Some secrets are best left buried

Researching her family tree had been little more than a hobby – until Katie stepped foot onto Kingsley House’s sprawling, ivy-strewn drive. The house may be crumbling today, but it was once the intimidatingly opulent residence of the St Clairs, Katie’s ancestors. Arriving here two hundred years later, emotion stirs in Katie, a strange nostalgia for a place she’s never seen before and when Kingsley House comes up for sale, Katie is determined that her family must buy it.

Surrounded by the mysteries of the past, Katie’s past-time becomes a darker obsession, as she searches through history to trace her heritage. But these walls house secrets more terrible than she could ever have imagined and when forgotten stories and hidden betrayals come to light, the past seems more alive than Katie could ever have imagined.

Moving between the 21st and 19th centuries, The Emerald Comb is a hauntingly evocative novel, perfect for fans of Kate Morton and Rachel Hore.

The Emerald Comb

Kathleen McGurl

www.CarinaUK.com

KATHLEEN MCGURL

lives near the sea in Bournemouth, with her husband, sons and cats. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which the past can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.

When not writing or working at her full-time job in IT, she likes to go out running or sea-swimming, both of which she does rather slowly. She is definitely quicker at writing.

You can find out more at her website (http://kathleenmcgurl.com/) or follow her on Twitter @KathMcGurl

My heartfelt thanks to Leigh Forbes, Helen Walters, Jean Buswell, Fionn McGurl, Kate Long and Della Galton, all of whom gave me invaluable feedback on early drafts of this novel. Thanks also to my editor Victoria Oundjian whose input helped shape the final product. And to my lovely husband, Ignatius McGurl, for his general support and words of wisdom. He said he’d read anything I managed to get published – that has spurred me onwards throughout. Finally, thanks as always to the wonderful Write Women, whose support, advice and encouragement over the last ten years mean more to me than I can find words for.

For Dad, who would have loved this book

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Endpages

Copyright

“To forget one’s ancestry is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.”

Chinese Proverb

“I don’t know who my grandfather was; I am much more concerned to know what his grandson will be.”

Abraham Lincoln

Prologue

Kingsley House

North Kingsley

Hants

November 1876

To my dearest son, Barty St Clair

This is my confession. I am the only soul still living who knows the truth. It will pain me to write this story, but write it I must, before I depart this life. I have not long to live, and I fear death – heaven will not be my final resting place. Dear Barty, when you have read this in its entirety you will understand why I know I am destined for that other, fiery place, to burn with guilt and shame for all eternity.

You must read this alone, sitting in the worn, red armchair by the fireside in the drawing room of Kingsley House. Or perhaps you will sit in my study, at my old walnut desk. Where ever you choose, have a glass of whiskey to hand to fortify yourself. You will need it.

Read this only after I am dead, after I am buried. Read this and understand why you must never sell Kingsley House. You must live in it until the end of your days, guarding its secrets, as I have.

Tell no one the contents of this confession. Not even your brother, William. Especially not your brother, William. It would grieve him, he who worshipped his mother and believed she could do no wrong, even more than it will grieve you. You will understand this when you have reached the end of my story.

Destroy this document when you have read it. You must carry the shameful secret within you, as I have done, but at least you will not also carry guilt.

There, I have written an introduction, but I must rest before I begin my story. Bear with me, my dearest son, while I recoup the strength I need to write this sorry tale.

Your ever loving, repentant father,

Bartholomew St Clair

Chapter One: Hampshire, November 2012

The weather matched my mood. A dark, low sky with a constant drizzle falling meant I needed both headlights and wipers on as I drove up the M3. Whenever I’d pictured myself making this trip I’d imagined myself singing along to the car radio beneath blue skies and sunshine. The reality, thanks to a row with my husband Simon, couldn’t have been more different. All I’d asked of him was to look after our kids for a single Saturday afternoon, while I went to take some photos of Kingsley House, where my ancestors had once lived. Not much to ask, was it? I’d planned it for weeks but of course he hadn’t listened, and had made his own plans to go to rugby training. Then when it was time for me to leave, he’d made such a fuss. I’d ended up grabbing my bag and storming out, leaving him no choice but to stay and be a parent for once, while the kids watched, wide-eyed. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. He’s a wonderful parent, and we have a strong marriage. Most of the time.

It was a half-hour drive from our home in Southampton to North Kingsley, a tiny village north of Winchester. Just enough time to calm myself down. Funny thing was, if I’d wanted to do something girly like go shopping or get my nails done, Simon would have happily minded the kids. But because I was indulging my hobby, my passion for genealogy, he made things difficult. I loved researching the past, finding out where my family came from. Simon’s adopted. He’s never even bothered to trace his biological parents. God, if I was adopted, I’d have done that long ago. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to know your ancestry. It’s what makes you who you are.

The rain had eased off; I’d calmed down and was buzzing with excitement when I finally drove up the narrow lane from the village and got my first glimpse of Kingsley House. Wet leaves lay clumped together on its mossy gravel driveway. Paint peeled from the windowsills, and the brickwork was in need of repointing. An overgrown creeper grew up one wall almost obscuring a window, and broken iron guttering hung crookedly, spoiling the house’s Georgian symmetry.

Kingsley House was definitely in need of some serious renovation. I fell instantly and overwhelmingly in love with it. It felt like home.

Gathering my courage, I approached the front door. It was dark green and panelled, with a leaded fan-light set into the brickwork above. There was no bell-push or knocker, so I rapped with my knuckles, wondering if it would be heard inside. Was there even anyone at home to hear it? There were no cars outside, and no lights shone from any window despite the deepening afternoon gloom. Maybe the house was uninhabited, left to rot until some developer got his hands on it. Or perhaps the owners were away. I’d checked the house out on Google street view before coming, and had the idea it was occupied.

I knocked again, and waited a couple of minutes. Still no response. But now that I was here, I thought I might as well get a good look at the place. After all, my ancestors had lived here for a hundred years. That gave me some sort of claim to the house, didn’t it? The windows either side of the front door had curtains drawn across. No chance of a peek inside from the front, then.

To the left of the house there was a gate in the fence. One hinge was broken so that the gate hung lopsided and partially open. I only needed to push it a tiny bit more to squeeze through. Beyond, a paved path led past a rotting wooden shed to a patio area at the back of the house. I tiptoed round. A huge beech tree dominated the garden, its auburn autumn leaves adding a splash of colour to the dull grey day.

French windows overlooked the patio, and the room beyond was in darkness. Cupping my hands around my eyes I pressed my nose to the glass. It was a formal dining room, with ornately moulded cornices and a fine-looking marble fireplace. Had my great-great-great-grandfather Bartholomew and his wife dined in this very room, back in the early Victorian era? It sent shivers down my spine as I imagined their history playing out right here, in this faded old house.

‘You there! What do you think you’re up to?’

I jumped away from the window and turned to see a gaunt old man in a floppy cardigan approaching from the other side of the building, waving his walking stick at me. Behind him was a neatly-dressed elderly lady. She was holding tightly onto his arm, more to steady him than for her own benefit. The owners were not on holiday, then. I silently cursed myself. Today was really not going according to plan. First the row with Simon and now being caught trespassing.

The man waved his stick again. ‘I said, what do you think you’re up to, snooping around the back of our house?’

‘I’m…er…I was just…’ I stuttered.

‘Just wondering if the place was empty and had anything worth stealing, I’ll bet,’ said the lady.

‘No, not at all, I was only…’

‘Vera, call the police,’ said the old man. His voice was cracked with age. His wife hesitated, as if unsure about letting go of his arm to go to the phone.

I held out my hands. ‘No, please don’t do that, let me explain.’

‘Yes, I think you had better explain yourself, young lady,’ said Vera. ‘Harold dear, sit yourself down before you topple over.’ She pulled a shabby metal garden chair across the patio and gently pushed him into it.

He held his stick in front of him like a shotgun. ‘Don’t you come any closer.’

God, the embarrassment. I felt myself redden from the chest up. They looked genuinely scared of me.

‘I’m sorry. I did knock at the door but I guess you didn’t hear.’

‘There’s a perfectly serviceable bell, if you’d only pulled on the bell-rope,’ said Vera.

Bell-rope? Presumably part of an original bell system. I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t notice the rope.’

Vera shook her immaculate grey perm and folded her arms. ‘In any case, you had no answer, so why did you come around to the back?’

I gaped like a goldfish for a moment as I searched for the right words. I’d imagined meeting the current inhabitants of my ancestors’ house so many times, but I had never once thought it would happen like this. We really had got off on the wrong footing. I could see my chances of getting a look inside vanishing like smoke on the wind.

‘The thing is, I was interested in the house because’ – I broke off for a moment as they both glared at me, then the words all came out in a rush – ‘my ancestors used to live here. I’ve researched my family tree, you see, and found my four-greats grandfather William St Clair built this house, then his son Bartholomew inherited it and lived here after he got married, then his son, another Bartholomew but known as Barty lived here right up until –’

‘1923!’ To my utter astonishment both the old people chorused the date.

‘You’re a St Clair then, are you?’ said Vera, looking less fierce but still a little suspicious.

‘I was Catherine St Clair before I got married. Plain old Katie Smith now.’

I put out my hand and thankfully she took a tentative step forward and shook it. The atmosphere instantly felt less frosty.

‘Vera Delamere. And this is my husband, Harold.’

I shook his gnarled and liver-spotted hand too, while he stayed sitting in his chair. ‘I’m so sorry to have frightened you. I shouldn’t have come around the back. I was just so desperate for a glimpse inside. And I wasn’t even sure if the house was occupied at all…’ Oops, was I implying it looked derelict? I felt myself blushing again. I thought quickly, and changed the subject. ‘You know about the St Clairs?’

‘Not all of them, but we’ve heard of Barty St Clair,’ said Harold. ‘When we moved here in 1959 a lot of people hereabouts remembered him still. He was quite a character, by all accounts.’

‘Really? What do you know about him? He was my great-great-great-uncle, I think.’ I counted off the ‘greats’ on my fingers.

Vera sat down beside Harold and gestured to me to take a seat as well. ‘I remember old Mrs Hodgkins from the Post Office telling me about him. Apparently he wouldn’t ever let anyone in the house or garden. He wasn’t a recluse – he’d go out and about in the village every day and was a regular in the pub every night. But he had this great big house and let not a soul over the threshold – no cook or cleaner, no gardener, no tradesmen. Mrs Hodgkins thought he must have had something to hide.’

‘Ooh, intriguing!’ I said. ‘Perhaps he had a mad wife in the attic or something like that.’

Vera laughed. I smiled. Thank goodness we’d broken the ice now. ‘Well, by the time we moved in there was no evidence of any secrets. Mind you, that was many years after Barty St Clair’s day. It was a probate sale when we bought it. It had been empty for a few years and was in dire need of modernising.’ She sighed, and gazed at the peeling paint on the patio doors. ‘And now it’s in dire need of modernising again, but we don’t have the energy to do it.’

She stood up, suddenly. ‘Why are we sitting out here in the damp? Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ll make us all a cup of tea, and then give you a tour, Katie.’

Harold chuckled. ‘Then you’ll see for certain we have nothing worth stealing, young lady.’

I grinned as I watched Vera help him to his feet, then followed them around to the kitchen door on the side of the house. I felt a tingle of excitement. Whatever secrets the house still held, I longed to discover them.

Chapter Two: Hampshire, November 1876

Kingsley House, November 1876

My dear Barty

I have rested for a day or so, filled my ink-well, replenished my paper store and summoned the courage I need to begin my confession. And begin it I must, for the date of my death grows ever nearer.

Barty, I shall write this confession as though it were a story, about some other man. I will write ‘he did this’, and ‘he said that’, rather than ‘I did’, and ‘I said’. At times I will even write as if in the heads of other characters, as though I know their thoughts and am privy to their memories of those times. It is from conversations since then, and from my own conjectures, that I am able to do this, and I believe it is the best way to tell what will undoubtedly become a long and complex tale. It is only by distancing myself in this way, and telling the tale as though it were a novel, that I will be able to tell the full truth. And you deserve the full truth, my true, best-loved son.

We shall begin on a cold, snowy evening nearly forty years ago, when I first set eyes upon the woman who was to become my wife.

Brighton, January 1838

Bartholomew St Clair leaned against a classical pillar in the ballroom of the Assembly Rooms, watching the dancers whirl around. There was a good turnout for this New Year’s ball. He ran his fingers around the inside of his collar. The room was warm, despite the freezing temperatures outside. He could feel his face flushing red with the heat, or maybe that was due to the volume of whiskey and port he’d consumed since dinner.

