‘Rosie, you’re going to have to do something,’ Henry told her, a tinge of impatience in his voice. ‘You’ve been back for nearly three months, and you can’t go on lounging around the place, letting other people take care of your children, while you contribute nothing to the household.’
‘You don’t understand, Daddy.’ Steeped in apathy and filled with anguish mixed with guilt and self-pity, Rosie lay on the drawing room sofa, gazing up at her father as if she hoped he’d work some miracle.
Henry stared back at her, shocked by how she’d let herself go. Her face – once so pretty and fresh, now looked pale and gaunt – was devoid of any make-up. And judging by her lank and greasy hair it was obvious she hadn’t washed it recently. He was at his wits’ end, wondering what to do with her. She’d barely left the house since her return to Hartley, and the local doctor had told him she was suffering from depression. He’d even suggested Rosie be admitted to a special nursing home for treatment.
When Liza heard that, she was appalled. The stigma of going into a ‘loony bin’ would stick fast to the whole family and Rosie would be forever labelled the daughter who was a ‘nut case’.
Henry himself was doubtful at the idea; one heard such awful tales of people having shock treatment, but if Rosie didn’t buck up soon something drastic would have to be done.
‘What can I do?’ she asked miserably. ‘I can’t go back to London because since Salton’s sold the house I’ve nowhere to go?’
Salton had also returned permanently to Washington, having given Rosie a generous divorce settlement of five thousand pounds.
‘You could buy a three bedroom flat in Kensington for under two thousand pounds, or rent one, as I’ve done in Princes Court for between two and three hundred pounds a year,’ Henry pointed out, ‘and you still have your dress allowance. I wish I could give you more, but I can’t. You should be able to live modestly on the interest from what’s left over when you’ve got yourself a place.’
But Rosie hadn’t the heart or the will to do anything. She was poorer now than when she’d first been married to Charles, but because she’d been nineteen her family had rallied around her then and supported her financially throughout the war. She’d lived at Hartley in great comfort, considering what a dreadful state the country was in, and Juliet had invited her to stay with her in Park Lane when she wanted to be in town.
Why had it all gone so wrong? Rosie kept asking herself, knowing the full answer but unable to admit it, even to herself. Salton had been good and kind. He’d bought her a nice house and then an even bigger and nicer one. He was very generous with housekeeping money and he paid for her to have daily servants, and of course Nanny. But Salton had been dull. He didn’t excite her in bed and he didn’t interest her out of it. Her life as Mrs Salton Webb had been barren and tedious.
That is until she’d met Philibert. Now she felt overwhelmed with grief at the loss of his love, the loss of excitement in her life and the loss of the beautiful life she’d had. She missed the opulent splendour of the Hôtel de Paris as if it had been a person, someone who cared for her and cherished her all the time. She missed the extravagant restaurants she’d been taken to. She missed the yacht and the vintage Rolls Royce; and she missed the sunny days and warm balmy nights in a place where it never seemed to rain.
‘I wish I was dead!’ she burst out in fury. ‘Now I’ve got nothing!’
Henry looked concerned. ‘You mustn’t talk like that, Rosie. You’ve got Sophia and Jonathan to think about. They need you, for goodness sake. You can come here for weekends, but you should go to London, get yourself a flat, and make something of your life.’
Rosie didn’t even bother answering him. It took too much effort to speak, far less think about the future. If only something magical could happen, like Philibert finding his aunt had left him, hidden away, a vast fortune after all, so that he would come back to fetch her.
She closed her eyes, submerging herself in playing this blissful daydream over and over again in her mind, which helped to shut out the ugly truth.
Juliet felt a certain sympathy for Rosie. She could recall how deeply depressed she’d felt when the war had ended, and she’d thought she’d never see Daniel or be happy again. Perhaps, she reflected, it was time she put her anger at Rosie behind her, life was too short to harbour grudges.
‘I have an idea,’ she told her father, when he phoned to express his concern about her sister. ‘Give me a couple of days, and I might be able to fix up something that will jolt Rosie out of the doldrums.’
That following weekend she and Daniel with Tristan, drove down to Hartley.
‘You should be a director of “Universal Aunts” you know,’ Daniel teased her. ‘You have a knack of fixing everyone’s problems, don’t you?’
She grinned at him. ‘Now that I’ve none of my own, it’s easy. The biggest problem is going to be getting Rosie to agree. You know how obstinate she can be.’
