Chapter Twenty-four
IT WAS MISTY when Hetty set off for Courtbridge House, and far later than she’d intended. The St Martin’s summer had been replaced by frosty mornings and chilly nights. Fires were being lit in the hotel now, and although there were still leaves on the trees, drifts of them were heaped at the sides of the roads, like soggy cornflakes.
She’d dressed carefully, glad that the change in the weather had justified a new pair of boots and an elegant woollen skirt. She wanted to erase from Connor’s mind her grubby, décolleté boiler suit and smelly wellington boots.
She took the journey slowly, glad she’d arranged to stay with Caroline and wouldn’t have to drive back until the following afternoon. It was early evening when she finally arrived.
The first thing she saw that was different was a notice on the gate saying CLOSED UNTIL EASTER. She remembered her horror when she discovered that the house opened at all. It seemed such a long time ago now.
Connor appeared as she was opening the gate. He didn’t hug her, but his eyes had a burning quality that made her heart lurch.
‘You’re late.’ He closed the gate behind her and opened her car door.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said as she got out. ‘Last-minute crisis. I did ask someone to ring and say I would be.’ She felt desperately shy and unsure how to greet him. If he’d been anyone but Connor she would have kissed him. ‘Where are the dogs?’
‘Come and see.’ He took her hand and led her towards the house. The dogs rushed up the moment they heard her footsteps. She crouched down to submit to the onslaught of licking, yipping and love. She embraced them both, laughing and trying to avoid their warm, dry tongues. ‘It’s lovely to see you, darlings, but it’s your Uncle Samuel I’ve really come to see.’
‘Oh, he’s not in,’ said Connor. ‘Phyllis and he have gone somewhere for the day.’
‘But I’ve come all this way to see him!’ Heaven forbid that Connor should think she’d come to see him.
He shrugged. ‘You’re staying the night, aren’t you? You can see him tomorrow.’
‘But I have to leave early.’
‘You’ve only just arrived, Hetty. Don’t worry about leaving yet. Come and see Clovis, he’s in the kitchen.’
‘That hasn’t changed, then.’
But the kitchen had – beyond recognition. It appeared at first sight to be a perfect period restoration.
‘Goodness me!’ Hetty heaved Clovis on to her shoulder so he could feel near her but not breathe over her. ‘I’d hardly know the place!’
‘Do you like it? This is what Phyllis describes as a “working display kitchen”. What she means is she can fool the public into thinking people actually cook in here.’
‘But don’t they? It seems a shame. It’s so lovely.’
‘Don’t gush. You sound like Caroline.’
The tat had been replaced by good, solid pieces of furniture. The Formica cupboards with rotting bottoms had been replaced by Peter’s handiwork. Shiny copper and brass pans hung from hooks: a Scotch airer hung above the range and from that hung a selection of suspiciously well-ironed glass-cloths and tea-towels. They were there, Hetty could tell at a glance, for show. Heaven help the poor sap who used one.
‘I don’t believe it! That’s a fake armoire, with wire netting! Not very authentic for an English country kitchen!’
‘That,’ said Connor, making it clear what he thought of the idea, ‘is how it gets to be a “working” kitchen. A bloody great piece of furniture with nothing but knick-knacks in it.’
‘So you don’t cook in here then? Look, a combination hob! Very posh.’
‘I prefer to cook in Samuel’s barn most of the time. It’s purely functional.’
‘So what else has been going on since I’ve been away?’
Connor took her on a tour of the house, the dogs fussing at their heels. Nothing else had changed as dramatically as the kitchen, but there were improvements everywhere. The house had lost much of the gentlemanly shabbiness it had had when she had first arrived, but it was still as beautiful.
‘Show me Samuel’s barn,’ she said, after dawdling in the great hall, unwillingly remembering times spent singing there with Connor. ‘I’m dying to see it.’
Connor hesitated, as if he realized there was more to Hetty’s wish to get away from the hall than just curiosity to see the barn.
‘You did convert it, didn’t you? You haven’t got Samuel locked in a cellar somewhere?’
He frowned slightly at her glibness, then he led the way across the yard while the dogs ran ahead. Hetty attempted a few light-hearted remarks as they walked, but after the first few she dried up. She was finding her turbulent emotions harder and harder to contain.
She’d thought it would be all right, coming to Courtbridge for a visit. But she hadn’t known she would be alone with Connor, or she might have listened to the unspecified ‘they’ and kept away. There was too much unfinished, unspoken business between them – business better left unfinished.