He scanned the room – the dancing couples twirling past him, the groups of young ladies with their chaperones at the sides of the room, the parties of men more interested in the drink than the dancing. He was looking for one person in particular. If his sources were correct, the young Holland heiress would be at this ball – her first since she came out of mourning. It could be worth his while obtaining an introduction to her. Rumour had it she was very pretty, but more than that, rich enough to get him out of debt. A couple of bad investments had left him in a precarious position, which only a swift injection of capital would resolve.

He watched as a pretty young girl in a black silk gown spun past him, on the arm of a portly man in military uniform. Her white-blonde hair was in striking contrast to her dress, piled high on top, with soft ringlets framing her face. She was smiling, but something about the way she held herself, as distant from her dancing partner as she could, told Bartholomew she was not enjoying herself very much. He recalled that the Holland girl was currently residing with her uncle, an army captain. This could be her.

The dance ended, and now the band struck up a Viennese waltz. Bartholomew kept his eyes fixed on the girl as she curtsied to her partner, shook her head slightly and made her way across the room towards the entrance hall. He straightened his collar, smoothed his stubbornly curly hair and pushed through the crowds, to intercept her near the door.

‘You look hot,’ he said. ‘May I get you some refreshments?’

She blushed slightly, and smiled. ‘I confess I am a little warm. Perhaps some wine would revive me.’

He took a glass from a tray held by a passing waiter, and gave it to her with a small bow. ‘I am sorry, I have not even introduced myself. Bartholomew St Clair, at your service.’

She held out her hand. ‘Georgia Holland. I am pleased to meet you.’

So it was her. She was even prettier viewed close up, in a girlish, unformed kind of way, than she was at a distance. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her skin was soft and smooth. ‘Would you like to sit down to rest? Your dancing appears to have exhausted you.’

‘It has, rather,’ she replied, as he led her towards some empty chairs at the side of the room. ‘I am unused to dancing so much. This is my first ball since…’ She bit her lip.

‘Since…a bereavement?’ he asked, gently. Sadness somehow suited her.

‘My father,’ Georgia whispered. She looked even prettier with tears threatening to fall. ‘He died a year ago. I have only just begun to rejoin Society.’

‘My condolences, Miss Holland. Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone for you?’

She shook her head. ‘I am quite well, thank you. You are very kind.’ She took a sip of her wine, then placed it on a small table beside her chair. She stood, and held out her hand. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr St Clair. But I think I must take my leave now. My uncle is here somewhere. Perhaps he will call a cab to take me home.’

Bartholomew jumped to his feet. ‘I shall find your uncle for you. Though I could fetch you a cab myself.’ And accompany you home in it, he hoped, though it would not be the normal course of behaviour.

‘My uncle is my guardian,’ she said. ‘I live with him. So I must at least inform him that I wish to leave.’ She scanned the room.

‘Ah, there he is.’ She indicated the portly man in a captain’s uniform with whom he’d first seen her dancing.

So that was the person he needed to impress. From the way she’d held herself when dancing with him, it seemed there was no love lost between them, on her side at least. Interesting. Bartholomew took her arm, and led her through the crowds towards the captain, who was talking with a group of people in a corner of the room. She seemed tiny at his side – her slightness contrasting with his fine, strongly-built figure.

‘Uncle, this is Mr St Clair. He has very kindly been looking after me, when I felt a little unwell after our last dance.’

Bartholomew bowed, and shook the captain’s plump, sweaty hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

‘Charles Holland. Obliged to you for taking care of the girl.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Bartholomew. He took a step forward and spoke quietly. ‘Your niece wishes to return home. With your permission, I shall call a cab for her.’

Holland turned to regard him carefully. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You wish to continue taking care of my niece. You may do so. She has money, as you are no doubt already aware.’

‘Sir, I assure you, your niece’s fortune is not of interest…’

Holland waved his hand dismissively. ‘Of course it is, man. It’s time she married and became someone else’s responsibility. You look as likely a suitor as anyone else, and perhaps a better match than some of the young pups who’ve been sniffing around. You may take her home.’ He nodded curtly and turned back to his companions.

Bartholomew opened his mouth to say something more, but thought better of it. What rudeness! But if Charles Holland didn’t much care who courted his niece or how, at least it made things easier. He glanced at her. She was standing, hands clasped and eyes down, a few feet away. Probably too far to have heard the exchange between himself and her uncle. He took her arm and led her towards the cloakroom and the exit.

Outside, a thin covering of an inch or two of snow lay on everything, muting sound and reflecting the hazy moonlight so that the world appeared shimmering and silver. Georgia shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her.

‘Come, there should be a cab stand along Ship Street,’ Bartholomew said, steadying her as she descended the steps to the street. He grimaced as he noticed her shoes – fine silk dancing slippers, no use at all for walking in the snow.

‘It’s a beautiful night,’ she said. ‘I should like to see the beach, covered in snow. It always seems so wrong, somehow, to have the sea lapping at snow. Can we walk a little, just as far as the promenade, perhaps?’

‘But your shoes! You will get a chill in your feet, I fear.’

‘Nonsense. They will get a little cold but the snow is not deep. And the night air has quite revived me. I feel alive, Mr St Clair! Out of that stuffy ballroom, I feel I want to run and skip and – oh!’

He clutched her arm as she slipped in the snow. ‘Be careful! Hold on to me, or you will do yourself more damage than cold feet.’

She tucked her arm through his and held on. Bartholomew enjoyed the warmth of her hand on his arm, the closeness of her hip to his. Her breath made delicate patterns in the cold night air, and he imagined the feel of it against his face, his lips… Yes, she would do nicely. He smiled, and led her across King’s Road onto the promenade. It was deserted, and the snow lay pristine – white and untouched, apart from a single line of dog paw prints. On the beach, the partially covered pebbles looked like piles of frosted almonds.

Georgia sighed. ‘So pretty.’

‘Indeed,’ said Bartholomew, watching her as she made neat footprints in the snow, then lifted her foot to see the effect. She had tiny, narrow feet, and the slippers had a small triangular-shaped heel.

‘See my footprints? We could walk a little way, and then you could pick me up and carry me, so when others come this way it will look as though I had simply vanished.’ She giggled, and pushed back the hood of her cloak to gaze up at him.

Her eyes glinted mischievously, and even in the subdued moonlight he could see they were a rich green. He was seized by the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

‘Let’s do it!’ he said, taking her hand to walk a dozen more steps along the prom. Then he scooped her up, his pulse racing at the feel of her arms about his neck, her slight figure resting easily in his arms. Her hood fell back and tendrils of her golden hair fell across his shoulder. For a moment he stood there, holding her, gazing into her eyes and wondering whether she would respond to a kiss.

‘Well, come on then, Mr St Clair – you must walk now, and make your footprints look no different to before. You must not stagger under my weight, or it will be obvious what has happened. Gee up, Mr St Clair!’ She gently kicked her legs, as though she was riding him side-saddle.

‘Yes, ma’am!’ he laughed, and walked on along the prom. After a little way she twisted to try to see the footprints he’d left, and he, feeling he was losing his grip on her, put her down. She instantly walked on a few more steps and turned back to see the effect.

‘Look, I appeared from nowhere!’

‘Like an angel from heaven,’ he said. ‘Come, I must escort you home. It is late, and the snow is beginning to fall again.’

Georgia tilted her head back and let a few large flakes land on her face. ‘It’s so refreshing. Thank you, Mr St Clair. Since meeting you I have had a lovely evening. We can walk to my uncle’s house, if you like – he lives in Brunswick Terrace.’

Bartholomew noted she had not said ‘we live’ – clearly she did not feel as though her uncle’s house was her home.

‘On a fine evening, Miss Holland, I could think of nothing better than to take your arm and stroll along the promenade as far as Brunswick. But I shall have to postpone that pleasure for another day. Your feet will freeze, even more than they already have. Look, we are in luck, here is an empty cab.’

He waved at the cabman who brought his horse to a skidding stop beside them. They climbed aboard and Georgia gave the address. She shivered and pressed her arm tightly against his. Minutes later the cab halted outside the grand terrace, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the wintry moonlight.

Bartholomew paid the cabman and asked him to wait. He helped Georgia down from the cab and led her up the entrance steps of her uncle’s house. The door opened as they approached, and a maid ushered them inside, into a grand hallway where the remains of a fire smouldered in the grate.

‘Oh, Miss Georgia, I am so glad you are back. Mr Holland were back a half hour ago and he said you had left the ball before him. I were fretting about you.’ She bustled around, taking Georgia’s cloak and exclaiming over the state of her shoes.

‘Agnes, I am perfectly all right. Kind Mr St Clair has been looking after me. We decided to walk part of the way home.’

The maid glanced accusingly at Bartholomew. She was a striking-looking woman, blonde like her mistress but with more mature features, as though she had grown into her looks. She was an inch or two taller, and looked, he thought, as Georgia might in a few years’ time, when she’d outgrown her childish playfulness. Beautiful, rather than pretty.

‘Sir, forgive me for speaking out of turn but my mistress were not wearing the right sort of shoe for a walk in the snow. See, the silk is ruined and her poor feet are froze. Sit you down here, Miss Georgia, and I will fetch a bowl of warm water to wash them.’ With another stern look at Bartholomew, she hurried along the hallway towards the kitchen stairs.

‘Agnes has been with me since I was fourteen. She does fuss, rather.’ Georgia sat on an uncomfortable-looking carved-back chair and rubbed at her feet. ‘But a warm foot-bath sounds just what I need. Perhaps, Mr St Clair, you would help me rub some life back into my toes?’ She looked up at him, a half-smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.

But Bartholomew was still gazing in the direction the maid had taken. For all Miss Holland’s coquettish ways, she was young and immature. Bartholomew was no stranger to women – he’d been near to proposing once to a merchant’s daughter in Bath, but she had accepted a better offer from a baronet’s son. He’d had a brief affair with the bored wife of a naval captain, until she tired also of him. And of course, there had been plenty of women of the night, who waited outside the Assembly Rooms to accompany lone men to their lodgings.

None of these women, however, had ever had quite the effect on him that the maid, Agnes, had. A thrill had run through him the moment his eyes met hers, leaving him hot with desire, his palms tingling, his heart racing. She was returning now, with the basin of water. She glared again at Bartholomew.

‘Sir, you are still here? You may think me bold to suggest it, but I think you ought to leave, afore the snow becomes too deep for cabs. I can ask the footman to fetch you a brandy if you need fortification before venturing out.’

He felt his blood thrill again at the forthrightness of the woman. A lady’s maid, who thought nothing of speaking to guests in her employer’s house, as though they were her wayward sons.

‘A brandy would be excellent, yes.’ He nodded at her, and she pulled on the bell-cord. A moment later a footman arrived, and Agnes sent him for the brandy. He was back a minute later, closely followed by Charles Holland, who had exchanged his captain’s jacket for a woollen dressing-gown.

‘Is that my niece back home at last? What do you think you are doing, keeping my staff up and waiting for you on such a night?’ He stopped in his tracks when he noticed Bartholomew. ‘Ah, I see. Sir, I thank you for bringing her home. Please, call on her again tomorrow morning. You will be most welcome.’ He nodded curtly and left.

Georgia smiled up at him. ‘You will come back tomorrow, won’t you? As my uncle said, you will be made most welcome.’

Bartholomew started. He’d almost forgotten about Georgia. The maid, Agnes, had filled his mind completely. But maids don’t have money, he reminded himself. And it was money he needed most. He dragged his gaze away from Agnes and returned Georgia’s smile.

‘Miss Georgia, you are forgetting yourself,’ scolded Agnes. ‘Come, dry your feet. I will help you upstairs. Sir, please ring the bell should you require anything more.’

Bartholomew gulped back the brandy brought by the footman, relishing the fiery warmth it brought to his belly. He watched as the two women crossed the black-and-white tiled hallway and made their way up the stairs. Each of them gave him one backwards glance – Miss Holland’s smile was cheeky and inviting; the maid’s glare was challenging, but with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow as though she had guessed the effect she’d had on him.

Without a doubt he would return tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. He left his empty glass on a side table and let himself out of the house. Thankfully the cab was still there, though the cabman grumbled about how long he’d had to wait in the dreadful weather. Bartholomew gave the address of his lodgings in Kemptown and sat back, huddled in his cloak, planning his ideal future which involved both of the women he’d met that night.

