Another Heartbeat in the House (23 page)

POTENTIAL

This represents a rare opportunity to acquire a unique property with potential for refurbishment and renovation for a variety of uses including guest house, bed and breakfast etc.

PRICE

On application.

VIEWING

Strictly by prior appointment with sole selling agents, Quilligan & Quilligan.

Edie had slaved away the previous day, getting the place into shape for the viewing. She had armed herself from a cupboard in the pantry with a long-hair broom, a staircase broom, a scrubbing brush, a dusting brush and a cornice brush. Although Mr Quilligan had said that there would be no need to clean the house, Edie was anxious to show off its loveliness, and determined that it should be as pristine as she could make it.

She wished she had some furniture polish; she would love the smell of beeswax to welcome the prospective buyer. And what a pity that daffodils were no longer in season; it would have been a nice touch to fill three or four vases with blooms. However, since the house would never be a candidate for
Ideal Home
, the least she could do would be to offer tea and biscuits and furnish prospective buyers with a little local, anecdotal history. After she'd cleaned the windows and pulled up the weeds that proliferated on the terrace she would cosy up in the library and learn a little more of the history of Doneraile and its environs courtesy of Eliza's manuscript.

Lord and Lady Doneraile had been invited to Dublin, to a grand dinner in the viceregal lodge in the Phoenix Park. I was to accompany them, and had had the foresight to suggest a spree that would take in not just the dinner, but an excursion to the Zoological Gardens, an exhibition viewing at the Academy, shopping on Sackville Mall and a visit to the Theatre Royal, thus prolonging our stay by an extra day. We were to put up for two nights at the Shelbourne Hotel.

But alas! On the morning we were to make the journey, I fell ill with a malady that no number of James's Powders would alleviate and that a journey to Dublin in the brougham would most certainly exacerbate. I bade my mistress farewell with a sorrowful countenance, urging her to make the most of her time in the capital and assuring her that there was nothing so seriously wrong with me that a little bed rest would not cure. When she asked what she could bring me back, I importuned her for pattern books and catalogues of the latest furnishings, for Lady Charlotte was, with my help, to redecorate her parlour.

I told Cook that I would keep to my room, and that the dry toast I had consumed at breakfast was all the sustenance I would require for the next twenty-four hours. Then I took myself off to my apartment at the top of the house and changed into the clothes I had worn on my voyage to Cork, and a pair of stout boots.

St Leger was waiting for me by the ‘triumphal' arch at the bottom of the avenue, where his carriage dog was sniffing around the piers. He leaned across the driving seat and stretched out a hand; I took it and, using the hub of the wheel for purchase, sprang up beside him. Leaning in towards my lover, I kissed him warmly before doffing my bonnet and unpinning my hair, allowing it to fall loose around my shoulders in the style adopted by so many Irish girls. As the phaeton bowled away from Doneraile Court I felt free, and inordinately happy.

The hedgerows were oozing honeysuckle and boisterous with birdsong, the breeze was a zephyr, the air redolent of wild garlic. The road seemed to unwind like a ribbon before us; the sky was a canopy of heliotrope, with traces of cloud insubstantial as bog cotton. I felt as though I could compose verses worthy of inclusion in an anthology of Romantic poetry; verses that might surpass even those of William Wordsworth.

St Leger lilted some Irish lay as we jaunted along:

He sang it over and over, urging me to join in, laughing at my lamentable accent, and making me repeat the words after him, the way I had used to make my pupils repeat ‘Au Clair de la Lune', or some other French ditty. This was no rhyme I could teach a schoolgirl; it was an ode to whiskey, and I am pleased to say that by the time we reached our destination I could carry it off in a rollicking brogue.

The final stage of the journey took us down a gradient flanked by woodland, along a road little more than a track. Beneath the leafy canopy, dense thickets of holly and rowan grew, cross-hatched with thoroughfares where badgers and foxes conducted their business. The carriage dog was in paradise, his tail in perpetual motion. He raced ahead, lagged behind, snuffled around bushes and disappeared on excursions into the undergrowth. St Leger told me that wolves had once colonized caves in the heart of the forest, and that I ought not to wear my carnelian pelisse when I ventured forth, lest I was mistaken for Red Riding Hood.

The track emerged into a clearing where the house stood on a slight eminence. Long and low, wrapped around on three sides by ancient sessile oaks, it fronted a slate blue lake. On the far side of the water a range of heather-clad hills sprawled like a sleeping dragon.

St Leger watched as I slid down from my seat in the phaeton. I did not wait for him. I made my way along a path that skirted a small storm porch and rounded a corner, emerging onto a grassy ridge that ran parallel to the south-facing façade. A sward of green fell away towards the water, upon which a single rowing-boat was moored. The shores were of shell pink shingle, the lake so still that the hills mirrored on its surface appeared to be tumbled in its depths. I leaned against the wall of the house, feeling its sun-warmed stonework on my back, and gazed and gazed.

And that is how St Leger found me, with a smile upon my face.

‘What do you think?' he asked.

I wanted to say that I thought it perfect – that house, view and situation surpassed anything I had hoped for; but that would have meant revealing my hand, and I did not want to spoil my chances of gaining further prizes.

‘The view is magnificent,' I conceded. ‘Your ghillie was right when he told you to build here. But I should like to see inside now.'

‘There is very little furniture.'

‘No matter. I shall want to choose my own.'

‘It is rather rudimentary still,' he said, stepping aside so that I could precede him along the path that led back to the porch. I was glad to see that he looked uneasy: he was clearly keen that my new home should comply with the high standards I had stipulated. ‘But be assured, Eliza, that my architect will resolve any concerns you may have.'