When they arrived, Hartley was vibrant with life. Louise and Shane, with Rupert and Daisy, had arrived for the weekend, as well as Amanda, Charlotte and Henry’s sister, Candida, with her husband Andrew Pemberton. As it was half term Sophia and Jonathan were also there, running around helping to lay the table for lunch.
‘This is a real family party,’ Juliet said, kissing her parents and Lady Anne. ‘Where’s Rosie?’ she added, looking around.
Liza cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Up in her room. Says she doesn’t feel very well.’
‘I’ll go and see her.’ She bundled Tristan into Charlotte’s arms. ‘Look after him, will you, darling?’
Charlotte, newly crowned the Face of 1950 by Vogue, cuddled her nephew. ‘I’ll take him out to the garden,’ she said. ‘Are you coming, Amanda?’
‘Not likely,’ Amanda retorted crossly. ‘You know I can’t stand kids.’
‘You’re just miffed because you think the Conservatives will win the election,’ Charlotte pointed out.
Amanda looked huffy. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that. I just don’t care for children, and Tristan looks as if he’s wet himself! Ugh!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘God, kids are so disgusting.’
While Charlotte took Tristan up to the nursery to be changed, Juliet hurried up the stairs to Rosie’s bedroom.
Knocking briskly on the door, she marched in without waiting for an answer.
Rosie was sitting on the side of the bed, doing up her shoe laces. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looked at Juliet resentfully. No doubt her sister had come to crow about her happy marriage and her lovely son and the expected baby, and what a wonderful life she had.
‘I’ve come expressly to sort out your life,’ Juliet retorted cheerfully, ‘and before you start screaming at me, admit things couldn’t be worse than they are at the moment?’
Rosie averted her face, not answering.
‘Right then. First of all, I’ve found you a sublime furnished flat in Holland Park, with a nice drawing room and dining room and three bedrooms, and the rent is only three hundred and fifty pounds a year, and secondly, as you love socializing and going to parties, I’ve managed to get the perfect job for you. You won’t be paid a great deal but the perks are worth hundreds of pounds a year and you’ll love it!’ Juliet added forcefully.
‘What is it?’ Rosie looked at her suspiciously. What did Juliet consider to be the perfect job for her? She had no qualifications. She couldn’t do shorthand and typing. She was hopeless at arithmetic, so that ruled out even being a shop assistant, because she wouldn’t be able to work out how much change to give customers. Surely it couldn’t be something as lowly as a companion to an old lady, or someone’s housekeeper?
‘I don’t need a job,’ she said defensively. ‘I’ll have enough to live on with Salton’s settlement.’
‘Providing you stay down here and let the rest of the family support you!’ Juliet scoffed. She could hardly contain her excitement now at the thought of seeing Rosie’s expression when she told her what she’d arranged through her contacts.
‘Well, what is it?’ Rosie asked sulkily.
‘You’re not going to believe this, but you’re the new social columnist on Society Magazine.’
Rosie looked at her, not understanding for a moment. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, you idiot, that you’ll get invited to all the best parties and you keep a diary, describing who was there, and what they wore and what it was like and your article comes out in the magazine every month… you know, for God’s sake! Like the social columns in Tatler and in the Bystander and Sketch! God knows they’ve all written about us for the past twenty years! It’s something you can do in your sleep, because you know the whole social scene and you know everyone. That’s why they’re taking you on. I know the editor and he jumped at the idea. The journalist they’ve got at the moment doesn’t know anyone, so she turns up at the grandest events, with a notepad and pencil, asking all guests for their names.’
Rosie’s expression gradually changed from sullen to bewildered and finally to ecstatic as it dawned on her that her life wasn’t over, after all.
‘Really? Truly? Oh, my God! I can’t believe it. They’ve actually said they want me?’
Juliet nodded, smiling that at last she’d done something that met with Rosie’s approval. ‘You’ll get paid fifteen pounds a month, but no expenses. So you’ll have to buy your own clothes and pay for your taxis. But you’ll never have to eat at home again!’
‘And I’ll get to go to everything? Just like I did before the war? Have you told Mummy?’ She sounded like a child who’d been sent an invitation to a party after all, just when she’d thought she was out in the cold.
‘I haven’t told anyone,’ Juliet assured her. ‘They want you to start in two weeks’ time, so you’d better move into your new flat as soon as Sophia and Jonathan go back to school. Here are the keys,’ she added lightly, dropping them on to the bed, ‘and the first month’s rent has been paid.’