Chapter Three: Hampshire, November 2012

I followed Vera Delamere through a tired 1970s kitchen into a large wood-panelled hallway, and then through to a cosy sitting room. She flicked on the lights, and crouched at the fireplace which was already laid with a mixture of logs and coal. As she struck a match, Harold shuffled in and sat down beside the fire, leaning his stick against the side of the mantelpiece.

‘Good-oh, we could do with a bit of warmth in here,’ he said, and she turned to smile fondly at him. They’d obviously been together for a very long time. I hoped Simon and I would be like them, one day. If we managed to resolve our differences and stay together long enough.

I looked around the room. A large built-in shelving unit occupied one wall. It was made of dark wood, and was clearly very old. It was beautiful.

‘That was here when we moved in,’ Mrs Delamere said, nodding at the shelves. ‘Riddled with woodworm, unfortunately, though we have had it treated.’

‘It’s gorgeous. I wonder if it was here when my ancestors lived here?’

‘I’ll go and make the tea,’ said Vera. ‘Sit down, Katie, do. By the fire, there. It’ll get going in a moment.’

I sat opposite Harold in a well-worn fireside chair. ‘This is a lovely cosy room.’

Harold nodded. ‘We think this was originally a study. There’s a much bigger sitting room across the hall, but it’s too hard to heat it. When there’s only Vera and me, this room’s just right for us. So, you’re a St Clair, are you? I thought old Barty hadn’t had any children. Certainly no one to leave the house to.’

‘You’re right, he didn’t. I’m descended from his younger brother, William.’

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Harold, nodding with satisfaction.

Vera bustled in with the tea tray. She gave it to Harold to balance on his lap for a moment as she tugged at a shelf in the old unit. It folded out, creating a desk, and she put the tea tray on it.

We chatted comfortably about the history of the house and my research while we drank the tea, then Vera offered me a tour of the house.

Harold had fallen asleep in his chair, his head nodding forward onto his chest. Vera gently took his tea cup out of his hand and put it on a side table. I followed her back into the huge hallway. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind showing me around? I must admit I’m dying to see the house.’

‘Oh, it’s quite all right. Lovely to have a visitor, if truth be told. Well, here’s the living room. Drawing room, I suppose I should call it.’

She ushered me into a large, cold room, with a window to the front of the house. It had a grand fireplace which looked original, brown floral seventies carpet and cream woodchip wallpaper. Family photographs showing a younger Vera and Harold with two cheeky-looking boys jostled for position on the mantelpiece, and heavy crushed-velvet curtains hung at the window.

‘We don’t come in here much, except in the summer when it’s the coolest room in the house,’ Vera said.

She led the way back through the hallway and into the dining room I’d peered into from outside. I crossed to the window and looked out. The garden was surprisingly small for such a large old house, and I commented on this.

‘It would have had much more land originally,’ Vera explained. ‘Most of it was sold off before we moved in. There would have been stables and other outbuildings – we think those stood where Stables Close is now. But what’s left is a lovely garden. It catches the evening sun. And we’re very fond of that tree.’ She pointed to a huge beech which stood against a crumbling garden wall.

‘I bet your children enjoyed climbing that,’ I said.

‘Oh, they did, they did! Tim would be sitting up there where the main trunk forks, and Mike would push past him and go up higher. I couldn’t watch, but Harold always thought it was better for boys to climb trees than artificial climbing frames in sterile playgrounds.’

I laughed. ‘My dad always says the same thing. My sister and I were both tomboys and spent half our childhoods up trees.’

‘Good for you! I think it’s essential for children to play outside. Shall we continue with the tour?’

She took me down a dark corridor to the kitchen with its walk-in pantry and a rather damp utility room which might once have been called a scullery. Then upstairs, where four large bedrooms and a bathroom occupied the first floor, and another two smaller attic bedrooms filled the second floor. I loved every inch of it. I suspected none of it had seen a lick of paint or a roll of new wallpaper since the sixties or seventies but the house oozed charm and character. I tried to imagine my ancestors here: Barty and his brother William, my great-great-grandfather, running up and down the stairs as boys; their father Bartholomew writing letters in the study downstairs; their mother serenely embroidering a sampler by the fireside in the drawing room. There would have been servants here too, living in those attic bedrooms.

We finished the tour and went back downstairs. Harold was still dozing beside the fire in the old study. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Delamere,’ I said. ‘I have really enjoyed imagining my ancestors living here. It’s a wonderful house.’

‘It is, yes.’ She shook her head. ‘Sadly it’s too much for Harold and me nowadays. We shall soon have to think about moving out and into somewhere smaller. But I hate the thought of developers carving it up into flats, and I’m certain that’s what would happen. We’ve been approached by a couple of developers already.’

‘Mmm, yes, I can see you’d want it to stay as it is.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind the idea of it being done up inside. Lord knows it needs it – tastes have changed and I know it’s very dated. But I’d want to think of it remaining as a single family home. Ah, well.’ She caught hold of my hands and leaned in to kiss my cheek. ‘Katie, it’s been so lovely to meet you. I hope you’ll come again – I’d love to hear more about how you researched your ancestors, and how you knew they lived here.’

‘Well, it was all via the census records,’ I said, as I slipped on my coat. ‘They’re available on the internet now, which makes it all pretty easy.’

Vera smiled. ‘I’m afraid we don’t even own a computer.’

As I left the house I sensed someone’s eyes on me, and turned to look back. Vera was standing at the study window, watching me go with a wistful expression on her thin face. I waved, and she smiled and waved back. I crossed the street and took a few photos of the house for my records, then headed back home to Southampton. As I drove back down the motorway I wondered what kind of mood Simon would be in. Hopefully he’d have got over himself by now. I was buzzing with excitement about having seen inside my ancestors’ home and wanted to be able to share it with him.

Simon was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of bolognese sauce for the kids’ tea. I put my arms around him from behind, stretched up and kissed the back of his neck.

‘Mind out! You nearly made me knock the pan over.’ He shrugged himself out of my hug.

‘Sorry. I’ll take over if you like.’ I gave the pot a stir then waltzed off around the kitchen. Our four-year old, Thomas, came in pushing a small yellow digger along the floor and making engine noises. He giggled when he saw me dancing. I scooped him up and danced with him.

‘Hey, not while I’m cooking!’ said Simon, brandishing his wooden spoon. ‘There’s no space in here for mucking about. I take it from your happy dance that you found what you were looking for?’

‘Yes, I found the house!’

‘What house was this?’

‘Oh, Simon, I told you this morning!’ I put Thomas down. He retrieved his digger and resumed excavations in the hallway. ‘It was the house where the St Clairs lived, for over a hundred years. My great-great-grandfather William St Clair would have been born there, and his father Bartholomew before him.’

‘Ah, yes. You’ve been rummaging around in the pointless past again while I look after the future, a.k.a. our children. So you got a photo of this house?’

‘More than that – I went inside! The owners are a lovely elderly couple called Harold and Vera Delamere and they remember how the older folk in the village told them stories of Barty St Clair when they moved it. Apparently he was a bit strange. Very sociable but wouldn’t let anyone in the house. Maybe he was hiding something – ooh, maybe there’re some skeletons in my ancestors’ closets!’

‘Good stuff. I don’t get this obsession with your ancestors, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose.’ He grinned, and patted my shoulder. His way of apologising for the morning’s row. I smiled back, accepting the apology.

‘Kids! Dinner’s ready!’ Simon called. He plonked three plates of spag bol on the table, then left the kitchen. Looked like supervising the kids’ dinner time was going to be my job, then. Fair enough. I’d had my time off. I helped Thomas climb up onto a chair, and ruffled Lewis and Lauren’s hair as they sat at the table.

‘Hey, mind the gel!’ Lewis ducked away from my hand. Only ten but already spending hours in front of the mirror before school each day.

‘What do you want to put gel in your hair for, you’re not a girl.’ His twin sister Lauren flicked his ear. ‘With those spikes you’ll puncture the ball when you next play rugby with Dad.’

‘You don’t head the ball in rugby, derrr,’ retorted Lewis. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

‘More than you, stupid.’ Lauren swished her blonde mane over her shoulder and stuck out a bolognese-encrusted tongue in his direction.

‘That’s enough, you two,’ I said. ‘Eat up and if you can’t speak nicely to each other don’t speak at all.’

They glared across the table at each other but otherwise got on with it. Little Thomas, as usual, was keeping his head down and out of trouble. He caught my eye and flashed me a winning smile. Apart from the strand of spaghetti that was slithering down his chin it was one of those expressions you just wish you’d caught on camera.

I made myself a cup of tea while the children finished their dinners. Once they were finished and the kitchen was clean, I sat down at the table sipping my cup of tea, and drifted off into a pleasant fantasy in which the Delameres sold up and somehow Simon and I could afford to buy the house, move in and discover all its secrets.

Chapter Four: Hampshire, December 2012

‘I know,’ I said, decisively, ‘let’s take Mum and Dad out for Sunday lunch at the pub this weekend, rather than cook it here. It’s always a squash when they come for dinner, and it’d be lovely to have someone else do all the work.’ It was a few weeks after my visit to Kingsley House. Simon and I had managed not to row again, mainly because I’d not said a single word more about my ancestry research, and he’d foregone another rugby practice to take the whole family out to see The Polar Express at the cinema.

Simon put down the book he was reading and peered over his glasses at me. ‘OK, and maybe your dad will want to pay…’

I threw a cushion at him. ‘No, we’ll pay, you tight git. It’s supposed to be Dad’s birthday dinner, after all. Anyway, we can easily afford to since your promotion and pay rise.’

He hugged the cushion and threw his feet up onto the sofa. It was a cold, dark evening – one of those where you wish you had an open fireplace instead of a gas fire, when you just want to cuddle up with a blanket and a good book. And maybe a glass of wine.

‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ I said.

‘Yeah, go on then.’ Simon swung his legs off the sofa and stood up to fetch a bottle. ‘Arrgh, what did I tread on?’ He hopped around then sat back down to investigate the damage to his foot.

‘Lego, I expect. Lewis had some in here earlier.’

‘When’s he going to grow out of Lego?’ grumbled Simon, kicking the offending piece under the Christmas tree.

‘About the same time as Thomas grows into it,’ I replied. ‘I’ll get the wine, seeing as you’re incapacitated.’

‘Thanks. What we really need is a bigger house. One with a playroom, so we can keep the lounge clear of toys and the kids can injure themselves on their own Lego without involving us.’

I went to fetch a couple of glasses and a bottle of Pinot Noir from the kitchen. Simon was right – we had outgrown this house. The two boys had to share a room, which didn’t work very well because of the difference in their ages. The kitchen was a reasonable size but had to double as a dining room. Just about OK for the five of us but hopeless if we had visitors. And the garage was stuffed to bursting with bikes, gardening tools and DIY debris.

‘Do you mean it?’ I asked, as I returned with the wine.

‘Mean what?’

‘What you said about wanting a bigger house.’

He frowned, stared at the ceiling as though looking for an answer written on it, then sat upright. ‘Yeah, I think I do. How do you feel about moving?’

‘Well, I love this house, but we do need more space.’

‘Right then, let’s start house-hunting.’ He grabbed my laptop from the side table which doubled as a desk, and started tapping the keys.

‘Really? Right now?’ Was he serious or just fooling? Sometimes it was hard to tell with Simon.

‘No time like the present, eh? And no harm in looking.’ He grinned and patted the seat beside him. I sat down, and a moment later we were browsing a list of houses in Southampton which matched our criteria: four bedrooms, garden, two reception rooms. It was nice to do something together, as well.

I pointed to a Victorian three-storey semi. ‘That one looks good.’

‘Bit pricey.’

‘What can we afford?’

‘Dunno, I’d have to do the figures. Say four hundred thousand maximum – that’ll give us an idea of what’s available. Good job I got that promotion.’

They all looked nearer the half-million mark. I began to get despondent as Simon scrolled through. There was no point compromising on size – might as well stay where we were. We wanted to stay in Hampshire near our parents. Mine helped out with childcare occasionally and Simon’s mum – adoptive mum – was suffering from dementia and needed support. And there needed to be good schools nearby.

‘Winchester would be good. That’d cut fifteen minutes off my commute to London,’ said Simon.

‘Yes, I like Winchester too.’ I reached over and selected Winchester from a dropdown list of areas, and we began browsing a new set of houses.

‘Period or modern?’ Simon asked.

‘Period, definitely. Something with character. More wine?’

