grounds,” it said in a low Norfolk accent.

George and Angela jumped in their seats.

“What?” said George. “My goodness. What?”

Angela was suddenly alert. She peered toward the booth, her dark eyes flashing with interest. “Well, my goodness,” she said. “Have you got someone down there?”

The vision chewed a lock of her hair. “Fuck,” she said, apparently unbothered.

“She’s got
what
?” said George.

“She’s got someone down there. Whereabouts down there…I don’t know,” Angela said, showing a rare glimpse of camp humor. “Do let him get up and let us in, dear, then you can get back to what you were doing.”

“Forty-five pounds for house and grounds, please,” said the voice from within, even more quietly than before. Laura surreptitiously looked over to the tollbooth to see if she could see anything; suddenly its back door shot open and a lanky youth was seen bolting across the grass, behind the trees and out of sight.

His former companion sighed, and tossed her hair again. “Well, he said forty-five pounds, so I suppose he’s right.”

“Forty-five pounds!”
said Laura in a stage whisper. ‘That’s bloody daylight robbery!’

As ever, the stage whisper was totally ineffectual, as it seemed to her everyone within fifty paces could have heard her. The girl shot her a look of pure dislike. “Have you got a problem with that?” she said.

“No, no, no,” said George hastily, fumbling in his wallet. “There you go. It’s cash, there you go.”

“Great,” came the reply. “Keep on driving.”

“Any tickets with that?” said George desperately as the girl made to turn away. She was examining something under her fingernails.

“God, right. Uhm…yeah, here,” she said, and carelessly flicked four tickets out from a roll on the counter. “Great. Have a…great day, then.” She peered in at Laura, her stare of curiosity verging on the rude. “I’m sure you’ll all really enjoy yourselves. Bye.”

And she turned away and, tossing her hair, called someone on her phone. “Sean! Get back here and finish what you started. I’m so bored!”

As they drove on, George gazing about him wildly as if expecting other Titian-haired beauties to pop up in their path, Angela looking back and saying, “Well,
really!
Who was
she?
”

Laura gritted her teeth and scowled.

chapter fifteen

T
hey drove on, through the near-silent park. The only sound was the faint rustling of the heavy leaves of the huge oak trees fanning out away from the drive. They were vast, sturdy things, standing in a line like sentries, and their branches hung low, casting a velvety green shadowy band across the landscape. The car crawled through them, out to the other side.

“Look!” said Angela. “There it is. Beautiful, isn’t it.”

There it was, and Laura turned her head to look. It was beautiful, it was true. The great house rose up out of the gently curving parkland, a crouching lion, noble and welcoming at the same time. The sun warmed the old stone, giving it a rich, golden glow. The windows glinted in the patchy midday sun, and the clouds that raced above the house were reflected in the glass. It was a huge, gracious thing; Laura could see additional wings and flanks stretching off it again and again, almost as if it were a small town. Though it had been built by hand, it was part of its own landscape; and she found it very easy to imagine how it might have been three hundred years ago. Remove that family with the screaming toddler and the stroller at the front. Take out the sign saying
CAFé THIS WAY
, and the five old ladies in identical summer-print lawn frocks oohing over a guidebook, and the Range Rover peremptorily parked right outside—surely it shouldn’t be there?—and replace all that instead with footmen in wigs, some Mozart in the background, and Laura herself, her hair piled up, one ringlet escaping and curling over her shoulder, dressed in a gown of beautiful red and gold, the door to her carriage being flung open as she was handed daintily down onto the gravel, waving a delicate fan made of ivory and silk. She allowed herself that one. It was a beautiful house. But as they parked in the car park, a field some distance from the house, and Laura got out of the car, a new rush of gloominess overtook her as the mundanity of the situation hit her again.

“Ha-ha!” said George, gripping his guidebook as tightly as if it were the key to a new Aston Martin. “Right, let’s be off, then. Shall we start with the house first?”

“Great,” said Angela, fluffing her hair out of her raincoat. “Then we can have the picnic, then look at the grounds. And the orangery. Oh, George! The orangery—”

“Yes, mustn’t forget that,” George said, winking at his wife.

“What?” Laura asked.

“There’s an entire re-creation of the Battle of Waterloo in there,” George said, pleased.

“Isn’t the room a bit small for that?” asked Laura, deadpan.

George ignored her and strode on ahead. “No,” said Angela beside him, as Laura brought up the rear, scuffing her flip-flops childishly along the dry gravel. “A
miniature
re-creation. Toy soldiers. Thousands of them. The eleventh marquis painted them all himself.”

