Hothouse Flower (34 page)

Julia sighed heavily. That was never to be.

Walking on, her fingers itched to set to work and restore this wonderful haven to its former beauty before it was too late.

‘Grandfather Bill would be turning in his grave,’ she told the cherub, still perching listlessly atop the fountain that played no more.

Walking slowly back to the house, Julia felt as though she had stepped through a looking-glass. There was still the pain of losing her husband and her precious little boy, and guilt, and fear, for daring to be happy. Yet Kit’s love for her felt as undemanding as Xavier’s had demanded.

‘Sweetheart,’ Kit had murmured as they lay entwined on the bed after they’d first made love. ‘I understand it’s still early days for you, and what a leap of faith you’ve taken to be here with me. I know you need time to heal. If you feel like some space, or I crowd you, I won’t be offended if you want to retreat.’

Three months on, and Julia had not yet felt the need. Besides, the house was vast enough to allow her as much space as she could want. And, as Kit had refused Mr Hedge-Fund’s offer and was out on the estate most days, she was often alone here.

But never lonely, she thought, as she climbed up the steps and passed through the door that would lead her eventually into the kitchen. It was strange how, even though she had rarely set foot inside the house itself and never been upstairs, it all felt familiar and wonderfully comforting. Perhaps it was to do with hearing Elsie’s vividly told story of the past, and because the house had changed so little since the days she’d described. Julia loved the atmosphere and had spent hours wandering along corridors, becoming familiar with every nook and cranny, each faded quilt cover and dusty ornament which evoked the history she’d heard so much about.

It was midsummer too, and many of the things that needed fixing in the house were far less noticeable than they would be in winter: the leaking roofs, for example, and the archaic heating which sent a mere trickle of warmth through the cast-iron radiators, doing little to heat the bath water either.

The fact that she had all but moved in to Wharton Park with Kit had never been ‘officially’ discussed. It had just happened naturally, out of mutual consent. Since the drama of their initial courtship, everything between them had been breathtakingly easy. They had slipped into a relaxed and comfortable routine: Kit would arrive in the kitchen for their six o’clock sundowner, and they would chat about their day as they pottered about the kitchen, sharing the task of cooking supper. Julia was determined to learn and was enjoying her new-found skills in the culinary department. Afterwards, they’d often retire early to bed to make love. They rarely went out, neither of them needing the stimulation of other company, preferring instead to spend time together and alone.

And Kit really did seem to understand that the sadness of what she had lost would sometimes creep in, often unexpectedly. A memory, perhaps prompted by an indirect comment, would render her quiet and thoughtful. He was remarkably unthreatened by her past, acknowledging and respecting it, and never forcing her to talk about it unless she indicated she wished to.

Their relationship was completely unlike the one she’d shared with Xavier: none of the grand statements her husband had so loved making, no volatile arguments, and little of the emotional insecurity or mood swings that had made Xavier so exhausting, but exciting to live with.

There was a stability between them, Julia thought, as she walked upstairs to make the bed, a quiet contentment, which didn’t have the drama of her former relationship but engendered tranquillity, which she knew was healing her more as each day passed. She hoped her presence in Kit’s life was having the same effect on him.

She had discovered recently that, rather than wasting his life being ‘self-indulgent’ – as he’d initially described the past ten years – Kit had spent his time abroad working tirelessly for charities around the globe. He had used both his academic and medical skills to help those most in need of them.

‘The fact I didn’t value my own existence enabled me to go into places most wouldn’t venture,’ Kit had added, when Julia had listened in wonder and admiration to stories of his adventures in the most dangerous hot spots on earth. ‘Don’t praise me, Julia, I was simply running away.’

Whatever Kit’s reasons, his experiences had made him a far wiser and braver man than he gave himself credit for. Julia, occasionally irritated by his continual self-deprecation, told him so. And, slowly, Kit began to open up about a possible path he’d envisaged for his future; that of counselling and treating children damaged by events beyond their control.