‘Why not? Period for me, too. Cor, look at this one!’ He clicked on a thumbnail image to expand it. I gasped – I’d seen that house before. Kingsley House, up for sale! Simon would click onto the next house instantly if he knew, so I quickly covered my gasp with an exclamation.

‘Wow, gorgeous! What’s the asking price?’

‘Hmm, four-four-five. Bit out of our price range. Looks a bit run down. Could be worth a look, though.’

‘Really? You want to go and see it?’ My heart beat a little faster at the idea of having another look at that house. I wondered whether anything had happened to Vera and Harold Delamere to make them put it up for sale. They’d mentioned feeling they ought to move somewhere smaller but had seemed reluctant to put the house on the market. I hoped they were OK. I’d thought of them and the house many times since my visit.

Simon frowned at me. ‘Well, that’s how house-hunting works, isn’t it? You find something you like the look of, then go to see it.’

‘It’s just all a bit sudden. Have we actually decided we want to move?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Well, it makes sense, so I guess I do…’

‘Great! So do I.’ He clinked glasses with me. ‘So if we’ve made the decision to move, we might as well start looking at properties sooner rather than later. Don’t you think?’

And so it was that on Saturday I found myself standing outside Kingsley House again, grinning from ear to ear, with a slightly grizzly Thomas who’d just woken up holding my hand. Simon had dropped us off and was busy parking the car further up the lane. The older children and the estate agent were with him. I tugged on the bell-rope and heard a distant jangling inside.

Vera opened the door and broke into a wide smile when she saw me on the doorstep. ‘Katie, how lovely to see you! But, I’m afraid we’re expecting visitors in a moment. The house is up for sale, you see.’

‘I know – it’s us who’ve come to see it,’ I said, shaking her hand.

‘You? Oh, how lovely! When the estate agent said a Mr and Mrs Smith wanted to see the house I didn’t think for a moment it’d be you!’

‘I know, it’s such a common name, not like St Clair. Listen.’ I spoke hurriedly, seeing Simon, Lewis, Lauren and the estate agent walking up the lane ‘My husband doesn’t know I was here before. I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention it. He’s not…well…he doesn’t get the whole ancestry thing, you know? I think it would put him off the house.’

Vera raised her eyebrows, but nodded. ‘All right. Mum’s the word. And who’s this?’ She crouched down to Thomas’s level, but he became suddenly shy and buried his face against my leg. She stood up again as Simon and the others crunched across the gravel driveway. ‘Come in, everyone. Would you like to take the little one into the study? I’m sure I can find something to amuse him while the rest of you look around the house.’

The estate agent, Martin, a skinny youth in a shiny suit, introduced everyone as Vera ushered us all inside. Martin set off on a tour with Simon, Lewis and Lauren, while I followed Vera into the study with Thomas.

Harold was dozing beside the fire, in much the same place I’d left him on my last visit. ‘He’s not been so good,’ Vera whispered to me. ‘That’s why we’re having to move. We’re going into one of those little retirement flats, in a new development near our son in Bournemouth.’ She sighed. ‘It’ll break our hearts to leave this place, but the time has come.’

She gently shook Harold’s arm to wake him up. ‘Harold, look who’s here to view the house.’

He blinked twice at me, then smiled. ‘Katie St Clair! So are you going to buy our house, then?’

I laughed. ‘Well, I’ll have to see what my husband Simon thinks. He’s having a look around now, with the kids.’

‘And you’d better go to join him, or it’ll look odd,’ said Vera. ‘Now, Thomas, shall I fetch you something to play with? I’ve got a box of old Matchbox cars somewhere. I used to keep them for our grandchildren. But they’re all grown up now.’ She opened a low cupboard in the old shelving unit and pulled out a Tupperware container. Thomas trotted over and started rummaging through it happily, pulling out diggers and police cars, tractors and racing cars. Harold pulled out one and showed him how the doors opened.

‘Look, Thomas. It’s an old Ford Anglia. Like the first car I ever owned!’

Thomas inspected the battered toy. ‘Daddy’s got a Galaxy. We came in it today. It’s red.’

‘Oh, I like Galaxies,’ said Harold. ‘Lovely big cars.’

Behind him, Vera gestured to me to follow her out to the hallway, leaving the ‘boys’ to discuss cars.

‘It’s lovely to see him playing with a child,’ said Vera. ‘Does him good.’

‘Thomas loves cars. Your Tupperware box is the perfect thing to keep him happy.’

‘You’d better go and join the tour. I believe they’re upstairs now. I’ll make us some tea, and squash for the children?’

‘Perfect,’ I said, and trotted upstairs to find Simon and the kids who’d reached the two attic bedrooms.

‘Mum, I want to have this room,’ said Lauren. ‘I love the slopey ceilings. But I don’t want Lewis in the other room up here. I want this floor all to myself. Can I?’

‘Sweetheart, we haven’t even decided whether to buy this house or not. It’s a bit over our price range.’ I looked at Simon as I said this. He was chewing his lip, a sign that he was deep in thought. ‘What do you think, Simon?’

‘Got loads of potential. And I’ve always quite fancied a project house. Do you like it?’

‘I love it. Absolutely love it,’ I said. Martin grinned, no doubt seeing pound signs spinning in front of his eyes.

‘You can’t have seen much of it yet,’ said Simon. ‘But it is the kind of place which grabs you, isn’t it?’

He had no idea just how much it had grabbed me. I nodded, as we went back down the narrow stairs to the first floor.

A few minutes later, our tour was over. Lewis and Lauren went out to explore the garden, while Martin watched them nervously from the kitchen. Simon and I returned to the study where Thomas was parking cars along the edge of the hearth rug. Harold looked up as we entered.

‘Mrs Smith, do please sit down.’ He gestured to the chair opposite him, beside the fire. ‘We’ve been thinking. Are you serious about wanting to buy this house?’

I sat, and glanced at Simon standing beside me, wondering how we should reply. I loved the house and could think of nowhere I’d rather live, but it was out of our price range. How could we say we were serious about it when we knew we couldn’t possibly afford it? Simon looked lost for words too. Before either of us had chance to frame an answer, Harold continued.

‘Because if you are, I think we would be very happy to sell the house to you. Vera and I always hoped another family would buy the house, rather than a developer. We’d hate it to be mucked about with and turned into flats. We’ve had plenty of offers from developers, but have turned them all down, hoping a family would come and look at it. And we decided,’ here he looked at Vera who nodded encouragingly, ‘that if a family we liked came to see the house, we would reduce the price for them.’

I stared at him, and then at Simon. Was I hearing this right? They’d reduce the price if we wanted to buy? I blinked, and opened my mouth to speak, but again, Harold got in there first.

‘I think four hundred thousand would be plenty for us. The retirement flat we want to buy is much less than that. No sense in us being greedy. Would you like to discuss it?’

I nodded, dumbly. Simon looked stunned.

Harold smiled and reached across to pat my hand. ‘You mustn’t feel you’re cheating us, you know. We don’t need the full asking price. You’d be doing us a favour by keeping it out of the developers’ hands. Isn’t that right, Vera?’

Her eyes were bright as she answered. ‘Oh, yes. We’d love you to buy this house. Especially as –’ She stopped herself in time, and put a hand to her mouth.

‘Can we have a minute to talk about this?’ said Simon. He went out to the hallway and nodded at me to follow him.

Vera called to the estate agent. ‘Martin, could you come in here a moment, please, Harold would like a word. Leave Mr and Mrs Smith to have another poke around by themselves, perhaps.’

Simon pulled me into the kitchen and stared at me. ‘Four hundred? Wow! I was working out whether we could stretch to four twenty as a cheeky offer but if they’ll come down that much – we’d be stupid not to go for it! We could sell it straight on and make a profit if nothing else.’

I felt my heart sink. Is that all he was thinking about – making a quick buck? ‘We couldn’t sell it on – they want a family to live here. Anyway I want to live here, don’t you?’

‘It needs a lot of work…’

‘We could do it! I could project-manage it – Thomas will be starting reception class in school after Easter and I’ll have time. I know I was going to go back to work part time, but I could do up the house first… Oh, Simon, I adore this house, and would absolutely love to live here and do it up! The kids seem to like it too…’ Lewis and Lauren were investigating the beech tree. As we watched, Lauren gave her brother a leg up to the first branch.

Simon turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Calm down, Katie! I love the house too. And we could add value to it by doing it up. Look at this kitchen – hasn’t been touched in thirty years! But we’d be living in a building site for ages bringing this place up to scratch. Have you any idea how stressful that would be?’

‘We can do it bit by bit. I don’t mind the mess. Anyway the house is big enough that we could live in some rooms while we do up others. There are six bedrooms, Simon! Oh, let’s go and tell them yes, please!’

He gazed into my eyes, then pulled me into a crushing hug. ‘All right, let’s do it. But remember, we still have to find a buyer for our place.’

I kissed him. At some stage I supposed I would have to tell him about the history of this house, but that could wait. If he’d known about my ancestors living here, he’d never even have come to see it. I’d come clean later. When it was too late to back out.

We called to the kids to come inside. Their cheeks were flushed from the crisp winter air, and Lewis had grass stains on both knees.

‘Awesome garden, Mum! I love that tree. Are we going to buy this house?’ He glanced at his filthy hands and wiped them on the back of his jeans.

‘When we move in, I want both of the rooms at the top. One for a bedroom and one for a playing room, Mum, can I?’ Lauren clung onto my arm, jumping up and down.

‘Steady on! There’s a lot of water to go under the bridge before we move in. But, yes, I would think you can have one room at the top if that’s what you want. And share the other as a playroom.’

‘Yes!’ Lauren punched the air, as we all crowded into the little sitting room cum study.

Harold looked at me expectantly. ‘Well?’

‘We love it. We all love it.’ Thomas looked up from the hearth rug as I said this, and nodded his little blond head seriously.

‘Four hundred?’ asked Harold, raising his eyebrows.

‘Deal,’ said Simon, stepping across the room and shaking the old man’s hand. Vera smiled broadly at me, her eyes shining. Whether with excitement or unshed tears I wasn’t sure.

Martin coughed. ‘Um, by rights the offers should go through me, and may I say it’s a little on the low side…’

‘It’s all right,’ said Harold. ‘Remember we said we’d reduce for the right people? Mr and Mrs Smith, and young Thomas here and his brother and sister – they are the right people. And that’s all there is to it.’ He looked up at Simon. ‘How soon can you move?’

‘Two roast beef, one salmon and one roast chicken. And for the kids, two burger and chips, and one pasta bolognese. Have I got that right?’ Simon ticked off the orders on his fingers as he recited them.

‘Yes, that’s the lot,’ I said, watching him go to the bar to place the food order. Dad had already bought a round of drinks – insisting on paying, despite it being his birthday. I sipped my wine, and opened up the freebie bag of colouring pens and puzzles the barman had handed over for Thomas. Lauren and Lewis were on their Nintendos. I guessed they were on some kind of multi-player game, as every now and again one would cheer and the other look sulky.

Mum settled herself back into her chair. ‘Now then. What’s all this about you buying a new house? I know you could do with more space but it seems so sudden. You didn’t even tell us you were house-hunting!’

‘We’d only just started,’ I said. ‘But when the right house comes up straight away, well, you just have to go for it. We saw it yesterday, and have already agreed to buy it.’

‘Goodness, that was quick!’

‘They offered it to us at an amazing price,’ I said, grinning.

‘Well, that’s very exciting!’ said Mum. ‘Tell us about it, then, love. How many rooms does it have?’

‘Six bedrooms, two reception rooms, three if you count the study. And a large kitchen with separate utility room and pantry.’

‘Pantry!’

‘Well, a walk-in food cupboard, really.’

‘And what will you do with all those bedrooms?’

‘Convert one to an en-suite,’ said Simon, returning with a wooden spoon, painted with the number seventeen. ‘There’s only one bathroom and I think it definitely needs another.’

‘Nan, I’m having a room on the top floor,’ said Lauren, looking up from her game.

‘Lovely, dear!’

‘We’ll be able to have a proper guest room, Mum,’ I said. ‘So you can come to stay without being stuck on the living room floor.’

‘Christmas at yours next year, then?’ asked Mum.

That was a nice idea. ‘Why not?’

‘As it’s an old house, I guess there are proper fireplaces so Santa can come down the chimney instead of through the back door?’ Dad winked at me over Thomas’s head.

‘I saw Santa,’ said Thomas. ‘On a bicycle.’

