Another Heartbeat in the House (36 page)

‘Good God, Thackeray. They're just names.'

‘They're more than names! They're perfect! They're – they're onomatopoeic!' He leaned forward, eyes agleam. ‘Don't you see what astoundingly good sense it would make for us to collaborate? I don't have the time to embark upon another novel, or the money to finance such an undertaking. My writings for
The Times
and
Fraser's
and any other publication to which I can prostitute myself – I ask your pardon, Eliza – take up all the time I have. And there are my domestic responsibilities. Taking care of the children, and anguish, perpetual anguish over Isabella, uses up any vigour I have. I – I sometimes feel as though I've been broken on a wheel.'

He slumped, and – to my astonishment – began to cry. I resisted the temptation to tell him to stop at once and be a man, and waited for him to finish. But he didn't finish. He went on crying and crying, and finally, unable to help myself, I said, ‘Oh do stop at once, William, and be a man.'

He snuffled and looked at me shamefacedly, and I reached into my reticule and produced one of the lace-trimmed
mouchoirs
St Leger had bought me.

‘Very well,' I said, handing it to him. ‘I'll help you if I can. But please to remember that I, too, have a baby carriage in the hall to which I am fettered.'

‘Of course.'

We sat in silence a while as the conveyance swayed and bumped over the cobblestoned thoroughfares, and then William said, tentatively, like an unrehearsed actor uttering the first line of a play, ‘This – erm – this “Rebecca Sharp”. Where do you think she originated?'

‘That's easy,' I said. ‘She was born in France of an opera dancer and a penniless artist.'

‘Has she received any formal education?'

‘Yes, indeed. A very good one, in England.'

‘But if her father was impoverished, how could she afford an education?'

‘Providence,' I said. ‘She was, of course, an articled pupil in a seminary. A superior one.'

‘An articled pupil?' William was picking up his cues smartly, now. ‘And what might be the name of the establishment?'

‘It was,' I said, ‘Miss Pinkerton's academy.'

‘In Chiswick?'

‘Yes.' I gave him a brilliant smile. ‘And I happen to have in my possession the letter of reference that that venerable lady wrote for her star pupil.'

EDIE WAS STUPEFIED
. Eliza Drury was the template for Becky Sharp! She
had
to be!

Springing up from the fireside chair where she had been reading for the past hour, Edie went straight to the bookshelf where
Vanity Fair
was tucked between
Hard Times
and
Bleak House
. She read the title (
Vanity Fair. A Novel without a Hero
), she read the inscription (
To Eliza, my very dear friend and soulmate
), she scanned the first chapter, and there she found Miss Pinkerton's letter. Except, of course, it extolled not the virtues of Miss Sharp (for she had none) but those of that most colourless character, Amelia Sedley. Becky came into her own when, several pages on, her story proper began.

Edie leafed through the pages with mounting excitement. That Becky Sharp had lived and breathed here in this house, and that she had left a record of her time spent under this very roof, made Edie's head spin. She felt as though a glamorous partygoer at a masked ball had suddenly revealed herself to be her best friend in disguise.

As she reached into the box file like a child scrambling for more pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, she heard voices from outside.

‘I don't think there's anybody here, Iseult.'

Edie's ears flattened against her skull in the manner of a cat that hears sudden birdsong.

‘Maybe we should just go.'

‘Maybe. We can always come back another day.'

‘We should have telephoned the auctioneer first. I feel like a trespasser.'

You
are
trespassing! thought Edie. What are you doing, snooping around
my
house?

‘There's a phone box a couple of miles back. We passed it at the crossroads.'

‘Wait a minute. That window's open.'

Edie rose to her feet as the couple – for it was a young, very handsome couple – stepped into her view.

‘Oh!' The girl jumped backwards, pressing her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God! It's a ghost!'

‘I'm not a ghost,' said Edie. But as she moved towards the window the girl turned and hightailed it, and Edie realized that she was still wearing Eliza's flowing robes. ‘I'm not a ghost, I promise you,' she said to the man, who was looking as though he, too, was poised for flight. ‘I'm – um – I'm a relation of the owner. I'm here to pack the place up and get it ready for the auction.'

A look of relief crossed the young man's face. ‘I don't blame Iseult for pegging it. You really do look like a ghost in that get-up, if you don't mind me saying so.' He turned in the direction that Iseult had taken and called, ‘Iseult! Come back. It's not a ghost.'

Iseult retraced her steps, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘It's just that someone in the village said that the woods around here are haunted. I don't usually believe in ghosts, but you did give me rather a fright.'

‘I suppose ghosts don't have dogs like that,' said the man, looking down at Milo.

‘What an adorable little pet!' Iseult hunkered down, and Milo danced out through the French window to say hello. ‘Is he a Bichon Frise?'

‘No. A Maltese. He's a very silly dog, but he's frightfully good company. Are you here to see the house?'

‘We don't have an appointment, I'm afraid.' The young man held out his hand. ‘I'm Jeremy Darling, and this is my wife, Iseult.'

‘Darling? As in
Peter Pan
?'

‘Yes.'

‘How do you do? Welcome to Prospect House! You don't need an appointment – I'll be glad to show you around. Come in.' Edie stood back to allow them access. ‘How did you hear about the house?' she asked, as they stepped over the threshold.

‘From the hotel barman in the Doneraile Arms.'

‘Are you staying there?'

‘Yes. Well, we stayed last night – we'll be moving on tomorrow.'

‘Unless we've found what we're looking for.' Iseult smiled up at her husband. ‘We're rather taken with this place.'

‘Sweetheart! We haven't seen any of it yet.'

‘We saw the outside. We liked that. And it has a good atmosphere.'

