The Debutante. Kathleen Tessaro
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now his mind raced, trying to devise some clever way of hearing the sound of her voice again.
Of course, he could always ask a simple question. But there was something delicious about sitting next to her in silence. Their intimacy was, after all, inevitable; hours, even days, stretched before them. He sensed that she knew this. And it intrigued him.
Keenly conscious of every movement of his body next to hers, he downshifted, his hand almost brushing against her knee. The furious zeal of the overture of Le Nozze di Figaro filled the air around them with exquisite, frenetic intensity. They sped round the arc of the Outer Circle of the park. The engine roared as he accelerated, ducking around a long line of traffic in an uncharacteristically daredevil move.
And suddenly she was laughing, head back, clutching her seat; an unexpectedly low, earthy chuckle.
She’s a woman who likes speed, he thought, childishly delighted with the success of his manoeuvre. And before he knew it, he was overtaking another three cars, zipping through a yellow light on the Marylebone Road and cutting off a lorry as they merged onto the motorway.
Horns blared behind them as they raced out of London.
And, for the first time in a long while, all was right with the world. It was a beautiful, sun-drenched morning – the entire summer spread out before them. He felt handsome, masculine and young.
And he was laughing too.
High on a cliff where the rolling countryside, dotted with cows and lambs, met the expanse of sea, Endsleigh stood alone. Part of an extensive farm, it commanded a view over the bay beneath and the surrounding hills that was breathtaking. Built in pale grey stone by a young, ambitious Robert Adam, it rose like a miniature Roman temple; its classical proportions blending harmoniously into the rich green fields that surrounded it, mirroring the Arcadian perfection of the landscape with its Palladian dome and restrained, slender columns. High stone walls extended for acres on either side of the house, protecting both the formal Italian rose gardens and the vegetable patches from the stormy winter winds, while the arched gravel drive and the central fountain, long out of use, lent the house an air of refined, easy symmetry.
It was impressive yet at the same time unruly, showing signs of recent neglect. The front lawns were overgrown; the fountain sprouted dry tufts of field grass, high enough almost to blot out the central figure of Artemis with her bow and arrow, balanced gracefully on one toe, midchase. There was no one to care if the guttering sagged or the roses grew wild. It was a house without a guardian; its beautiful exterior yielding, slowly, to the inevitable anarchy of nature and time.
Just before the drive, a discreet sign pointed the way to a campsite on the grounds, nearly a mile down the hill, closer to the shore and out of sight of the occupants in the main house. Below, the bay curved gently like an embracing arm, and beyond, the ocean melted into the sky, a pale grey strip blending into a vast canopy of blue. It was cloudless, bright. Cool gusts tempered the heat of the midday sun.
Jack pulled up, wheels crunching on the gravel of the drive, and turned off the engine.
They sat a moment, taking in the house, its position; the view of the countryside and the sea beyond. Neither of them wanted to move. Silence, thick and heavy, pressed in around them, tangible, like the heat. It was disorientating. The internal compass of every city dweller – the constant noise of distant lives humming away in the background – was missing.
‘It’s much bigger than I thought it would be,’ Cate said at last.
It was an odd observation. The beauty of the place was obvious, overwhelming. Could it be that she was calculating how long they would be alone here?
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
Swinging the car door open, she climbed out. After so much time driving, the ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.
Jack followed and together they walked past the line of rose bushes, full-blown and fragrant, alive with the buzzing of insects, to the front door.
He pressed the bell. After a moment, footsteps drew closer.
A tall, thin man in a dark suit opened the heavy oak door. He was in his late fifties, with a long, sallow face and thinning, grey hair. He had large, mournful eyes, heavily ringed with dark circles.
‘You must be Mr Coates, from Deveraux and Diplock,’ he surmised, unsmiling.
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome.’ He shook Jack’s hand.
‘And this is Miss Albion, my…assistant,’ Jack added.
‘John Syms.’ The man introduced himself, inclining his head slightly in Cate’s direction, as if he’d only budgeted for one handshake and wasn’t going to be duped into another. ‘From the firm of Smith, Boothroy and Earl. We’re handling the liquidation of assets on behalf of the family.’ He stepped back, and they crossed the threshold into the entrance hall. ‘Welcome to Endsleigh.’
The hall was sparse and formal with black-and-white marble tiles and two enormous mahogany cabinets with fine inlay, both filled with collections of china. Over the fireplace hung a large, unremarkable oil painting of the house and grounds. Four great doors led off the hall into different quarters.
‘How was your journey?’ Mr Syms asked crisply.
‘Fine, thank you.’ Cate turned, examining the delicate Dresden china figurines arranged together in one of the cabinets. Their heads were leaning coyly towards one another, all translucent porcelain faces and pouting pink rosebud mouths, poised in picturesque tableaux of seduction and assignation.
‘Yes, traffic wasn’t too bad,’ Jack said, immediately wishing he’d thought of something less banal.
Mr Syms was a man of few words and even fewer social graces. ‘Splendid.’ Pleasantries dispensed with, he opened one of the doors. ‘Allow me to show you around.’
They followed him into the main hall with its sweeping galleried staircase, lined with family portraits and landscapes. It was a collection of country-house clichés – a pair of stiff black Gothic chairs stood on either side of an equally ancient oak table, stag’s heads and stuffed fish were mounted above the doorways; tucked under the stairwell there was even a bronze dinner gong.
Cate looked up. Above, in a spectacular dome, faded gods and goddesses romped in a slightly peeling blue sky. ‘Oh, how lovely!’
‘Yes. But in rather bad repair, like so much of the house. There are ten bedrooms.’ Mr Syms indicated the upper floors with a brisk wave of his hand. ‘I’ve had the master bedroom and Her Ladyship’s suite made up for you.’
He marched on into the dining room, an echoing, conventional affair with a long dining table tucked into the bay-fronted window overlooking the fountain and front lawns. ‘The dining room,’ he announced, heading almost immediately through another door, into a drawing room with an elaborate vaulted ceiling, library bookcases, soft yellow walls and a grand piano. Marble busts adorned the plinths between shelves; two ancient Knole settees piled with cushions offered a comfortable refuge to curl up with a book and a cup of tea. A ginger cat basked contentedly in a square of sun on top of an ottoman, purring loudly.
‘The drawing room.’
He swung another door open wide.
‘The sitting room.’
And so the tour continued, at breakneck speed; through to the morning room, the study, gun room, the flshing-tackle room, the pantry, the silver room, the main kitchen with its long pine table and cool flagstone floors leading into the second, smaller kitchen and cellars. It was a winding maze of a house. No amount of cleaning could remove the faint smell of dust and damp, embedded into the soft furnishings from generations of use. And despite the heat, there was a permanent chill in the air, as if it were standing in an unseen shadow.
Mr Syms returned to the sitting room, unlocking the French windows. They stepped outside into a walled garden at the side of the house where a rolling lawn, bordered by well-established flower beds led to