‘That was just someone dressed up,’ said Lewis. ‘Not the real one.’

Thomas’s lip quivered and I frowned at Lewis to shut him up. Mum put her arm around Thomas. ‘I’ll take you to see the real Santa,’ she said. ‘He’s going to be at the shopping centre next week. He might give you a present, if you’re good.’ She looked at me. ‘I can’t wait to see the house. When will you move in?’

‘When we’ve sold our place,’ Simon said. ‘We’ve not even put it on the market yet. With the way the market is at the moment it might take ages to sell.’

Trust Simon to put a dampener on things. I hadn’t really given much thought to selling our current house. But of course he was right. I shouldn’t get too excited about moving to North Kingsley. What if we couldn’t sell our place, and meanwhile the Delameres got fed up of waiting and sold to someone else?

I must have looked worried, because Dad reached over and patted my hand. Simon picked up his pint.

‘Don’t fret, Katie,’ he said. ‘Since the Delameres have agreed such a good price for their house, we can price ours to sell quickly. They’re moving into an empty retirement flat. We could be in by Easter, with a following wind. As long as the survey’s OK. We’ll have to think hard if it turns out to be riddled with dry rot or rising damp.’

I didn’t listen to that last bit about surveys. Simon wasn’t going to spoil it for me. I was too busy considering the totally gorgeous idea of moving in spring. Simon, Mum and Dad began a discussion on house prices while I allowed my mind to wander, imagining the fields around North Kingsley bright with the fresh green growth of a new season, the hedgerows laden with elderflower and hawthorn blossom, cute rabbits hopping along the verges, swallows dipping and diving overhead. The kids would be out in the woods, exploring the countryside, learning the names of wild flowers and birds. We’d get a dog – with such wonderful country walks all around it’d be a crime not to. I’d plant up the garden with hollyhocks and lupins, and Simon would make the kids a tree house in the branches of the beech. And of course, I’d be living in the very rooms where Georgia and Bartholomew once lived.

It would all be so perfect.

‘Katie, how’s the old family tree research coming on?’ Dad’s voice broke into my thoughts. He’s the one person in my family who is truly interested in my genealogical research. I guess because he’s a St Clair too. But now wasn’t a great time to discuss it.

‘Um, I haven’t spent too much time on it lately…’

‘Like hell you haven’t,’ said Simon. ‘You’ve barely done anything else. Didn’t you go taking photos of some old house to do with your ancestors a few weeks ago?’

‘Oh, really?’ said Dad. ‘Fascinating! You must show me them. Where was the house?’

Trust Simon to remember that now. I felt myself blush. I hated keeping secrets from him but I wouldn’t put it past him to pull out of the house purchase if he thought I was only interested in it because of its connection to my family. I had to wait until the deal was secure before telling him.

‘Oh, er, it’s not far. Twenty, thirty miles away, something like that. I’m still researching other St Clair facts, too. Like where they’re all buried. I want to find their gravestones, and get some photos of those, too.’

‘So have you drawn up the family tree yet? I’d love to see it,’ said Dad.

‘It’s all on Ancestry.’ For once, I was desperate to steer the conversation away from genealogy.

‘Email me the link, will you? I’ll have a look at it this week, see if I can find any more details for you. I wouldn’t mind getting involved in all this research now I’m retired.’

I smiled and nodded. I’d have to forget to send him it. Otherwise he might follow up links and find Kingsley House, and recognise it from the estate agent details Simon had shown him. That would be awkward, to say the least.

Chapter Five: Brighton, April 1838

For the thousandth time, Bartholomew patted the pocket in which he’d stowed the trinket, to make sure it was safely tucked away. It wasn’t the first gift he’d given Georgia, but it was by far the most expensive. A silver hair comb, set with emeralds along its spine. He’d had it made in London by a Bond Street jeweller, and hoped she would love it. As the stagecoach rumbled southwards along the bumpy Brighton road, Bartholomew was glad he would be able to deliver this gift in person, rather than send it as he’d done with the last few presents.

It had been a few weeks since he’d last been in Brighton. Trouble with his investments had called him to his Mayfair townhouse, and it had taken him longer than expected to get everything back on track. His agent, Collins, should be able to take care of business from here on, freeing Bartholomew to live the idle life of a gentleman, as was his right. More than ever, he needed capital, and that could only come from marrying someone with money. Like Georgia Holland. There were rumours of a substantial inheritance, currently in trust for her but which would pass to her husband on the occasion of her marriage. She was pretty and charming, if a little immature, and could be a good choice of wife. He had not renewed the lease on his Brighton lodgings – Charles Holland had invited him to stay in the Brunswick Terrace house.

Well, he’d see the pretty little Georgia soon enough, and would ask for her hand at the earliest opportunity. If he played his cards right, he could be out of debt within a few months. And, of course, there was the added attraction of Georgia’s alluring lady’s maid. He felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of seeing her again.

The countryside passed by in a rush of bright new foliage, sweet white blossom, rich earthy scents of newly ploughed and planted fields. The spring sunshine cast a glow of hope for the future over everything. Bartholomew smiled. There was a world of possibilities ahead of him.

When he arrived at Brunswick Terrace, the door was opened by the footman, Peters. ‘Welcome, sir. The master is awaiting you in the drawing room. I shall take your luggage up to your room.’

‘Thank you.’ As he gave his hat and travelling cloak to Peters, Bartholomew noticed the maid, Agnes, on the turn of the stairs. He caught her eye, and raised one eyebrow. In return, she gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head, sending a thrill rushing through him. What did she mean by that nod? Could it be – an invitation?

‘Miss Georgia said to inform you she is indisposed,’ said Peters. ‘I believe her maid is attending to her now.’ He held the drawing room door open.

Bartholomew was still gazing after Agnes. That woman had the most regal bearing of any woman, high- or low-born, he’d ever seen. She was slight but carried herself tall, graceful as a swan. She looked back at him once, a half-smile on her face, as though she was as pleased to see him as he was to see her.

He entered the drawing room, where a log fire was blazing in the grate, even though the day was warm and sunny. Charles Holland was sitting in an armchair near the fire, his back to the window. He had a brandy glass in his hand, and as Bartholomew approached he gulped it back and motioned for Peters to pour another.

‘Welcome, welcome, St Clair,’ he said, waving at Bartholomew to sit opposite him.

Pulling the chair a little away from the fire, Bartholomew sat down, but declined the brandy offered to him by Peters. He’d have welcomed its warming glow, but one brandy often led to another, and another. It was early yet, and he wanted to keep his wits about him during this interview with Georgia’s uncle.

‘I thank you for your hospitality, sir,’ he said. ‘It is most kind of you to offer me room in your house.’

Holland snorted. ‘You’re here because I assume you are going to propose to my niece, sooner or later. I thought if you were here under her nose for a few weeks it might hurry things along. She’s got money, you know. Plenty of it. In trust now, but goes to whichever poor blighter marries her.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Sir, I am not after her money, please don’t think that…’

‘Hmph. Most of ’em are. Granted, she’s a pretty enough little thing but there’s too little flesh on her for some men’s liking, and she can be far too spirited. You’ll need to tame her, somewhat. You ready for that, man?’

‘I like her spirit,’ Bartholomew said, remembering the night they’d met, when she’d walked in the snow in dancing slippers, and made him carry her.

‘So did a young chap she met last week,’ said Holland. ‘Son of a wine merchant, I believe, name of Perry. He’s called here every day. She’s having her portrait painted, and the poor sop waited mutely for hours while she sat for the artist. If you want my niece – and Lord knows you’re welcome to her, I make no secret of the fact I want her off my hands – you’ll need to act quickly. I’ll give my blessing. Frankly I think an older, settled chap like yourself will be better for her than a love-struck pup like Perry.’ He gulped back his brandy and reached for the decanter to pour another. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

‘Perhaps just a small one.’

Holland poured a generous measure into a large brandy glass and handed it to him. ‘So, St Clair, as Georgia’s official guardian I should ask you about your property and income and such like. Don’t give a damn, myself, but it’s the done thing as I understand it, and sooner or later some busybody’s bound to ask about my niece’s fiancé. So I’d best have the detail, man.’

Bartholomew cleared his throat. He’d been expecting this question, but not quite in this form. ‘Well, sir, I am comfortably off. I have a townhouse in Mayfair which is my usual residence when in town, and two other properties near the Regent’s Park, which are let out. I expect to inherit a small country estate in Hampshire from my father in time, but I may not keep that for long.’ Best not to mention that all the London properties were mortgaged to the hilt, and he was barely able to keep up the repayments.

‘Hampshire? Nice county. Know it well, from my youth. Where’s your father’s place, exactly?’

‘North Kingsley, on the London road out of Winchester. The house is called Kingsley House.’

Holland snorted. ‘Never heard of it.’

The captain’s dismissal made Bartholomew feel defensive about his childhood home. ‘It’s not large, but is comfortable, and very pleasantly situated. Any woman would be happy living there.’ He swallowed his brandy, and set the glass on a small table beside his chair.

Holland immediately reached for it and poured him another. ‘How long till you inherit?’

Bartholomew blinked. The directness of the man! ‘Sir, my father is old and frail. Only the Lord above knows how much longer he will live, but I would not expect it to be more than a couple of years.’

‘Until then, what’s your income?’

‘I have upwards of £800 a year from my investments. Your niece, should she accept me, will want for nothing.’ At least, he had been generating £800 a year from his investments, up until losing thousands when an East Indiaman had sunk off the Cape. Bartholomew drank again from his brandy glass.

‘Well, that’s settled then. I’ll ring for her to join us.’ Holland heaved himself out of his chair and pulled on a bell-cord which hung beside the fireplace.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I believe your footman said she was indisposed?’

‘Indisposed, my foot. She was dancing late at the Assembly Rooms last night with young Perry, and gave herself a headache. Fetch my niece,’ he said to Peters, who responded with a small bow. ‘Tell her she has an important visitor and I want her downstairs at once.’

Peters left the room. Holland nodded at Bartholomew’s glass, and raised his eyebrow. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, though Bartholomew, as he held out his glass for yet another refill. It was indeed a fine brandy.

A moment later there was a tap at the door. Bartholomew stood, straightened his collar and arranged a smile on his face to greet Georgia.

But when Holland called ‘Come!’ and the door was pushed open, it was Agnes, the maid, who stepped quietly into the room, her attitude deferential but at the same time, her head held high and confident.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Georgia is not well. She asks your forgiveness, and sends her apologies to Mr St Clair, but fears she cannot be in company for today.’ She gave a pretty curtsey, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘If it please you, sir, she says she would like to meet you after breakfast tomorrow, and if the weather be fine, perhaps take a stroll along the beach.’

She nodded, curtsied once more, and left the room, not waiting for an answer.

Bartholomew smiled. A fine woman, and one who, if he played his cards right, would soon be a part of his household.

‘Thought you’d be upset, man,’ said Holland. ‘Travelling all this way to see my niece, only for her to stay abed. Well, plenty more days I suppose. You need to supplant that young Perry in her affections. Give her some jewellery – the ladies always like that kind of thing.’

‘I am indeed sorry I cannot renew my acquaintance with Miss Holland this evening,’ said Bartholomew, sounding formal even to his own ears, as he struggled to compose himself. Why did that maid have such an effect on him every time he caught a glimpse of her? He’d barely said two words to the woman since he’d met her, but something about her made his pulse race. And if he was not mistaken, she was also attracted to him.

‘Well then, if my niece is not to join us for dinner, we may as well have another brandy. Hand me your glass, man, I’ll top it up.’

The following morning, it was a bleary-eyed Bartholomew who made his way down to the breakfast room. Thankfully the room was empty when he arrived. Peters informed him that Holland would not rise until eleven, and Georgia usually had breakfast brought up to her in her room. Bartholomew sat down to a plate of cold meat and cheese, and worked his way through a whole jug of coffee. When it was finished, he felt a little more ready to face the day. He resolved to be more careful the next time he was in company with Holland and the brandy decanter.

He had not yet seen Agnes, the maid, that morning, but his night had been disturbed by vivid dreams of her. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Georgia – it was she he was here to court – but it was Agnes’s face he saw in his mind’s eye, Agnes’s voice he heard, Agnes’s hands he imagined caressing him.

He shook his head. He had to pull himself together. Agnes was a maid, too lowly for him to consider as a wife. He needed a woman with status, and definitely one with money. He had to focus on Georgia. The two women were superficially alike – both were blonde with green eyes, slight figures and clear complexions – but Agnes had sharper features and a more knowing, worldly manner, whereas Georgia’s face was round and plump, and her attitude more like that of an overgrown child.

