“Why don’t I give you the tour?” Genevieve said. “I lead them myself sometimes, when we’re particularly busy or we’re understaffed.”
I was about to say I wanted to get back to London, but Jayne squealed in delight. “That would be so fabulous. Yes. I mean, is that okay, Gemma? We’re not in a hurry, are we?”
“Sure,” I said. “We have time before we have to catch our train.”
If you’ve seen one English country estate dating from the eighteenth century, you’ve seen them all. And I have. But I patiently followed Genevieve around as she showed off her home to Donald and Jayne. The ancestral portraits in the great hall looked to be modern reproductions, and the suit of armor guarding the doors to the morning room likely came from a theatrical costuming department. Some of the furniture, the dining room chairs in particular, appeared to have been given a few knocks with a hammer and had a patina of age recently applied. But the ancient wood and the great blocks of stone of the house itself, along with the beveled windows on the ground floor, were original. As was the enormous tapestry, faded and tattered with age, in the dining room, and the twisting spiral staircase in the oldest part of the house, leading up to the turret room at the top, which Jayne particularly delighted in.
This late in the season, the gardens were not at their best, but they were still beautiful in the soft light of the autumn sunshine. Visitors took selfies or posed for family pictures in front of the statuary or the fountains, and laughing children chased each other across the immaculate lawn or down the carefully raked gravel paths.
“I could live for this view,” Jayne said, as we stood at the end of the garden walk and gazed over the verdant green hills and the sheep-dotted meadows of Yorkshire.
“As I do,” Genevieve said. “This garden is the greatest joy of my life. Other than my grandchildren, of course. But even then, it’s close.”
Genevieve and Alistair, I now understood, hadn’t come to Pippa’s wedding in old or unfashionable clothes because such was all they could afford, but rather that she, very sensibly, had more important things to spend their money on than appearances.
We watched a young man digging up weeds in the rose garden and tossing them into a wheelbarrow. “Do you employ a large garden staff?” Jayne asked.
“Nowhere near the numbers Alistair’s ancestors would have had. We have a professional horticulturist on staff year-round and employ young people in the spring and summer to do the cutting, deadheading, and weeding. Over the fall and winter, just Simon there.” She waved, and the gardener straightened up with a smile. The wind caught a lock of his blond hair as he waved back. “Fortunately for our pocketbook, the local gardening society helps a great deal. When I’m not writing or on tour, I enjoy getting my hands stuck into the dirt. We have a tearoom on the grounds, if you’d like to take some refreshment.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “We’ve got just enough time to catch our train.”
Genevieve called a taxi for us. I protested I could do that myself, but she insisted she had a special driver she always used who would give me a good rate.
The cab was waiting for us at the entrance, and we said our goodbyes to Genevieve.
As we drove away, I could see her standing by the gate, watching us. She waved.
“I’d say that was a wasted trip,” Jayne said, “except we got to see that fabulous house. And that garden, oh, my goodness. I can understand why they try so hard to keep it in the family.”
“Was it a wasted trip, Gemma?” Donald asked. “Or another one of the negatives you enjoy proving? Did you believe Alistair when he said—ouch. What was that for?”
I gave Donald a second sharp poke in the ribs and tilted my head in the direction of the cabbie in the front. His eyes were on the road, his hands in the proper ten to two position on the steering wheel. He didn’t appear to be paying any attention to us, but cabbies were always listening, and this was not the place to talk.
I had learned a great deal. And some of it was positive.
We alighted at the station, and I handed over the money for the fare. The driver accepted it with a mumbled, “Ta,” but didn’t offer me any change and drove away without waiting to see if anyone getting off the rapidly approaching train would need a ride. Genevieve had instructed him to take us to the station, and he hadn’t said a word on the drive.
This time we had three seats facing each other over a fold-down table on the train. The fourth seat was unoccupied.
“Zoe looks to be older than Lawrence,” Jayne said to me once we were moving. “By the way they were talking, he’s going to inherit, not her.”
“Such is the ancient English tradition of primogeniture,” I said. “Zoe will not inherit the title on her father’s death. As for the estate, things can get extremely murky depending on the time of and the conditions of the granting of the initial title. I’ll assume Alistair won’t want it to be divided between his children. In some cases these days a daughter can inherit the property. Otherwise, if something happened to Lawrence, Alistair would be searching the family tree for a distant heir. Haven’t you seen or read Pride and Prejudice?”
“Happens in Downton Abbey too, but I thought they changed that rule recently.”
“Entail of property is no more. I believe that was done away with in the 1920s, but titles still pass down the male line. The rules of royal succession changed a couple of years ago, yes, so daughters come in the same order as sons. But that didn’t affect the aristocratic families.”
“You’d think they’d have learned a thing or two since Jane Austen’s day,” Jayne said. “As in the example we’ve just seen. Seems to me Zoe’s a lot more levelheaded than her brother, but she expects he’s going to own it some day, not her.”
“Rather rude to talk about that in the presence of their parents,” Donald said.
“It seems so to us, yes, but that’s about all these families can think about. As in Pride and Prejudice, when they were desperate to find husbands for their daughters before they were kicked to the curb on their father’s death.”
“What do we do now, Gemma?” Donald asked. “As regards the case, I mean?”
“Let me think.” I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back of my seat.
“Jayne, did you notice how—?” Donald said.
“Please don’t talk amongst yourselves,” I said. “We are in public.”
“Sorry,” Donald said.
“No talking,” Jayne said.
“In that case, I’ll continue drawing up my suggestions for a Conan Doyle tour of Yorkshire. Do they have Wi-Fi on this train, do you know?”
As the train pulled into King’s Cross, I studied the crowd of people on the platform and said, “We have plenty of time. Would you like to walk part of the way?”
“Great idea,” Jayne said. “I’ll never get enough of walking in this city.”
We emerged from the station at Euston Road. Donald set off at a brisk pace, arms pumping, umbrella swinging, but Jayne and I walked slowly, enjoying the day, enjoying being in London. We stopped regularly to look in shop windows, and Donald eventually fell back to join us.
“I’d enjoy a gelato, how about you?” I said to my companions after about twenty minutes of casual strolling.
“Good idea,” Donald said. “The sandwich I had on the train was less than satisfactory.”
We went into a brightly decorated gelato shop. Jayne asked for a single scoop of lime, and Donald had the double chocolate. I ordered strawberry. While the young clerk scooped our treats and Donald fumbled in his pockets for the correct bills with which to pay, I stood at the window, looking out onto the street.
“Gemma?”
I turned to see Jayne holding a bright pink concoction out to me. I took it and smiled my thanks. “Enough walking. Let’s get the tube at Regent’s Park.”
“Okay,” Jayne said.
I set off down the road at a considerable pace.
“Why are we suddenly in such a hurry?” Jayne panted.
“No reason,” I said.
It was nearing rush hour, and commuters were pouring into the tube station. I tossed my uneaten, dripping cone into a trash container and nipped behind an advertising banner. “Here,” I said to Jayne and Donald. “Quickly.”
They did not move quickly. Instead they peered around the sign at me. “You okay, Gemma?”
I said nothing and watched people hurrying for their trains. No one paid any attention to us. I should say no one appeared to be paying any attention to us. A tall young woman in a loose raincoat swiped her Oyster card and passed through the turnstiles. I watched her disappear down the escalator that led to the northbound Bakerloo Line toward Harrow and Wealdstone. Not southbound to catch a train to Gloucester Road station in Kensington.
“Yeah,” I said at last. “I’m okay. Let’s go.”