‘A minute ago you thought it was haunted.'

‘If it is haunted, it has a friendly ghost. I can tell these things.' Iseult crinkled her nose like a Bisto kid. ‘It smells wonderful.'

‘That's camphor. I was unpacking a camphor-wood chest earlier. My grandmother swore by camphor.'

‘Mine too! She stored all her old clothes in camphor chests, and they're still as good as new. I've even worn them in productions.'

‘Iseult's an actress,' said Jeremy.

‘
Was
an actress, Jeremy.' She turned to Edie. ‘I've decided to give it up. That's why we're looking at houses. We want to start a B&B. A really lovely one, with fishing.'

‘Then you've come to the right place,' said Edie.

‘We can't afford to build, so we're hoping to find somewhere that we can do up ourselves. Jeremy's an architect. And he loves to fish, so this place would be perfect. We really need to get cracking right away because … Can I tell her, Jeremy?'

Jeremy gave his wife an indulgent smile and said, ‘Go on, then.'

‘Because I'm expecting a baby!'

‘Oh! How lovely to think there'd be a baby living here! When are you due?'

‘In the autumn.'

‘There's an old pram here that you could have – a beautiful, old-fashioned one. It's in the salon.' The hem of Edie's robe caught on the edge of the window as she started to lead the way. ‘Damn. Perhaps you'd give me a minute to change into something rather less outré.'

‘No, don't change!' said Iseult. ‘You look perfectly lovely in that gown.'

‘I'm tempted to keep it. I'm tempted to keep lots of things. Just look at all the antique thingamajigs.' She opened the door to the salon and gestured at the boxes and crates she had spent the past week amassing there.

‘Goodness!' cried Iseult. ‘What treasure trove!'

‘Are you visiting from overseas?'

‘No, we're from Dublin. We just don't sound very Irish. I talk posh because I went to RADA, and Jeremy talks posh because he
is
posh.'

‘What made you decide to start a B&B?'

‘Jeremy's always wanted to live in the country, and I do whatever I'm told, don't I, Darling? That's not an endearment, by the way. I always call him by his surname.'

She gave her husband a fond look. Jeremy had picked up
Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management
from a box that Edie had marked Kitchen Odds & Ends.

‘Listen to this, Iseult: “Cleanliness, punctuality, order and method are essentials in the character of a good housekeeper.” This book should go straight to the top of your reading list.'

Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he handed her the book before ambling off in the direction of the dining room.

Iseult hefted it. ‘Dear God, it weighs a ton – it has over a thousand pages. Look – someone's made notes in the margin. “Mrs Beeton is a … an
óinseach
.” I wonder what that means.' Iseult dropped the book back into the box and turned to Edie. ‘Can we go upstairs? I noticed that one of the bedrooms overlooks the river. I can't imagine a more glorious way of falling asleep at night than listening to the sound of falling water.'

And off they went on their guided tour, Milo leading the way.

By the time Jeremy and Iseult had seen around the house and taken tea and bade Edie and Milo a fond farewell, Edie decided that she really, really wanted them to get the house. The Darlings were the kind of people she'd like to have as friends: they were bright, amusing; artless yet urbane, screwy but grounded, and they had moxie. She decided she would wangle it for them with Uncle Jack. He wouldn't want Lissaguirra to be turned into a fish factory, with salmon cooped up in man-made ponds. He would love the idea of a young couple taking the place on and running it as a B&B for anglers. Maybe he and Aunt Letty could return on a sentimental journey, once the place was up and running! She would go straight away to the crossroads where the telephone box was, and call him.

She put on her wellingtons, fetched Milo's collar and lead and set off. But this time she didn't head down the drive, she went through the forest, where a boreen had led to Lissaguirra long before the new road had been built. What remained of the path was overgrown and muddy and, to judge by the plethora of cowpats, now used exclusively by stray cattle. But it was an afternoon dapply with sunshine and full of the burgeoning promise of spring, and Edie felt she had done some good by coming here and opening up the house and securing a future for it. She looked down at Milo. He was barrelling through a puddle like a miniature paddleboat, his snowy chest caked in mud, his tail toing and froing in the mire.

‘Milo! Look at you, you filthy beggar!'

‘I like it,' protested Milo, little legs all ascramble as Edie stooped to pick him up. She held him at arm's length until they had traversed the worst of the boggy bit, then she took out her handkerchief and started wiping bits of him.

‘Are you feeling better now?' he asked.

‘Better than what?'

‘Better than when you first came here. You were very glum then.'

‘How do you know I was glum?'

‘Because I'm a dog. Everybody knows that dogs have extrasensory perception. Humans are so stupid. They are
stupid
.' He blinked as Edie rubbed muck from his muzzle, and then his ears pricked and he started to wriggle about in her arms. ‘Woahoroharrrr! A rabbit a rabbit a rabbit a
rabbit
let me
go
!'

And off Milo went, shooting into the brambles after Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, et al.

Edie considered. Milo was right: she was feeling better. And Ian had been right, when he had told her that Hilly would have wanted her to crack on. After all, that was all anybody could do, from day to day. So she and her little dog cracked on all the way to the crossroads, and by the time they got there she looked like the troll that lived under the Billy Goats Gruff's bridge, and Milo looked like a back-combed Tasmanian devil.

When the operator had finally connected her, it took her no time to persuade Uncle Jack that the Darlings were the only people in the world worthy of taking on Lissaguirra.

‘Is there anything you'd like me to bring back for you?' she asked. ‘As a memento?'

‘Not a thing,' Uncle Jack told her. ‘Your aunt Letty is spring-cleaning. She'd go crackers if I brought more junk into the house.'