The sound of light footsteps on the stairs pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced out of the window; it was indeed a fine day. The breakfast room was at the front of the house, and there was a fine view across the promenade to the beach. High white clouds scudded across a brilliant blue sky, and the wind was whipping the sea into a frenzy of white water. He looked forward to a walk with Georgia. The fresh air would clear his head for certain.

He folded the newspaper he’d been reading, and went out to the hallway. The sun shining through the half-moon-shaped fanlight above the door made a dancing pattern on the tiles. Georgia was standing by the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the newel post, the other clutching a bonnet. She was wearing a pale green silk dress, trimmed with brown lace, and with her golden hair shining in the sunlight she looked like spring embodied. Without a doubt she was a pretty young thing.

‘Good morning!’ he said, giving a small bow. ‘I was sorry not to have the pleasure of your company last night, but your uncle made me most welcome. I trust you are fully recovered today?’

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling prettily. ‘Yes, I am perfectly well, thank you. And ready for some exercise, if you would care to walk with me?’

‘I can think of nothing I would like more. It is windy out – you will require a shawl, I think.’

‘I shall ask Agnes to fetch me one,’ she said, and she pulled the servants’ bell-cord.

Bartholomew felt the now-familiar surge in his chest at the thought of another glimpse of Agnes. But it was Peters who answered the bell, and was sent upstairs to fetch the shawl.

The wind was indeed strong, and Georgia slipped her small, gloved hand through his arm to steady herself as they walked eastwards along the promenade, with the wind at their backs. They nodded at other walkers. They must make a handsome couple, he supposed – Georgia with her blonde daintiness and tiny waist, he with his upright bearing, fine shoulders and bushy side-whiskers.

After a while, they approached the busy part of town, in front of the Regent’s Pavilion and the bottom end of the Old Steine gardens. Georgia proposed that they went onto the beach to walk back. It was rough going over the pebbles, and the wind sent a fine spray from the sea into their faces, but it was invigorating.

‘Marvellous place to live,’ Bartholomew said. ‘With this on your doorstep and the Assembly Rooms for entertainment, you have everything you could want.’

‘I suppose so,’ Georgia replied. ‘Though I confess I preferred living in the country. I only moved to Brighton after my father died, when Uncle Charles took me in.’

‘And how would you feel about living in London?’ he asked. If he married her, that would be where they would live, for that was where most of his property and business interests were.

She shuddered. ‘I should think it would be too big and brash for me. All those people, and so little space. At my father’s house in Lincolnshire I would go for long walks across the fields, seeing no one except a few farm labourers. It was blissful.’

He smiled. ‘I had you down as a party girl – I thought you enjoyed the excitement and glamour of the Assembly Rooms. You were there last night, were you not?’

‘My uncle insists I go to every ball. I missed having a proper coming out in London, as I was in mourning. But he is desperate to find me a husband. Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I should not be saying this to you. But I have always found you so easy to talk to.’

‘I am happy to listen, my dear Miss Holland.’

‘Oh, call me Georgia, do! You know, I quite think of you as another uncle – no, as a favourite uncle. Do you mind?’

He did mind; a favoured uncle was hardly the kind of man she would want to marry. But he laughed and shook his head. ‘Not at all, Georgia.’

‘Good!’ She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘May I ask your advice about something, please? It is perhaps a little personal, but it is the kind of thing a girl would talk to her favourite uncle about…’ She lifted her eyes to his.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Perhaps if he gained her confidences he would then be able to gain her affections.

‘It is about my marriage prospects,’ she said, blushing. ‘I – I think that I have some money held in trust, from the sale of my father’s property, and that when I marry my husband would be in control of that money. But I confess I have no idea how much it is. Am I rich, Mr St Clair? Am I a good marriage prospect for some eligible young bachelor? Oh, forgive me if I embarrass you with such talk!’

‘If I am to call you Georgia, you must call me Bartholomew. And no, you do not embarrass me. But I cannot answer you. I am afraid you must discuss this matter with your real uncle who is, I believe, a trustee of your estate as well as being your guardian. You are right: you should know what you are worth. Some men might court you only for your wealth, and not for yourself.’ He coughed.

‘But surely not Mr Perry,’ she said, blushing and turning away.

Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not acquainted with the gentleman of whom you speak.’

Georgia turned towards the sea and gazed at the horizon. ‘I have met him several times at the Assembly Rooms. He has called on me a few times in the afternoons. I believe he may propose to me.’

‘And will you accept?’

‘Oh, Bartholomew, I do not know! Do you think I should?’

‘Is he rich?’

‘He works for his father who is a wine merchant. I believe he owns a small house in Kemptown. But doesn’t love matter more than wealth?’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes, I think I do…’

Bartholomew thought hard. He needed to turn Georgia away from this Perry fellow, without also turning her away from him. He’d won her trust, and surely that went a long way as a foundation for a good marriage? Besides, he needed her inheritance. He needed to switch on his charm.

He stepped towards her and took her hands. ‘Georgia, my dear, although it sounds harsh, I do not think you should marry for love. You need to think of your future comfort. Think of the children you will have, and the kind of life you would like them to lead. If you marry this man Perry, you might have a couple of happy years to begin with, but then the realities of lower middle-class life would kick in. Could you really live in a small Kemptown house, having been used to your uncle’s substantial property? You would only be able to afford a minimum of servants – a cook perhaps, and a maid-of-all-work. You are used to having your own lady’s maid, and a very fine maid she is.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My advice, which you may not want to hear, is to be practical when it comes to marriage. Accept the best proposal you can get, from the richest man, who will be able to keep you in a manner which befits your class. Put thoughts of romantic love aside. As long as you respect and trust the man, and don’t find him wholly repulsive, you will be able to love him in time. Love grows, my dear. The enduring type rarely arrives fully formed.’

Georgia had kept her gaze fixed on the horizon for the first part of this speech, but now she looked deep into his eyes. ‘But where will I find such a man? No one else has made me a proposal, or indeed, shown any interest in me. And I know I am a burden to my uncle; the sooner I marry and move out of his house, the better, as far as he is concerned.’ She brushed away a tear. ‘Forgive me. If only my father were still alive, he would know what to do. I miss him so much.’

Bartholomew pulled out his silk handkerchief and gave it to her. ‘It is barely a year since he died, isn’t it? Of course you miss him still.’

He realised there was a chance for him here, if he played the game right. He watched as she dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief. ‘ I think I know what your father might have advised,’ he said, gently.

She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Please, tell me.’

‘Marry a man you like and trust, and who can provide a secure future for you. Someone who is already established in life, perhaps a little older than yourself. Someone of whom your uncle approves. Someone…well, someone like me.’

He watched as her eyes widened, and a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. ‘Do you mean to say…’

‘I do mean to say… I mean, Georgia, I would consider it an honour if you would agree to be my wife.’ Well, the words were out, the deed was done. If she said yes, there was no going back.

Her smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. ‘Bartholomew, I did not suspect you cared for me in that way! I am flattered, honoured, and, well… I suppose you want an answer…’ She turned away, gazing out to sea as though the answer would be brought to her on the crest of a wave.

‘You do not need to answer immediately, my dear. Take time to think about it, if you need to.’

She nodded, then turned back to him with a flirtatious smile. ‘You carried me once, along the promenade in the snow. That was fun. I cannot quite imagine Mr Perry doing such a thing.’

‘And is that the kind of behaviour you would like in a husband?’

‘I believe it is required behaviour in a husband.’ She held out her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers.

‘In that case,’ he said, hoisting her up into his arms as she squealed and giggled, ‘I shall demonstrate my suitability as a husband, and shall carry you down the beach.’

‘Not into the sea!’

‘What is your answer?’ He took another few steps towards the waves.

She squealed again ‘You said I could take time to think about it!’

‘You may think about it – in the sea!’ The waves were now lapping at his boots.

‘But my feet will get cold and wet!’

‘That did not bother you at New Year. Do you say yes?’

He made as if to drop her. She clung tightly to his neck, and, laughing, gasped out a yes.

His debts would be paid, his future secure. How easy it had been to influence her! She would make him a perfect wife. He held her more firmly, and bent his head to seal their agreement with a kiss.

‘Mr St Clair, Miss Georgia, is everything all right? Has something happened? Do you need any help?’

It was Agnes, clutching a shopping basket, her eyes wide with concern. Where had she appeared from? Had she followed them? How much had she overheard? Bartholomew stepped back from the water’s edge, and placed Georgia carefully on the bank of pebbles above the water line. He coughed, embarrassed.

‘Oh, Agnes, I am perfectly all right. You gave me quite a surprise, appearing like that. You mustn’t mind our larking about. I am so excited – I am engaged to be married to Mr St Clair!’ Bartholomew felt momentarily embarrassed by the way Georgia had blurted out their news, like an overexcited child.

‘Congratulations, I am sure,’ said Agnes. ‘You have torn your gown.’ She pointed to a seam at the bodice which had come away.

‘Oh!’ Georgia twisted to inspect the damage. ‘Well, never mind, you can mend it for me later.’

Agnes nodded curtly, then turned on her heel and walked up the beach, her head held high.

Bartholomew watched her go, his heart racing, his palms sweating. She’d had that effect on him, yet again. And had there been a touch of hurt, disappointment perhaps, in her eyes?

‘She fusses so,’ said Georgia. ‘She acts as though she’s my mother, although she is only a few years older than me. She says I am missing a woman’s influence in my life. My mother died when I was born, and Father never remarried. But never mind her – we are engaged, and you, sir, were about to kiss me, I do believe.’

‘I was indeed,’ he said, taking a step closer to claim the kiss. But Georgia picked up her skirts and ran off, along the beach, laughing like a child. Bartholomew grinned and shook his head. She was not much more than a child, he must remember that.

In the evening, having spoken to Charles Holland who’d readily agreed to the match, telling him it was about time, Bartholomew sat next to Georgia at dinner. All through the meal she flirted prettily with him, treating him to glittering smiles, laughing at his witticisms, and pressing her foot against his. Once she even put her hand beneath the table, on his knee. Bartholomew felt his desire for her increase – she may have acted like a young girl on the beach but now she seemed all woman. As the dinner drew to a close and the servants cleared away the dessert dishes, he longed to be alone with her; to get a chance to hold her and kiss her.

‘We’ll set your wedding date sooner rather than later, eh, St Clair? No sense making you wait longer than necessary to claim your bride.’

Bartholomew reddened. It was as though Holland had read his mind. He nodded, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I’d certainly like to marry as soon as possible.’

‘We’ll need to wait at least until the banns are read,’ she said.

‘Banns, my foot,’ said Holland. ‘St Clair’ll purchase a licence. He can get that in a day. We could have you married by the weekend.’

Georgia’s face fell. ‘Oh, but Uncle, but that’s too soon to arrange any celebrations, or buy any new clothes!’

‘He’s pulling your leg, my dear,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We’ll marry soon, but not quite as quickly as that. You shall have a new gown if you want one, and a bonnet, and petticoats, and anything else you desire. And for now, you shall have this.’ He pulled the box containing the hair ornament out of his pocket and handed it to her.

He watched as she opened the box and gasped at the comb. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight and reflected in her eyes.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘Quite the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. I shall wear it for my portrait, so that when I gaze upon it in future years I will always remember this day. In fact, I want to wear it at once. Ring for Agnes – without a mirror I can’t put it in by myself.’

Charles Holland smiled indulgently, and reached for the bell-pull. A moment later Agnes entered. Her eyes widened as she saw the comb.

‘A pretty piece, Miss Georgia. You are a lucky woman.’ She removed a plain tortoiseshell comb from Georgia’s hair, and replaced it with the emerald one. Her eyes flickered towards Bartholomew, as she tucked away a stray strand of hair. What was in those eyes? Jealousy? Of her mistress’s betrothal, of her comb, of her fiancé? Desire? For the comb, or for him? She was standing behind Georgia, so close to Bartholomew he could feel her warmth, smell her soap. His skin tingled, and he pressed his foot closer still to Georgia’s.

‘There, miss. Looks very nice.’ Agnes curtsied and left the room.

Bartholomew let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I am glad you like it, my dear. When we are married I shall take you to visit the man who made it, at the shop in Bond Street. He shall make you a brooch to match it.’