‘Oh, thank you, Juliet.’ For once, Rosie spoke to her in a humble voice. ‘I really am grateful, you know. This has literally saved my life. And I’m dreadfully sorry about what I did – you know, when those red roses arrived. I was a complete cow and I felt terrible when I realized I’d nearly ruined your marriage.’
Juliet chuckled. ‘There’s no need to overdramatize, my dear,’ she said lightly. ‘Daniel and I will expect a mention in your column at least twice a year!’
Henry looked down the dining room table with quiet satisfaction and a deep sense of contentment. It was Saturday evening, early autumn, and the family were gathered together within the sheltering embrace of his beloved Hartley. The table was laid with decorative Sèvre chinaware, and in the centre a bowl of winter heliotrope and red berried Cotoneaster glowed like jewels. Silver candlesticks and crystal wine glasses sparkled, reflecting in the polished mahogany, and the soft luminance of candle light seemed to take them all back to hundreds of years ago, when Hartley had been built.
His mother, as usual, sat on his right, as upright and elegant as she’d been in her seventies, although she picked at her food and drank very little wine. Liza, facing him from the other end of the table, seemed to have calmed down these days. She’d promised they wouldn’t go to so many parties and she’d kept her word, although he could see that beneath her cheerfulness lay a layer of frustration. Liza was a woman who would never realize she’d reached her goal in life and therein lay her great disappointment. Perhaps, Henry reflected quietly, getting to where she wanted to go had been more fun than actually arriving. She was laughing and joking with Daniel and he was playing up to her, using his charm to make her feel good about herself. Daniel was clever like that. Women adored him for it, and none more than his favourite daughter, Juliet, who was radiantly pregnant again, her eyes sparkling with happiness.
Smiling to himself, filled with love for his family, he glanced at Rosie, looking more content than she’d looked in a long while, now that she had an interesting job in London. He hoped, in time, she’d find someone to replace Philibert, but it wasn’t going to happen in the immediate future. This time her heart had truly been broken, because she’d lost more than the man; she’d also lost being a part of an enchanted world in a magical setting. That was a total bereavement that could not be replaced.
His eyes moved on to Amanda and Charlotte, still on the threshold of life, and going in utterly opposite directions. Would they both succeed? Amanda in politics and Charlotte as a model? Would they find love and fulfilment?
And without doubt the greatest of those is love, Henry thought, on this family evening which seemed to have acquired a special quality.
Why was he summing up, as if the page was coming to an end, how they’d all faired along the way? he asked himself suddenly. There were Louise and Shane, happy together, and so gratified that Rupert had accepted them as his parents and Daisy as his half-sister, and Jack as his real father who he saw every month. That was a happy ending to their story, wasn’t it?
There was even a happy ending for his sister Candida, too. No longer a widow, bringing up two children and having to manage her large Hampshire place on her own, but contentedly married to Andrew Pemberton, who she’d met during the war when she’d worked in the Cabinet Office.
Henry sipped his claret, seeing the family clearly now, as if he’d been looking at a large painting depicting them all. The next line of Granville blood lay asleep upstairs in the old nursery where he and his children had slept when they were small. The Granvilles would go on, and Hartley would continue to be their shelter for generations to come.
He raised his glass. ‘I think we should drink a toast,’ he announced.
They all turned to look at him in surprise.
‘What are we celebrating, old boy?’ Candida asked, jovially, as she seized her own glass.
‘The family,’ Henry said quietly. ‘Here’s to us! The Granvilles!’
They all raised their glasses, and murmured, ‘The Granvilles.’ The words echoed around the old panelled dining room like a toast from the past itself.
The next morning, when one of the daily charwomen from the village took Henry Granville’s early morning cup of tea up to his dressing room, where he’d slept on his own for the past few years, she found him lying as stiff and cold as one of the effigies in the local church.
Henry had died in his sleep, with a slight smile on his lips at the age of sixty-three.
The nightmare of that Sunday morning would stay with them all forever. Liza had started shrieking, ‘No! Oh God! No!’ when the charwoman had come rushing into her room to impart the shocking news.
Awakened by the commotion, the sisters came out of their rooms, gathering on the landing, whispering fearfully, ‘What’s happened?’ to each other. Then Liza, crying hysterically, opened her bedroom door and blurted out, ‘Daddy’s dead,’ before sinking to her knees where she stayed, unable to rise.
