‘Oh, apparently they contacted the estate office first – the email is listed online – and they said to direct any enquiries via Mr Henderson. I suppose they were just protecting your privacy.’
‘Ah, I see.’
Jennifer, however, was eager for an answer. ‘So, what do you think? I know you saw off those loony ghosthunters and you were right. Who wants some nutters wandering around with the lights off while we’re tucked up in bed? But this is different. They’ll show off your lovely house and… and it’ll be nice, won’t it, to have a record. Something to watch over and over, whenever we want.’
When Jennifer’s cheeks flushed, Clarissa’s heart went out to her. She knew exactly what she was getting at and maybe she was right. Perhaps it was time outsiders saw the inside of Chamberlain. Heard the story of her forbears.
Finally, Clarissa would have something to leave behind. A little snippet. Not a reel of film but the modern equivalent, a digital footprint on a memory stick. She might not be forgotten after all and her philanthropic efforts not in vain.
But there was something holding her back, those voices again, the ones that came at night and they advised caution. ‘I’ll give it some thought. Decide in the morning. It’s a lot to take in, having strangers snoop about our home.’
At this, Clarissa saw Jennifer smile, because it was her home, too.
‘Now, did Cookie Beattie leave us something nice for dinner or shall we be very naughty and ring for a takeaway? We can share a bottle of wine.’
Jennifer’s eye’s widened. ‘Takeaway. On a Wednesday! And wine. Whatever next. Okay, I’ll go and peep in the fridge then we can decide. I have a dreadful feeling I spotted her making liver and onions earlier.’
‘Oh dear Lord, not liver. No matter much how much I hint Cookie insists it’s good for me and I don’t like to offend her when she’s being kind. If you find any, chuck it in the bin. I do miss having dogs because they come in ever so handy when liver is on the menu, and kidneys. And Jennifer, bring the menus.’ Not needing to be told twice, Clarissa watched as Jennifer scooted off, carrying her coat and scarf, all talk of documentaries wiped away by the threat of offal.
* * *
Clarissa had made it alone. Along the hallway, enduring the seventy-nine steps to the farthest room on the corridor.
Standing under the dim light of a flickering bulb inside a lampshade unchanged for over eighty years, Clarissa stared at the portrait of Eleonora. It hung above the fireplace that had been devoid of warmth since the day her beloved big sister left home forever.
The bedroom had become a shrine. On her mother’s insistence everything inside remained as it was. Never touched. In a similar way, the day of the big fight was engraved on Clarissa’s memory; the only time in her whole life that her mother stood up to her father.
Like a needle scratching a record, the screeches of Mother’s hysteria had been etched into Clarissa’s ten-year-old brain. Her face still went hot when she pictured the servants, as embarrassed as she by the scene, avoiding eye contact as they removed Eleonora’s portrait from the wall in the drawing room. Clarissa, concealed behind the grandfather clock in the foyer, listened, eyes wide and filled with tears, to the scene being played out in the drawing room.
Father said that Mother had lost her mind and ran to the door, bellowing at the butler to call for the doctor. Then the door slammed shut and Mother had screamed at Father, saying she’d tell everyone what he’d done. Silence. Then Father stormed from the room and straight out of the front door, yelling for the groom to saddle his horse.
Mother got her way. And instead of Eleonora and all her belongings being banished to the attic, her portrait was hung in her room and Father forbidden to enter.
Clarissa took two steps closer. It was all she could manage: the pain in her hips was almost unbearable and she needed her energy for the walk back to her own room.
Eleonora would have been 102, had she lived. All those years without her. As she stared into her sister’s soulful hazel eyes, not for the first time, Clarissa asked the portrait the question that played on a loop in her brain.
Clarissa’s voice was barely a whisper ‘What did Father do? To make you run away. Was it like what he did to me? Forbade your love? You were braver than I. But I wish you hadn’t been. I wish you’d stayed. Then we could have fought them together. And you’d have lived. My beautiful big sister. Oh, how I adored you and how I cried for you when you left. I hope you know that. That you were missed.’
Clarissa was so tired and needed to lie down. But before she did, had one more message for Eleonora.
‘Not long now, dear one. We will be together soon and then you can tell me your truth. And I will tell you mine.’
When she reached the light switch, Clarissa flicked it off and, without looking back, the pain of parting always raw, worse than that which riddled her bones, she closed the door, leaving Eleonora alone in the dark.
CHAPTER9
HONEY
Fair hair, cut close at the sides, which accentuated a mop of curls that flopped and flapped as he spoke. Deep brown eyes, the colour of horse chestnuts, were framed by round, tortoiseshell glasses that slowly slipped down his nose. Each time they did, he pushed them back up again.
His fingers were long. No wedding ring – praise be – and the back of his hands showed signs of a faded, sun-kissed tan. She imagined he was the type to turn golden-brown and wondered where he’d been on holiday. Honey wondered a lot of things as she took in every detail of the man seated before her.
His tan corduroy jacket went out with the ark but the fact he wore it meant he didn’t care, and she liked that. It was a teeny bit worn where the collar met his neck that was cleanly shaven like his face. The dark denim shirt looked newish, buttoned to the top, and his jeans, skinny fit. She’d guess extra-long leg, thirty-four inches at least.
Finally, his watch. Manually wound, and with a battered brown leather strap, the glass of the round face slightly dulled. It was an heirloom. She just knew.
They’d made polite conversation as they ate. About the weather and how worried he was his old car might not be fixable. Levi – such a cool name – unabashedly made short work of his mutant pastry, not self-conscious at all as the flakes fluttered onto his jacket and jeans. She watched as he flicked them into his hand and then his plate, not the floor. Very polite: she liked that too.