‘Watch it, St Clair. Don’t spend all your money on trinkets for her. Women are all the same, you know. They take your money, your youth and your vigour, and leave you an empty shell. Now then, Peters, where’s the brandy? Georgia, time you left us now. St Clair will be all yours soon – but for now, I want to enjoy his company for myself. You’ll join me for a brandy or two, I take it?’

‘Indeed I will,’ said Bartholomew, holding out his glass for Peters to fill. He turned to Georgia. ‘I shall see you in the drawing room later, my dear.’

Georgia pushed back her chair and stood, trailing her fingers over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep him too long, Uncle, please.’ She patted her hair comb and left the room.

‘I wasn’t joking about marrying her at the weekend,’ said Holland, as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘Sooner the better. I’ve enjoyed your company, but having that young filly about the place doesn’t suit my lifestyle. She had nowhere else to go, when my brother died. He’d appointed me guardian and trustee of her estate, but frankly, I want shot of the whole responsibility. First time I saw you I thought you’d be suitable for her. An older, more sensible kind of chap than the young pups just after her money. Someone of whom poor Francis would have approved. Glad she accepted you – could have been awkward otherwise, especially with that colt Perry sniffing around. You did well to move quickly. Here’s to a quick wedding and happy marriage.’

He raised his glass, and gulped the brandy down in one swallow. Bartholomew did the same. ‘She’ll be off your hands within a month,’ he promised. ‘I’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’

‘Where will you live?’

‘In my Mayfair house, I expect. Or if she wants to stay in Brighton I’ll take a lease on a house here.’

‘Take her to London. Women like being in the capital.’

He really didn’t know his niece well, thought Bartholomew, remembering how Georgia had told him how much she preferred the country.

‘Will you release Agnes Cutter? To come with Georgia, I mean?’ He hadn’t realised he was going to ask the question until it left his lips.

‘Hmm? Who’s Agnes Cutter?’

‘Georgia’s maid. I – I believe Georgia’s rather fond of her. If you can spare the girl, I will of course take over her employment…’

‘Oh, that one. Of course. Part of the package, you might say. Another brandy?’

It was several more brandies before Bartholomew could take his leave, and adjourn to the drawing room. Holland decided to retire, and after pouring himself a nightcap brandy he went upstairs to bed. Bartholomew went through to the drawing room where Georgia was sitting alone, sewing a sampler. She looked up and smiled when he walked in.

‘At last! I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come.’ She put down her sewing and stood to greet him.

‘I am sorry. Your uncle kept me talking a while. And now he has retired for the evening.’

‘No matter, I only wanted to see you.’

‘And I, you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. She held out her hands to him. He took them and drew her towards him. ‘Georgia, my dear, you have made me so happy by agreeing to be my wife. Let’s get married soon. Next month?’

‘In the summer,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I’d like a summer wedding, I think.’

He pulled her closer still, wrapping an arm about her waist. ‘I’m not sure I can wait so long, Georgia, darling. Why not a spring wedding?’ His head was swimming after the brandy, and her closeness was intoxicating. He bent his head towards hers, hoping to claim the kiss he’d been denied on the beach, earlier in the day.

But she pushed him away, with a giggle. ‘Bartholomew, I do believe you have had rather too much brandy. I think you had better go upstairs now.’

He considered pulling her back, forcing the kiss on her but a distant, more sober part of his mind told him not to. This was no casual affair, no street-corner hussy. This was the woman he’d chosen to be his wife and bear his children. The woman whose money would save him from a debtor’s prison. He must wait.

He let go of her and bowed. ‘I am sorry, and you are right. Good night. I shall look forward to seeing you in the morning.’

He left the room before he made even more of a fool of himself, and took the stairs two at a time. She was but a girl, he reminded himself. She’d had little experience of men. She was right to rebuff him, in the state he was in. Tomorrow he would not let Holland fill his brandy glass quite so frequently. Tomorrow, if he found himself alone with her, he’d claim his first kiss. If he acted more like a gentleman she wouldn’t refuse him. He would taste those sweet lips at last, smell her skin, feel that soft body pressed against his. And the wedding would be in spring, whether she liked it or not.

Upstairs he turned towards his bedchamber, which was at the end of a corridor, near the stairs which led on upwards to the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. As he reached his room, a rustle of petticoats made him turn, thinking Georgia had perhaps followed him up. But it was Agnes. She was carrying the green gown Georgia had torn on the beach. She stopped beside him.

‘Is everything all right, sir? Are you in need of anything, anything at all?’ There was a glint in her eye.

‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ he replied, stumbling slightly as he reached for his door knob. She caught hold of his elbow to steady him. A shudder jolted through him at her touch.

‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Wait, I will fetch you something to clear your head.’ She opened the door to the servants’ stairs and began to ascend.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Bartholomew followed. She glanced back, with an expression of mild surprise on her face which was quickly replaced by a half-smile. There was, if he was not mistaken, an invitation in that smile. He followed her to her room in the attic. She threw the dress she’d been carrying onto the narrow wooden bed, and began searching through a chest of medicine bottles which stood under the small window.

She chattered as she rooted through the box. ‘My mother is a herbalist. She taught me all the old remedies. And sir, believe me, they do work.’

At last she found the potion she’d been looking for and turned back to him.

‘Here. This will clear your mind a little, and stop your headache in the morning.’ As he took the bottle his fingers brushed hers, sending a sudden shock up his arm.

She was looking directly at him, that half-smile at the corners of her mouth, her eyes wide and bright. She felt it too, he was sure. She’d felt that jolt – she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He put the bottle down on the wash-stand, and stepped forward. She didn’t move. He put a hand to her cheek, and brushed it gently with his thumb. She turned her face towards his hand, nuzzling against it, and took his thumb in her mouth. All the while her eyes were on his.

He could stand it no longer. He pulled her roughly towards him and covered her mouth with his, kissing her fast and furious. She kissed him back, and snaked her hands around his back, under his jacket. He could feel the thrilling warmth of them through his shirt. He kissed her face, her neck, her throat where the coarse wool of her dress met her soft, soap-scented skin. He was mad with desire for her and pushed her backwards, towards her bed. She lay down, crushing Georgia’s gown, and drew him down on top of her. He tugged up her skirts as she reached for his trouser fastenings, and a minute later he was inside her, grunting and panting, thinking of nothing but the moment they were in, and her.

My dear Barty, it is at this point in my narrative that you will no doubt have begun to despise me. How could I, on the very day of proposing marriage to one woman, take another to bed? My defence, for what it’s worth, is merely that I was intoxicated by Agnes. When I was with her, with or without a gut full of brandy, I could not think clearly. I was at the mercy of my lustful feelings for her. She knew, I believe, that she had this hold over me. And she was as besotted by me at that time as I was by her, as she later confessed to me.

You might want, having read this far, to throw this manuscript down in disgust, and hear no more of your father’s indiscretions. But, my dear son, bear with me please, for you must know the truth. Steel yourself, Barty, for there is worse, far worse, to come. And some of it, I must write as though Agnes herself is telling the story. She was loyal to me, in those days, and told me everything, or at least, almost everything, that passed in private between her and Georgia.

Chapter Six: Hampshire, April 2013

The day we moved into Kingsley House was one of those bright blue April days, when the air is rich with birdsong, the sun shines with golden promise, and the hedgerows explode with blossom. The newly-unfurled leaves on the huge beech tree were an electric lime green, and the grass, in its first growth since the winter, rivalled them in intensity of colour. It almost made your eyes hurt to look out at the day.

The removal men whistled as they carried our furniture and cartons into the house. Lewis and Lauren were taking huge delight directing them – ‘Lounge!’ ‘My bedroom at the top!’ ‘Kitchen!’ – according to what was scrawled on the boxes in marker pen.

‘Can you put my curtains up, Mum?’ Lauren called down the stairs.

‘Dad, when are you going to plug in the telly? Deadly Sixty’s on, and I don’t want to miss it. They’re doing tarantulas this week.’ Lewis was apparently bored of directing removal men.

‘Katie, any sign of the box with the kettle in? I could so do with a cuppa,’ Simon said, as he staggered past me carrying two boxes at once.

‘Mind your back! Why are you shifting boxes anyway, aren’t we paying blokes to carry them in?’ I said.

‘These got put in the living room but they’re books, should be in the study,’ he said. ‘They’ll go on those big built-in shelves in there. Fabulous piece of carpentry, that. Wonder how old it is?’

I smiled. It was one of my favourite features in the house too. And if Simon was wondering about the age of it, it’d surely only be a matter of time before he started wondering about the people who used to live here…and then I’d be able to spend many happy hours filling him in. I still hadn’t mentioned the fact my ancestors had lived here.

‘I reckon it’s mid-Victorian, possibly even earlier,’ I said. ‘I’ve found the kettle but we’ve no milk or tea bags. Don’t suppose you’ve come across my laptop and genealogy research notes?’

‘Look in the fridge,’ he grunted, as he passed me again with another box marked BOOKS. They were mostly mine.

‘What?’ I went out to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Bless the Delameres, they’d left us a pint of milk, a plastic bag with a dozen teabags in, a bottle of orange squash and a packet of chocolate digestives. I pulled the kettle out of a box and turned on the kitchen tap to fill it. The water ran brown.

‘Hmph. Looks like we’ve inherited rusty iron piping,’ said Simon, looking over my shoulder.

I guessed the house would need new plumbing, then. I shrugged. It’s what you have to expect when buying an old house. I ran the tap for a minute until it cleared, filled the kettle, then searched for somewhere to plug it in. There was a single socket at worktop height, and a double beneath the table. When we refitted the kitchen we’d have to rewire and add plenty more sockets.

It wasn’t long before the van was unloaded, the removal men tipped and gone, and we were left amid a sea of cardboard boxes. Thank goodness this was such a large house: there was still space to move around the boxes and shift furniture. We made the kids’ rooms habitable then headed into the village centre for an evening meal at the local pub, the White Hart. It was just a five-minute walk up the lane. The pavement was narrow and I was thankful Thomas no longer needed to sit in a pushchair.

‘Great idea, this,’ said Simon, as he sat down with his pint. ‘I’d thought we’d get a takeaway but it’s so nice to escape the chaos for a couple of hours.’

‘Agreed. Well, here’s to our new life in North Kingsley!’ I raised my glass of Pinot Grigio and clinked it against his Guinness. Lauren and Lewis picked up their glasses of Coke and clinked too, while Thomas put his thumb in his mouth and cuddled up beside me. Although he was four, he was still very much our baby and tended to act it, especially when he was tired.

I gave him a hug. ‘Aw, as soon as we’ve had dinner we’ll go home and I’ll read you a story and put you to bed, sweetie.’

‘Our proper home?’ He gazed up at me with wide, worried eyes.

‘Our new home. You’ve got your own lovely bedroom now. No more sharing with Lewis.’

Wrong thing to say. He still looked worried and his lower lip began to tremble. ‘I don’t want to sleep on my own. That house is scary. There might be ghosts.’

‘You can sleep in my room tonight,’ said Lewis. ‘Can’t he, Mum? Just till we get used to the new house.’

I smiled at my lovely thoughtful eleven-year-old. ‘Yes, of course he can. It’ll be strange for all of us tonight. But we’ll feel better in the morning when we’re not so tired.’

We’d sold our Southampton house to a buy-to-let investor, who’d made us an offer during the twins’ birthday party back in February; we’d negotiated the sale price while a horde of pre-teens ran riot having a balloon fight around us. There was no chain, so we’d been able to move on a day which suited us. The survey on Kingsley House had been worrying at first glance, but all it said when you boiled it down was that the house was old, and had the kind of problems you’d associate with old houses. Simon dismissed it as a waste of money, declaring he could have written it himself without ever having seen the house. Our removal company had packed for us earlier in the week, and had turned up at eight am to load up the van. It had been a very long day. No wonder poor Thomas was so tired and tearful.

The food arrived, and we all tucked in to battered cod and chips, burgers for the kids, followed by steaming treacle pudding and custard. Perfect comfort food, and it hit the spot quickly. Soon the children were laughing together; Lauren was telling whispered stories about the grizzled old men who were sitting on bar stools clutching pints of real ale, making Thomas giggle uncontrollably. It was good to hear.

‘Looks like a pretty old pub, this one,’ said Simon, gazing around at the low beamed ceiling, dark wood panelling and stone window seats.

‘I like it, it’s got character.’ I wondered whether Bartholomew or his father William had ever sat in this pub. Probably not, they’d been too high up the social scale to drink in the local hostelry. But Barty, at least in his later years, had certainly frequented this place. Vera Delamere had told me as much, recalling the village gossip about him.