‘I’ve seen so much innocent suffering,’ he’d sighed one night over supper. ‘If I’m honest, I think caring for all the kids I met on my travels was a substitute for not daring to commit myself on a personal level again. They needed me, but I could always up and leave and move on. There was nothing altruistic about it.’

‘I understand, Kit,’ Julia had answered, ‘but I’m sure they benefitted from having you, even for a short time.’

‘Well, I learnt that kids are the building blocks of the human race. If they’re wrong, the next generation will be wrong too. And, in retrospect, out of all that pain I witnessed, I admit I’ve found something I’m passionate about.’

So Julia had encouraged him to apply for the appropriate course to convert his time at medical school into what he needed, to allow him to practice child psychology professionally.

‘When this house is sorted out, I just might,’ he’d agreed. Then he had turned to her. ‘Long time since I let myself be nagged by a female.’

‘Kit! I –’

He had rolled over in bed and tickled her mercilessly. Then he’d looked down at her, his eyes serious. ‘Thanks, Julia, for caring enough to do it.’

‘We are sharing a moment in time,’ Kit had announced one night, as they lay together outside in the park, staring up at the full moon. ‘Like the universe, there is no beginning or end. We just
are.
’

Julia loved that thought. And held on to it when her mind turned to another problem currently haunting her. The serenity of Wharton Park and Kit’s undemanding love had gone a long way towards rehabilitating her, but every time she approached the drawing room, wrapped her fingers around the tarnished brass handle to open the door and walk towards the grand piano, her courage failed her.

Two weeks ago, she’d taken the train to London to have lunch with Olav, her agent.

‘Well now, I have a variety of concert halls still offering you dates, including …’ Olav had paused dramatically, ‘the Carnegie Hall.’

‘Really?’ Julia had been excited, despite herself. It was the one venue that she had never been invited to before. And had always longed to play.

‘Yes, sir,’ Olav had nodded. ‘Your story went big in the papers across the Pond – the Yanks love a drama. So, the deal with them is that the Carnegie will be your comeback performance. Being blunt, honey, it’s less to do with your talent and more to do with the fact that the PR machines can go into overdrive.’

‘When is the recital?’ Julia asked.

‘Ten months’ time, at the end of next April,’ Olav had confirmed. ‘Which gives you enough opportunity to get your fingers back on those keys and build up your confidence. Whaddya say, Julia? It’s one hell of an offer and I can guarantee it will never come again.’

Clutching a pillow, Julia walked over to the bedroom window and stared down at the garden beneath her. She had less than a week to give Olav her decision. Could she do it, she asked herself for the umpteenth time. Find a way somehow to climb over the mental void? Julia shut her eyes and imagined playing. As usual, adrenalin started to pump through her veins and she broke out in a cold sweat.

She had not, up to now, broached the subject with Kit. How could she explain that the instrument she used to love held such fear for her now? He might think she was being silly, force her, pressurise her to start playing, and she couldn’t cope with that.

On the other hand, she thought, as she walked away from the window and laid the pillow with its delicious smell of Kit on to the bed, he might be able to help her. She had to trust that he would understand: she was desperate.

That night, she mentioned the Carnegie offer casually over supper.

‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Julia, that’s amazing! What an honour. Will you take me with you so that I can sit in the front row, catch your eye and stick my tongue out at you during a particularly tense crescendo?’

She smiled tightly, then shook her head. ‘I just don’t know whether I can do it, Kit. It might be too much, too soon. I can’t really explain why I’m so frightened, why my body reacts the way it does every time I go near a piano. Oh dear …’

His expression became serious and he reached his hand across to hers. ‘I know, sweetheart. How long have you got to think about it?’

‘A few days.’

‘I wish I could help, wave a magic wand and make it all right for you,’ Kit sighed, ‘but I know I can’t. It has to be up to you.’