‘This is wonderful!’ Hetty was grateful to be able to sound and feel so sincere in her praise as they inspected the barn. ‘It’s perfect. Peter has done a good job.’
‘It’s mostly maple. It’s a light wood and looks nice with the stone walls.’
‘It must have cost a fortune!’ A second later Hetty wished she hadn’t said that. It was vulgar and confrontational. ‘I mean –’
‘I know what you mean, Hetty. You mean, it must have cost a fortune. And it did. The wide doorways, the ramps, the low sinks. It was expensive. But I thought once Samuel dies, we could let it to people with disabilities.’ He scowled down at her. ‘At a vastly inflated rate, of course. To ensure I get my money back.’
Hetty wanted to kick herself. ‘I didn’t mean that! It’s just –’
‘Just what? I wish you’d say what you mean for once in your life.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, lame but sincere.
‘Now, there’s something else I want to show you. You stay here, dogs. You,’ he put his hand on her shoulder, ‘come with me.’
It was the coach-house. He led her up the stone steps that went up the side of the building and let her inside.
It was beautiful. But where she’d imagined two rooms – small, but ideal for a holiday home – he had one vast space. It had a light, varnished-wood floor with rugs. There was little furniture but what there was fitted in with the simplicity of the decor. Thick cream-coloured curtains swept the floor. There was concealed lighting somewhere, which gave the impression of sun coming from every window. Two huge sofas were drawn up to a woodburning stove at one end. Its doors were open and some sweet-smelling logs still glowed faintly within its depths.
Connor piled on more logs. ‘Just in time. It gives out quite a lot of heat, but there are radiators too.’
Hetty had noticed them. ‘But what about a staircase? Or are people going to have to use the outside steps?’
‘Here.’ Behind a wooden wall she hadn’t noticed at first was a door, which led to a flight of wooden steps that mirrored the ones on the outside of the building. ‘The kitchen’s downstairs. Come and see it.’
He led the way down the steps, not giving Hetty a chance to ask about the bathroom or the bedroom, which she guessed must be where they had talked about it going, that life-time ago.
The kitchen was tiny, ergo-dynamic and modern, well-lit and practical. Every inch was used. There was a specially narrow dishwasher and fridge. A combination hob slotted in beside a section of slate, presumably for hot pans. Next to that was a shallow porcelain sink, full-sized, but set end-on, to save more space. There was an oven somewhere, and Connor pulled out what looked like a drawer to create an extra working surface. There was also a satisfyingly deep window-sill, which had pots of basil and coriander on it. It was as different from the Courtbridge House kitchen as possible.
‘So, what do you think?’ There was a certain tension in his attitude.
‘It’s – amazing. Did Peter design it, or did you get someone in?’
‘I designed it. Peter built it.’
Hetty was impressed. ‘And have you been living here?’
Connor nodded. ‘I sold my flat in London.’ If he’d been anyone else, she would have thought he looked a bit shamefaced. ‘It’s handy for Samuel. He has a buzzer he can press if he wants me. And I can’t stand living in the house when it’s open to the public.’
‘But Connor, think of the rent you could be getting for this. It would be perfect for honeymoon couples.’
‘It wasn’t ready for this season.’
‘But you could let it out over Christmas. You could charge anything you like. It’s such a perfect love-nest, with the wood-burning stove and things.’ She coughed suddenly, as she realized she was expressing her own dreams out loud. ‘How are you going to pay for it, if you don’t let it?’ she added, and instantly wished she hadn’t.
Connor scowled. ‘Because, Miss Money-Grubber, we’d get much more if we let the big house, for people who want to bring their whole families together for a traditional country Christmas in a stately home. And Samuel and I do have to live somewhere.’
Hetty sighed and looked out of a tiny slit window, which was set in the thickness of the stone. The huge chestnut tree in the yard had long since lost its leaves, and now its branches were tearing about in a wild semaphore, no doubt telling her to shut up and mind her own business.
‘I’m sorry, Connor,’ she said, still staring at the tree. ‘I had no right to say that. It’s none of my business any more.’
He came up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder.
‘It’s OK. I only just thought of that Christmas thing, because you challenged me. Yet again.’
What did he mean? They’d always argued, but surely she hadn’t challenged him? But she didn’t dare turn round and ask him, in case he read her feelings and didn’t return them. He was being very nice to her, but that was probably just remorse, for having been so angry with her before.
‘It’s a good idea, though.’