Across the room, screwed to a wall beside the bar, was an old map. I got up to go and inspect it. It showed the village as it was in 1852. It was much smaller then: the railway had only just reached North Kingsley and none of the housing estates had been built. I picked out the High Street, with the White Hart pub clearly marked. Following the road out of the village centre I found our house, surrounded then by outbuildings and stables, with far more land than I’d imagined.

‘Come and look at this,’ I called to Simon.

He came over, with the remains of his pint, and peered at the map. ‘Wow, is that our house? Look at all the land it had then. Shame it’s all been sold off. I wouldn’t have minded a huge garden. Could have bought a ride-on mower.’ He put on a wistful expression. ‘Always wanted a ride-on mower, you know. Ah well, next house…’

I gave him a gentle thump on the arm. ‘I’m not moving again, Simon. Well, not until it’s time to downsize, like the Delameres. This is our forever home, as the estate agents put it.’

Simon gulped down the last of his beer. ‘Nothing’s forever, Katie, but right now I’m certainly not in a hurry to move again. Well, I think we’d better get young Thomas to bed before he implodes. Good of Lewis to let him share his room for tonight.’

‘I suspect Lewis wants the company too,’ I said.

We gathered up children, coats and Nintendos, and set off to walk the couple of hundred yards to our house. Simon hoiked Thomas onto his back, and the other two kids skipped ahead. I wondered how long it would take for them to get to sleep tonight – they were still buzzing with excitement about their new home.

‘Hey, look,’ said Simon, pointing to a small turning. ‘Stables Close. That’s where the stables which once belonged to our house must have stood.’

‘Did we once have stables, Dad? Does that mean I can have a pony?’ Lauren asked.

‘Only if you go back in time, love,’ Simon said.

Lewis grinned. ‘That would be cool, going back to the olden days.’

We reached the front door. I pulled out my key, slotted it into the lock and turned it. It gave the satisfying click of a well-oiled mechanism, and the door swung open with a low creak. I flicked the hall light switch on, and sighed with happiness.

Simon grinned at me as he pushed past and climbed the stairs, Thomas still clinging to his back. ‘Good to be home, eh, Katie?’

Oh yes. So very good to be home. To think this wonderful old house, with all its layers of history, some of it my family’s history, was now ours. I offered up a silent promise to the ghosts of residents past that we’d respect their memory and the house as we brought it back to life.

The twins started their new school the next day, and Simon was back at work. I dropped Lewis and Lauren off at the local primary they would attend for just one term before moving on to the comprehensive, then drove home with Thomas and began the mammoth task of unpacking. Thomas was surprisingly helpful; so were the twins when they came home buzzing about their new school. We made good progress, not helped at all by Simon returning home late, tired and grumpy.

‘Christ, Katie, there’s boxes and paper everywhere! Could you not have flattened them as you went along, or put them out in the garage? I can barely move in this hallway.’ He kicked an empty box to make his point. It knocked against a small table, sending the telephone tumbling to the floor.

‘For goodness sake, Simon!’ I bent to pick up the phone and put it back in its base unit. ‘I’ve been busy all day unpacking. Kitchen’s done, so are the bedrooms.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. If we can just get these boxes out of the way so we can move around the house…’

‘Feel free. I’m knackered, and am doing nothing more tonight.’ I glared at him, daring him to suggest I do it now. ‘And why are you so late home anyway? I was hoping you’d get back a bit earlier today, so you could help. It’s gone eight, already.’

‘I had a five o’clock meeting. And it’s still an hour on the train, plus twenty minutes either side. What’s for dinner?’

‘We had lasagne and chips. There’s some lasagne left, I could microwave it for you.’

‘Reheated pasta – yuk. After my long day in the office.’

‘Either that or a sandwich. Which you can make yourself.’ I turned on my heel and went upstairs before he could see the tears in my eyes. I was just tired, I knew. But why had he agreed to work late on the first day in our new house?

‘Why’s Dad cross?’ asked Lewis as I got to the top of the stairs.

‘He’s tired. So am I. And it’s your bed time.’

‘All right, sorry, Mum. I was just coming down to tell you Thomas is crying.’

I’d spent an hour reading him stories and cuddling him to sleep earlier, so this wasn’t welcome news. I sighed and went in to him.

‘What’s up, sweetheart?’ I said, crouching down on the floor beside his makeshift bed.

‘Lewis is being too noisy. I can’t sleep.’

I kissed his forehead. ‘I’ll tell him to be quiet. He’s coming to bed now anyway.’

‘And I can’t find White Ted.’

I could sympathise with that. My laptop and folders were still unaccounted for. White Ted was probably in the still-sealed box of cuddly toys in a corner of Thomas’s room, but I really didn’t feel up to rummaging through it right now. But if I didn’t, who would?

‘I’ll find him. You snuggle down now and I’ll be back with him soon.’ My knees groaned as I stood up and crossed the landing to Thomas’s room. Ripping open the box I up-ended it in the middle of the floor. It could be sorted out tomorrow. Thankfully White Ted turned up among the assorted cuddlies, and I picked him up gratefully.

Simon appeared at the doorway. ‘Sheesh, is that the way you unpack? No wonder the house is such a tip.’ He grinned – it was clearly meant to be a joke, but I wasn’t in the mood. I glared at him.

‘Aw, love, let’s not argue. Sorry I was narky when I came in,’ he said, crossing the room to give me a hug. I leaned against him for a moment, enjoying the comfort but not quite wanting to forgive him yet, then went to give White Ted to Thomas.

On Saturday, after homework and an exploratory walk with me around the village, the children spent the afternoon reorganising and playing in their rooms while I did some housework. Simon had gone to visit his mother in the Southbourne nursing home where she now lived.

‘How was your Mum?’ I asked Simon when he returned home in the early evening.

He sighed, and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Recognising the signs of a tough day, I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Pinot Grigio I’d put in there to chill, ready for this moment. I poured him a generous glass. The kids were happily snuggled up in the sitting room, watching a Disney DVD.

‘Thanks, love.’ He took a swig, then sat, glass held in both hands, staring at a spot on the table. I waited. It had been six months since I last saw Veronica, and if I was being honest, I’d say I wouldn’t mind if I never saw her again. We hadn’t taken the children to see her for nearly a year. It’s not that we didn’t love her – it’s just that visiting her had become so stressful and upsetting for all involved.

‘Mum was, I guess, worse than last time.’ Simon took another gulp of his wine. I sat down beside him, ready to listen, if he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t always.

‘Did she know you?’

‘Sort of. She thought I was Dad. Funnily enough, that’s easier than when she thinks I’m a complete stranger. At least I can talk to her then, without her calling the nursing staff to get me ejected from her room.’

I rubbed his shoulder in sympathy, but he shrugged my hand away.

‘She talked about her younger days. When she’d first met Dad, and they played at the same tennis club. How he’d asked to walk her home, and she’d said yes, then led him the long way round so as to spend more time in his company.’ Simon smiled. ‘Luckily I knew that story – it was one they always told – so I was able to chip in at the right moments. We had a bit of a laugh about it.’

‘Well, that was nice, at least.’ God, it must be so hard. Simon lost his father to cancer twelve years ago, and now he was losing his mother to dementia. All that was left of her was these occasional snippets of old memories, washed up like flotsam. We’d had to move her into a nursing home eighteen months earlier, when she’d stopped letting her carers into her home, thinking they’d come to rob her. A year ago she stopped recognising me and the children. Five months ago she didn’t know who Simon was, and he’d come home that day and sobbed on my shoulder like a little boy.

He still visited her every fortnight, making the long drive down to the Dorset coast, spending ten minutes or three hours with her depending on whether his presence upset her or not. We’d explained her illness to the older children, who’d taken it in their stride, the way children do. Little Thomas didn’t even remember her when we showed him a photo of himself as a baby, sitting on her lap. Simon had pressed his lips together and turned his face away. The idea that our youngest would grow up knowing only one set of grandparents pained him, I knew.

He refilled his wine glass, took a sip, then a deep breath, and looked at me. ‘She also talked about how she’d never been able to have children, how she and Dad decided on adoption. And about the day they collected me from the children’s home. She still thought I was Dad, and went through the whole story, saying do you remember, Peter? do you remember? And of course I do remember it, but from an entirely different point of view.’

‘But you’ve heard her talk about that day before, love,’ I said.

‘Yes, but on those occasions she knew I was there. Today she thought I was Dad, and was talking as though I, Simon, her adopted son, wasn’t present.’

I scanned Simon’s face for clues as to what she’d said, how he’d taken it. He looked drawn, the way he always looks after visiting Veronica. But was he more upset by her stories this time? Had she said something distressing? Before she was ill she’d always talked about that day with warmth and affection. The chubby blond four-year-old running full pelt into the hallway of the children’s home in pursuit of the resident cat, and stopping abruptly when he saw her and Peter standing there in their coats and hats. His formal greeting, parroting what he’d been taught: Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Smiff. His shy smile when Veronica told him he could now call her Mummy, and Peter, Daddy. The wondrous moment when he first slid his warm, sticky hand into hers, as they led him outside to their car and his new life.

‘What did she say that was different?’ I asked, as gently as if he was still that shy little four-year-old.

‘She spoke about her fears that it wouldn’t work out, that I might change their relationship and not for the better, that despite all the visits they’d had with me before it became official she might find it all too much and have to send me back. I never heard her say anything like that before. I’d always grown up being told that I was special because they chose me. That their life wasn’t complete until I joined the family.’

He took another gulp of his wine. His eyes sparkled. My big strong rugby-playing husband, close to tears. We might have had our ups and downs lately, but seeing him like this broke my heart.

‘Katie, it hurt, you know? To hear that she’d thought they might have to send me back. Even now, after all these years.’

‘She didn’t know what she was saying.’

‘She did. She just didn’t know who she was saying it to.’

I rubbed his shoulder. I didn’t know what I could say to comfort him. ‘Perhaps you should stop visiting her. It wouldn’t hurt her, she wouldn’t even realise anything had changed.’

‘It’s my duty. She’s got no one else.’

‘But it just upsets you. I hate to see you like this. And it’s not even as if she’s your real m—’

Whoops. Wrong thing to say, or nearly say. Simon glared at me. ‘She’s my mum, Katie. She, and no one else.’ He knocked back the rest of his wine and stood up decisively. ‘Well. Enough of that. Where are our gorgeous children?’

‘Sitting room, watching Jungle Book.’

‘Great, I love that film! Mind if I join them while you’re making dinner?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but sashayed off across the hallway, singing something about the bare necessities of life. I heard Thomas squeal ‘Daddy, Daddy!’, ticklish giggles from Lauren, and the clap of a high-five, ‘Yo, Dad!’ from Lewis.

The next day, Sunday, was grey and rainy. There was no hope of going out anywhere, so we decided to get on with the unpacking. There were still piles of boxes in the corners of rooms, waiting to be sorted out. Some boxes contained things like photo albums, outgrown toys and old school books. Those would go in the loft above Lauren’s room as soon as we’d installed a loft ladder. That was the only part of the house we’d not yet explored. The hatch was sealed shut and Simon didn’t want to open it up yet. ‘Time enough,’ he’d said. ‘Plenty to sort out down here before we venture up there. Right then, what shall we tackle today?’

‘The study,’ I said. ‘Let’s unpack the books and files, and fill up those shelves. I’ll give them a dust and polish first while you get the kids settled doing something.’ I hoped my family tree research folders would turn up somewhere amongst the books.

I made us a cup of tea, then went back to the study armed with a damp cloth, dusters and polish. The shelves and cupboards needed a thorough clean before we could put anything onto them. The wood was dark with age, with a deep patina from centuries of beeswax. Walnut, perhaps, I thought. I pulled open the fold-down desk where Veronica had put the tea tray on my first visit, and reached deep inside with my damp cloth to get the dirt out of the corners.

‘That’s funny,’ I said.

Simon looked up from the box he was opening. ‘What?’

‘The panel at the back inside the desk is loose. Oh!’

I’d pushed on one side, and the panel had opened up. I bent down and peered inside. There was a small drawer behind, made of the same walnut wood but looking less aged. It had a tiny metal ring as a handle. I gently pulled on it but it didn’t move.

‘It’s stuck.’

‘Let me look,’ said Simon, and I moved out of the way. He gave a tug, and then joggled the drawer from side to side to free it up. Gradually he eased it out of its slot.

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