‘Yes.’ Julia nodded slowly and withdrew her hand. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a walk around the park and try and think.’

‘Good idea,’ Kit agreed. He watched her leave the kitchen, then cleared the empty plates and washed and dried them, deep in thought.

A couple of days later, before Kit left for an early meeting with the farm manager in the estate office, he brought Julia a cup of tea and sat on the bed next to her.

‘Better be on my way,’ he said, leaning over and kissing her. He studied her and added, ‘You look tired, sweetheart. You okay?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, ‘have a good meeting.’

‘Thanks.’ Kit stood up from the bed. ‘By the way, I’ve got a mate who I’ve allowed to fish in our stream. He said he’d probably have a couple of trout for our supper tonight. He’ll drop them in this afternoon.’

‘I’ve never cooked trout. What do I do?’ Julia asked shyly.

‘I’ll show you how to gut them later,’ he answered, as he walked towards the door. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot – in case I’m not back, there’s a piano tuner coming in at eleven this morning. I doubt that beautiful old instrument gathering dust in the drawing room has been played since you last played on it. And as it’s rather valuable, I thought I’d better get it serviced. See you later, sweetheart.’ He blew her a kiss and disappeared out of the door.

Promptly at eleven, the rusty front doorbell tinkled, and Julia went to let the piano tuner in to the house.

‘Thank you, Madam,’ the old man said respectfully. ‘Could I trouble you to show me where the piano is? Last time I came here was over fifty-five years ago, when Lady Olivia asked my father to tune it, before Lord Harry came back from the war.’

Julia looked at him in amazement. ‘My goodness! That’s a long time ago. It’s this way.’ She led him through the series of rooms, put her hands to the brass knob of the drawing room and immediately felt them start to shake.

‘Here, Madam, let me,’ he offered.

‘Thank you. It’s rather … stiff,’ she replied, embarrassed, as the piano tuner turned the handle easily. She had no choice but to follow him into the room. She hovered by the door and watched him walk towards the piano, then lift the dustsheets.

‘Beautiful instrument this,’ he commented admiringly. ‘My father always said it had the purest sound of any piano he’d heard. And he’d heard a few,’ he chuckled. ‘Now then.’ He opened the lid, studied the yellowing keys and lovingly put his fingers to them. He played a fast arpeggio, sighed and shook his head. ‘Dearie me, we do sound in a bad way.’ He turned to Julia. ‘It’ll take me a good while, but I’ll sort it, don’t you worry, Madam.’

‘Thank you,’ Julia replied weakly.

‘Yes,’ the piano tuner bent down to open his tool-case, ‘the sad thing is, my father told me Lord Harry never played again when he eventually came home.’

‘Really?’ said Julia. ‘I’ve heard he was a wonderful pianist.’

‘He was, but for some reason –’ the piano tuner sighed and began to play the first few bars of Liszt’s Sonata in B minor – ‘he never did. Perhaps it was something that had happened to him in the war. Such a shame he wasted his talent, isn’t it?’

Julia could take no more. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ she answered abruptly. ‘And send the invoice to Lord Crawford, please.’ She turned tail and hurried away from the drawing room.

Later, she went to pick patiently through the remnants of vegetables in the kitchen garden to cook with the trout that evening. She would have liked to sort the area out, to clear it and reseed it, but as there was no guarantee they would be here longer than it took to find a new buyer, Julia supposed it was pointless.

Suddenly, her ears pricked up. She could hear Rachmaninov’s Concerto No. 2 floating out of the drawing room on the breeze towards her.

Kneeling amongst the weeds, she put her hands to her ears.

‘Stop it!
Stop it!
’

She could still hear the music through her fingers, the notes she could not bear to play assaulting her senses. She gave up trying to block the sound and, as her hands fell to her sides, she began to sob.

‘Why do you have to play
that
? Anything else … anything else.’ She shook her head and wiped her streaming nose on the back of her hand.