‘Yes – I’m becoming quite the ideas man, now you’re not here. Now, you go upstairs and sit by the fire while I go and start the potatoes.’
‘But I’m having dinner with Caroline!’
He shook his head slowly. ‘She had to go out this evening. But she will be in later, if you want to stay the night with her.’
‘But I was going to spend the evening with her! That was what was planned!’
‘Why don’t you ring her? The phone’s upstairs, by the window. I’ll bring us some drinks when I’ve put the potatoes on.’
Confused, Hetty trotted upstairs and found the phone. She dialled the number, prepared to ask some penetrating questions about the morality of setting up her friend without consulting her. Caroline answered remarkably quickly.
‘Hi! Hetty! Where are you?’
‘In the coach-house. Caroline –’
‘It’s to die for, isn’t it? Straight out of a mag, only nicer. That man’s got taste.’
‘It’s a love-nest, Caroline.’
‘Nothing wrong with that, is there? Are you going to sleep with him?’
‘I came to visit Samuel and found myself set up for a night of passion!’
‘That’s all right, isn’t it? You still love him, don’t you?’
Hetty lowered her voice, in case Connor could hear. ‘Yes, but I’ve no idea how he feels about me. For all I know he still hates me for what I did to his car. He hasn’t so much as kissed me.’
‘Then kiss him! And as for hating you, you know what they say about it being the next best thing to love?’
‘Caroline, you’re impossible!’
‘No, just manipulative. And romantic. If he wants to wine and dine you, let him. And if you don’t want to sleep with him, he’s not going to force you, and you can come here. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s a really good film just starting. Byee.’
Hetty regarded the receiver with hurt surprise, and was still holding it when Connor appeared with a tray.
‘So what did Caroline say?’
‘That there was a really good film starting.’
‘So you’re staying then?’ Connor turned away, so Hetty couldn’t see if he was pleased or sorry.
‘For supper, yes.’
‘Good. Now,’ he handed her a glass, ‘whisky, and something to eat.’ He handed her a plate with some water biscuits spread with hummus. ‘Come by the fire. The sofa’s very comfortable.’
Hesitantly she moved from the austerity of the stool by the telephone to the downy luxuriance of the sofa. ‘Oh. It’s a sofa-bed!’ She smoothed her hand over it, glad she’d found something positive to say. ‘You could put another couple up in here, if you wanted to.’
‘I suppose so. I can’t see myself wanting to, though.’
‘Of course, I haven’t seen the bedroom yet. You may have put bunks in it.’
‘I haven’t. Just the one bed.’
He sat down next to her – unnecessarily, as there was a perfectly good sofa the other side of the fire. They sipped in silence. Then they both started to speak at once. ‘What were –’ she began, but stopped abruptly.
‘Sorry, do go on,’ said Connor.
‘No, you. I was only going to ask what the visitor numbers were in the end.’
He looked at her in bemusement. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. You’d have to ask Phyllis.’
‘So, what were you going to say?’
‘I was going to ask you if you knew Jack and Caroline are thinking about having a baby?’
She took a sip of her whisky. She did, but if she told him that it would leave them without a topic of conversation again. ‘It takes more than thinking, doesn’t it?’
‘I expect they do that anyway. I’m just wondering how Courtbridge House will do without its Events Manager.’
She lowered her glass, horrified lest all this buttering up was because he wanted her to come back and work. ‘Are you offering me a job?’
‘Good God no!’ He was equally horrified. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
Hetty shrugged, hurt and relieved at the same time. ‘I just wondered why you brought the subject up, if you didn’t have an ulterior motive.’
‘Just making conversation. You wouldn’t be nearly as good at it as Caroline. You don’t have her brass neck. Nor her contacts.’
‘I’m sure I could develop a brass neck and contacts.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Not particularly, no.’
‘Then don’t. More whisky?’
‘No thanks. I’ve got to drive to Caroline’s.’
He got up, presumably to fetch the whisky. ‘She’s not expecting you early.’
‘I thought she was expecting me for dinner? She told me yesterday she was going to make chocolate mousse. My favourite.’
‘She made the mousse. It’s in the fridge.’
An excited panic enveloped her. If only she thought he loved her, she would have been ecstatic. ‘Oh.’
‘You don’t have to stay the night or anything. I’ve got a key if Caroline’s gone to bed. I just wanted to give you dinner.’
‘Well, you can. But why are you so keen to give it to me?’
‘Well, not because I think you’re likely to die of malnutrition.’
