Oliver and Rosie were sitting together on one of the two-seater sofas and I felt a little unprofessional sitting cross-legged on the floor so I moved onto the sofa opposite them and placed my sketchbook on the empty seat beside me.
‘The plan we discussed was to convert the west wing into holiday accommodation. What’s the reasoning for that?’
They exchanged looks and shrugs.
‘We thought it would be easiest,’ Oliver said.
‘There’s no emotional connection to the east wing?’ I wanted to check I hadn’t missed anything.
Rosie glanced at Oliver and he shook his head.
‘So it’s a practical thing with the kitchen and your bedroom already being there?’
‘And because it’s smaller than the west wing,’ Oliver said. ‘It seemed the logical choice.’
‘Itisthe logical choice,’ I agreed, ‘and probably the easier conversion but I think you’d both regret it because it would mean losing the library. This room’s really special and it’s obvious it means a lot to both of you, so I was thinking you could convert the whole of the east wing and part of this wing into holiday accommodation but keep everything from the library and beyond for yourselves. There’s already external access through the room at the end so that could become your entrance porch and kitchen/diner…’
I moved to the armchair so I was closer and flipped open my sketchbook, showing them my rough drawings on how the west wing could be configured into their private space. I watched their expressions carefully and could tell that keeping the library was a huge hit, but a shadow crossed Oliver’s face when I mentioned upstairs so I closed the sketchbook and sat forward, my brows knitted.
‘There’s something about the space above us that makes you sad,’ I said to Oliver. ‘It’s not going to work as your living quarters, is it?’
Rosie placed her hand on Oliver’s thigh and her sympathetic expression as she looked at him told me I’d hit the nail on the head.
‘Do you want to tell Mel now?’ she asked him.
‘You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ I said, my voice reassuring. ‘We could make the ground floor your living space and convert upstairs into guest accommodation, or we can stick to the original plan. I just get the impression that this room is really important to you both and I’d love to find a way to keep it for you.’
Oliver’s gaze travelled round the room and he nodded slowly. ‘I would like to keep this room if we can and kudos to you that you’ve picked up on that, but you’re right about the upstairs. It holds bad memories for me, past and present.’
‘Understood. This has to be what’s right for you both.’
‘Itisa good moment to give you an insight into the family history,’ Oliver said. ‘We were going to tell you anyway and I’d rather you get the truth from us than a variation of it from the rumour mill…’
Between them, Oliver and Rosie shared an unexpected and tragic tale of their past. Hubert Cranleigh – the man who Oliver had believed was his dad until shortly before Hubert’s death at the start of last year – had been a womaniser and an abuser. Kathryn had found comfort, friendship and, in time, reignited love with her ex-boyfriend Christian. Oliver had been the result of that relationship, although they’d kept it secret, fearful for the repercussions if Hubert found out. When Oliver was twelve, Kathryn had finally decided enough was enough and she was going to leave Hubert for Christian but was struck down by a short, fatal illness before she had the chance. Oliver was left alone in the hall with a man he hated and no idea that they weren’t blood relatives. He moved to the furthest bedroom in the east wing to put as much physical distance as he could between them and they lived separate lives until Oliver escaped to university aged eighteen. The next time he returned to the hall was after Hubert’s riding accident.
Finding out that Hubert Cranleigh wasn’t his biological father wasn’t the only unexpected discovery for them last year. Rosie’s mum, Alice, had been the victim of a hit and run on the road into the village a couple of years after Kathryn died – a horrendous incident I remembered from when Noah was a baby. Alice’s physical injuries had healed but her mental ones hadn’t and she’d struggled to leave the safety of the estate. The police had never caught the driver but, during a storm a couple of weeks after Hubert died, a tree came down on top of the boat house behind the hall. Hidden inside was the vehicle which had struck Alice. For nearly two decades, Alice had believed it was out of kindness that Hubert had let her and Rosie stay in Horseshoe Cottage and had placed a temporary manager at the riding stables until Rosie had finished school and could take over. Evidently it was a combination of guilt and fear of being caught – or perhaps just the latter.
It was a heartbreaking story of loss and deception but it was also a tale of hope and second chances. Oliver and Rosie had been a couple for a while during their teens but their relationship had ended badly. His return to the hall under difficult circumstances had brought them back together and had also saved the hall. Oliver had wanted to sell it but Rosie had presented him with a vision of how it could be financially viable as a business.
Oliver and Rosie’s relationship and an exciting new future for Willowdale Hall weren’t the only second chances. Alice and Rosie’s dad, Xander, had been reunited following the funeral. Alice had always believed that Xander – who was Hubert’s cousin – had abandoned her when he learned that she was pregnant with Rosie. She hadn’t told Rosie the identity of her father, wanting to protect her from the rejection. Following the funeral, it emerged that Xander hadn’t actually known about Rosie and had only left because he’d been led to believe that Alice wanted nothing to do with him.
Finding the car in the boat house and discovering that a man she’d considered a friend had been responsible for her accident had understandably been extremely traumatic for Alice. She had a breakdown and spent some time in a care facility, determined to regain control of her life. Xander had been and still was an incredible support to her. The pair had steadily become closer but had been adamant they were just friends but, over Christmas, they’d admitted that they were a couple, much to Rosie’s delight. Xander had two children from a previous marriage, one of whom had a child and another on the way, and Rosie was loving getting to know her extended family.
A further second chance had been for Oliver and his biological father. Christian had been Oliver’s favourite teacher at school and a mentor to him for many years afterwards, but they’d lost touch. When Oliver discovered his true parentage, he’d reconnected with Christian and they now had a really strong relationship. Christian had a daughter, Emma, from a relationship before Kathryn, and the half-siblings had met for the first time in the summer. Emma now ran an alpaca-walking business in the grounds, which sounded wonderful. I couldn’t wait to meet her and her herd of seven alpacas.
‘Apologies for throwing a million names at you and so much information,’ Rosie said. ‘I promise there won’t be a test tomorrow on our dysfunctional family tree.’
‘I don’t know if I should admit it, but I’d probably ace it if there was. I have a thing for retaining names and dates. Georgia often says I have filing cabinets instead of a brain. Thanks for sharing that with me. A lot of the projects I work on are changes of ownership but, when the owners are staying, it really helps to understand the family history and what the place means to them.’
Rosie had produced a bottle of wine partway through our conversation and I paused while she topped up my glass.
‘After what you’ve told me, I can definitely see why you’d be reluctant to convert the west wing bedrooms into your living quarters,’ I said. ‘Bad memories can be difficult to handle, but I can’t help thinking that the whole estate held bad memories for you, Oliver. You’ve overcome those to the point where you’re totally in love with this place and are about to invest heavily in it to secure its future and let others enjoy it. I’m guessing there are good memories here too which have made it easier to find your peace with the estate. I understand you not having positive memories from upstairs, but they are just rooms, which means they can be changed. When you change the furniture and décor, a room can become unrecognisable and, once it looks completely different, it feels different too and those bad memories fade with new happier ones taking over.’
Realising I was in danger of sounding like I was making a sales pitch when it really made no difference to me which part of the hall they kept as their own, I shrugged apologetically. ‘And that’s the last I’m going to say on the subject. Completely up to you what you do. I’ll continue to explore and you can let me know whatever you decide.’
‘Thanks, Mel,’ Oliver said. ‘And don’t worry that you’ve overstepped because you haven’t. We’re comfortable with you challenging us on anything about the build. You’re the expert and you’ll be much better at stepping back and seeing things we’re too close to. We’ll come back to you when we’ve had a chance to talk it through.’
* * *