“Wow,” said Laura as they rejoined the drive that led to the house. “That is quite simply incredible.”

“The great hall was the first room to be fully completed, and it was here that guests would be welcomed as they arrived. This tapestry was designed especially for the north wall and woven in Mortlake, which was the preeminent location for tapestry weaving during the latter half. The seventeenth century. The chandeliers, moldings, and fixtures were designed as part of the overall décor for the hall by Jean-Bastide Rousseau, the preeminent artisan of his day in this area. This map of the county that you see above the great fireplace is very old. It dates back to 1485 and the final battle of the Wars of the Roses at Bosworth, in which the Danvers and Needham families both fought. On the winning side, of course. Lady Anne Danvers was betrothed to John Needham afterward, and the two great families were joined. This map was made to commemorate the union. Thus, it is central to the story of Chartley. And now we move through…into the ballroom…. Do follow me. Thank you. No flash photography. Thank you.”

“Cynthia,” said George keenly, annexing the fearsome woman who was their guide, “may I just ask about the significance of the map? It is interesting when one thinks that the Needhams…”

He danced alongside Cynthia, whose hair was set in tight curls of an iron and tin hue, and whose back was as straight as a wall. She frowned at him as they passed into the next room. Laura watched as her mother gazed around, Angela’s birdlike eyes darting from one object to another, taking it all in, wondering what she should say and think about it all.

Their fellow day-trippers on this guided tour were as Laura had feared. Three clearly hysterical middle-aged women who were on some kind of day out, and who displayed such a degree of overexcitement about everything that Laura wanted to tell them never to go somewhere really
actually
exciting, like Las Vegas—the shock would kill them. Two separate dour-looking men, one very thin, one verging on obese, cameras round their necks. An overwrought family trying to pretend they were having a lovely day, whereas in fact the husband looked bored, the wife exhausted, and the children bewildered and tetchy by turns.

She seemed to have been there for about three days already. As the group returned to the great hall and ascended a majestic wooden staircase, she spotted her mum waving at her, pulled herself together, and trotted obediently over to join her, wearing what she hoped was a pleasant smile of enjoyment.

“And here is the library,” said Cynthia, opening the door and flattening herself against it, sentrylike, to allow the group to file past her well-harnessed bosom into the final room on their tour. “Hm,” she muttered, as the large camera-wielding man wedged himself between her and the doorframe, and eventually pushed himself out the other side, spluttering. Laura followed, trying not to laugh.

“The library is perhaps the most famous room in Chartley,” Cynthia began. “It—”

“Excuse me, Cynthia?” one of the three ladies said, waving her hand in the air. “Hellooo.”

Cynthia just looked at her as if she would like to have her executed for treason.

“It’s so lovely to be here!”

The other ladies nodded enthusiastically.

“Can I ask you something?”

Cynthia inclined her head. “Of course,” she said coldly. “Briefly.”

“When was the last time you saw Lady Ranelagh?” said the first lady, as the other two looked on expectantly.

“Excuse me?” said Cynthia. “There is no Lady Ranelagh. His lordship is not married.”

She turned to move on, but the second one stopped her. “Shh, Clare! Sorry. What my friend means is, the marquis’s mother. Vivienne Lash. Has she never been back here? Did you ever see her?”

The rest of the group watched nervously as Cynthia looked at the three ladies in turn.

“Oh, Frances,” the third one said crossly. “We shouldn’t have asked.”

“As I said before,” said Cynthia, turning magnificently on her heel. “There
is
no Lady Ranelagh. I believe Mrs. Needham—as she is known now—lives in the south of France.
I
have never seen her.”

There was silence. The three ladies looked crushed. Laura smiled sympathetically at them as Cynthia made her way down the room.

“Now,” she went on. “The library.”

It certainly was a stunning room, as George had said. It looked about as long as Laura’s street at home. Shelves rose high on both sides, and light poured through the long, high windows on three sides—it took up the whole side of the house. It was like a big, glorious lantern, humming with interesting things, and although Laura desperately wanted to be interested, she was fast running out of steam. The old Laura would have cast herself as the bookish marquis’s daughter, Lady Laura, creeping in here to study John Donne by candlelight while her brutish, unintelligent family slept on, but she simply couldn’t work up the enthusiasm. She could almost block out the sight of George leaping up and down by a painting on the far wall.