Taking a key from the pocket of his greatcoat, he unlocked the door and held it open. I did not dare pass through, lest he see the jubilant expression on my face as I stepped across the threshold.

‘Be kind enough to fetch my sketchbook, St Leger,' I told him. ‘I shall want to make drawings, and some notes.'

He retreated, and I took my first step into the harbourage of my own house. It was dark inside. I did not care: once a staircase was built, a window on the return would throw light into the entrance hall. Beyond the porch, a corridor ran the length of the building, with doors off to the left. I scarcely dared to breathe as I entered the first room.

The windows were hung with makeshift curtains of burlap. I pulled them aside; dust motes were sent spinning into the sunlight, so that my first impression of the interior was through a golden haze. The room was spacious, high-ceilinged, with a doorway to an adjoining chamber. There were four window apertures in all, and two fireplaces.

In my mind's eye, I saw a double salon. I could have the stone and mortar walls plastered, and decorated with cornices and gesso panels, or with wallpaper; nothing overly ornate. I could consult a catalogue for furniture and have it delivered from Cork or Dublin. I could be comfortable here in winter, and in the summer – once the windows were refashioned in the French style – I could step out onto my terrace beyond.

The next room was equally well proportioned. This would be my library and study, boasting a view to inspire. Further along, my dining room was situated across the passageway from the kitchen, with windows on two sides. The kitchen was little more than a lean-to: it would have to be pulled down and a proper cuisine constructed, with a larder and a scullery.

At the far end of the corridor I found a half-door, bolted on the inside. I opened it and descended a short flight of steps to a stone platform abutting a waterfall. The water cascaded to a shallow pool, where it swirled and eddied, surging over a shelf of granite to the lake below. Taking off my boots and stockings, I sat at the edge of the slab, dangling my feet in the cool water. This was a belvedere to rival any of Lady Charlotte's!

I looked up to the branch of a silver birch where a blackbird was singing. Once the upper storey was built, I would reserve this south-eastern corner for my private apartments: I could fall asleep to the rushing sound of the stream and wake to the dawn chorus. I could lounge upon a window seat and look down on an expanse of water the colour of pewter in winter, lapis lazuli in summer. I could stock my library with books and retreat there to write and to muse. I could receive guests when I chose, and bid them farewell as I chose. I could wander lonely as a cloud beneath the trees and by the lake, like Wordsworth. If the mood took me I could sortie abroad, and be in society for a day or two a month. This would be my own domain, where I would live under obligation to no one, solitary and proud.

And then, when it suited me to return to civilization, I could sell the house and the fishing rights and become a lady of independent means.

St Leger was back with my sketchbook. I took it from him and began at once to make notes.

‘Your builders will need to get started directly, if the work is to be complete in time.'

‘They'll want sweeteners.'

‘The cost doesn't concern me.'

‘It concerns
me
. What if –'

‘No “what ifs”, St Leger. I warned you.'

He fell silent. He knew – we both did – that this scheme had the potential to go calamitously wrong if I miscarried or produced a child that was malformed or – despite my assurances to the contrary – a girl. But we both knew the risks we were taking, and I had been a gambler since the age of seven, when I had bested my papa's ace of hearts with one of spades.

‘What will you do, when you live here?' he asked, hunkering down beside me.

‘I'll write my book, of course.'

He looked perplexed. ‘What book?'

‘I have an idea,' I said, ‘for a picaresque novel.'

‘How can you write something picturesque?'

‘You dear dolt! It's “picaresque”. Picaresque is a story in which the principal character is obliged to make his – or her – way in the world by living on his wits.'

‘Like you?'

‘Just like me.'

I handed him my sketchbook and pencil, then rose to my feet and started to undo the tiny buttons that ran down the front of my dress.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I want to feel the breeze on my skin.'

He watched as I shrugged out of my bodice and divested myself of my heavy skirts. The material pooled at my bare feet. I kicked it away and, gathering my petticoats up about my thighs, leapt off the stone slab where we had been sunning ourselves, and ran down the grassy slope towards the lake.

St Leger drew level with me just as I reached the shore. ‘Don't go in the water!' he said, catching my wrist.

‘Why not?'

‘It might do the baby harm.'

‘He's perfectly snug and safe and buoyed up in here.' I smiled up at him, took his hand and laid it over my belly. ‘He's moving with me, feeling with me, hearing with me. He came here today with the sound of hooves in his teeny tiny ears, and now he's likely dreaming about chasing after foxes on horseback. Didn't you say you were practically born in the saddle?'

‘You're right. He's a St Leger.' He ran his hand over the thin cambric of my chemise. ‘When will I feel him move?'

‘Not for months yet! He's hardly bigger than my thumb.' I kissed the pad of my thumb and pressed it to his nose. ‘Your nose is so noble! I do hope he inherits it.'

‘In that case, I am very glad you're not carrying a girl. My nose would not sit well on a girlish face.'

I looked down at my thumbnail and pretended to examine it. ‘What are you going to call him?'

‘He'll be Jameson too, I suppose. Or Frederick, after my father.'

‘Frederick of Roesworth. Whoever would have imagined I'd beget a duke!'

I turned and danced after the dog, which had come careering down the hill after us, his tongue flapping from his mouth like a slice of glistening ham. He barked joyously as I picked up a stick, called out ‘Fetch!' and tossed it into the water. As he doggy-paddled in pursuit of his quarry I watched ripples spread outwards across the placid surface of the lake. I could hear the crunch of St Leger's boots on the shingle; I sent him a smile that made my dimples play before resuming my contemplation of the water.