‘Why then?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. Conversation isn’t exactly pouring from us now. How are we going to keep it up for another four hours or so?’
‘My trouble is, I’m really better at shouting than communicating. Perhaps we should have another drink.’
‘Do you think it’ll help?’
‘It might.’
‘Then go ahead. I can’t, but don’t let me stop you.’
‘But I’ve got a really nice bottle of wine to go with dinner.’
‘I shouldn’t have had the whisky. I can’t have any more.’
‘You could stay the night.’ There was nothing in his expression to give her any hint of an ulterior meaning.
‘On the sofa?’
‘Wherever you like. Courtbridge House has seven bedrooms fit for habitation.’
‘Seven? There must have been some clearing out done. Which rooms are bedrooms now?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Please let me. The other one wasn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘I just want you to know that you can stay. Without obligation,’ he added.
‘What about Caroline?’
‘Ring and tell her you’re staying the night.’
Hetty couldn’t think what she should do. If she told Caroline she was staying the night she was committed to doing so. ‘You could drive me to Caroline’s?’
He shook his head. ‘I had a drink before you came.’
So much for not putting pressure on her to stay. ‘If you were a gentleman, you’d’ve abstained.’
‘If the moon was made of green cheese, pigs might fly. I am not, never have been, or never will be, a gentleman.’ He looked down. ‘You know that perfectly well.’
She knew nothing of the sort, but agreed with him anyway. ‘I suppose so.’
‘So, do I open the wine, or what?’
‘I could take a taxi to Caroline’s.’
He got up. ‘You could.’
‘One of the Brownie fathers has a taxi.’
‘Naturally. I should think Caroline could produce her own Yellow Pages consisting entirely of Brownie dads.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased. I give us a solution to the problem and you go all grumpy. Not hard for you, of course.’
He leant his arm against the piece of maple above the stove which acted as a mantelpiece. ‘You can’t expect me to be pleased. I’ve planned a particularly good dinner to give you and all you can think about is going. Not very flattering.’
‘If you want flattery you’ve asked the wrong girl to dinner.’
‘I don’t want flattery, and I’ve asked the right girl. The trouble is, now I’ve got her here, I don’t know how to handle her.’
Handle – that sounded encouraging. ‘Oh?’
‘She’s not my usual type. I usually go for sophisticated blondes. I don’t love them, and they don’t love me. It suits us both. When I leave, we neither of us have any regrets.’ He paused. ‘But when I am away from you, I regret every minute.’
Hetty bit her lip as she frantically tried to work out the subtext and failed. ‘Should we order the taxi now?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Come with me.’
Hetty knew she should feel relieved that he didn’t declare his intention to carry her off to bed the moment they’d finished the chocolate mousse. Indeed, she felt disappointed.
Fortunately, this rogue emotion was blown away by the wind that hit them the moment they left the coach-house. He held her hand and pulled her across the yard into the main house.
‘I wonder if that piece of string is still holding the loo together,’ she said. ‘I must go and see.’
Hetty took the opportunity to run her fingers through her hair and make sure her mascara hadn’t fallen off.
Connor waited impatiently until she emerged, then he took her to the great hall, and switched on the lights. ‘Better, don’t you think?’
‘Mmm. Much more atmospheric. Did you do it?’
He nodded. ‘Neither Phyllis nor Peter seem to care much about lighting.’
Hetty shot him a teasing glance. ‘You’re really quite artistic for a – whatever you are.’
‘I’m a civil engineer.’
Hetty snorted rudely. ‘Engineer, maybe.’
He scowled and opened the piano. ‘I bet you haven’t had a good sing for ages.’
He started playing and, after a moment, Hetty realized it was one of her favourite songs. Unfortunately its words were about as politically incorrect as they could be. She’d always refused to sing it with him before.
Now, because of the whisky, and for want of anything better, she found herself humming along to Gershwin’s music, and, gradually, the words of ‘A Woman is a Sometime Thing’ emerged from her mouth, reluctantly at first. Then she managed to forget she was a white female with feminist leanings and let the music carry her away.
Having broken the ice, Connor led her through all her favourites and, as her voice freed itself, so did her inhibitions. They may not be able to communicate in the normal way, but they were good at this.
They sang for about half an hour, after which Hetty was exhausted, not having breathed properly since the last time they had sung together, at the ruby wedding. Then Connor looked at his watch. ‘Come on. I must see about dinner. But first, there’s one last thing I want you to see.’