They all looked at each other, aghast and disbelieving, then one of them, nobody could remember who afterwards, asked, ‘Who’s going to tell Granny?’
Juliet was the first to turn her numbed emotions to practical use, as she’d done as a nurse during the Blitz.
‘I’ll go and tell Candida; I think she should be the one to tell Granny,’ she said, heading off down the corridor to the wing of the house where Granny and Candida and her husband were sleeping.
Juliet paused outside her aunt’s room, breathing deeply to steady herself, wishing with all her heart that she wasn’t the one who had to tell them. She tapped softly on the door.
There was silence and just as she was about to knock again, Candida opened the door quietly.
‘Andrew’s still sleeping. What is it, my dear?’ Then she paused, seeing the expression on Juliet’s face. Her plump hands with their flashing rings flew to her mouth. ‘Is it Mother?’ she whispered, suddenly alert, as she looked across the landing at Lady Anne’s bedroom door.
Juliet shook her head slowly. ‘I’m afraid it’s Daddy.’
Candida’s blue eyes, so like Henry’s, widened in disbelief. ‘Henry?’ she breathed incredulously. A moment later she was bundling down the corridor in the direction of his room, her bulky body encased in a flowered flannel nightdress, her bare feet soundless on the dark red carpet.
‘Henry?’ Juliet heard Candida’s voice boom as she charged past all the others on the landing, and rushed into his room. Then there was silence, and as Juliet walked slowly back along the corridor she could hear her aunt murmuring woefully, ‘Oh, my dear old boy. How could this have happened to you?’
Looking back months later, Juliet wondered how they’d all got through the weeks that followed her father’s death. Somehow, mostly in silence, life had taken on an unreal quality as if they were all clockwork creatures, going through the motions of dealing with a death in the family. There was the announcement in The Times and the Telegraph to see to, while they awaited the result of the autopsy. There was the village church to book for a small private funeral, as they’d decided to hold a memorial service in London at a later date, and there were the hundreds and hundreds of letters of sympathy to be dealt with.
But it was Henry’s obituaries in the newspapers that meant the most to Liza, for they publicly honoured the man she’d been married to for over thirty years.
During this fraught time it seemed as if everyone had slotted themselves into appropriate roles without being asked to. Candida never left her mother’s side since the moment when Lady Anne had collapsed when she’d been given the news. Then Louise took charge of all the grandchildren along with Rupert and Daisy, while Rosie stuck by Liza, sleeping in her room at night, and helping her choose a new wardrobe of black clothes to wear for the next twelve months.
Amanda booked the caterers for the wake which was held at Hartley after the service, and Charlotte organized the flowers for the church.
Juliet, with Daniel’s help, had the hardest job of all and that was to select the prayers and music for the service. She remembered her father’s favourite hymns, whilst wondering how she was going to get through the day they buried him, and she asked Daniel to give the eulogy.
At last they received the result of the autopsy. Henry had died in his sleep from a heart attack, and Juliet had the strangest feeling that he’d had a premonition the previous evening when he’d suddenly proposed they drink a toast to the Granvilles.
The family doctor suggested it had been caused ‘because Henry always worked too hard’, and as he spoke he noticed that Liza was avoiding eye contact with any of the family.
There was now an engraved headstone where Henry lay next to his father.
HENRY FORTESCUE GRANVILLE
1888-1951
Rupert visited the graveyard every time he stayed at Hartley.
‘Grandpa would have appreciated your visits,’ Louise told him, the first time she found him there.
‘He does like it,’ Rupert said, surprised she didn’t realize that. ‘When my first dog died,’ he continued, his voice still carrying a soft Welsh lilt, ‘I thought it was the end of the world. We were the same age, Drogo and me. Eight. It seemed too soon for a little chap like him to go, but we buried him under a yew tree on the farm and I used to go and talk to him every day. Then it didn’t seem like he’d gone forever. That’s why I come here; to talk to Grandpa.’
Louise wept when he had finished speaking. Wept for him in his loss as well as for her own bereavement. She also cried for the little dog that lay in the cold earth under a yew tree, then wondered – how could one weep for a dog she had never known? But weep she did because he’d been a part of Rupert’s life when she hadn’t been there to comfort him.
Gradually things went back to normal although they all knew life would never be the same again without Henry.
In his will he’d left everything to Liza.
‘Everything?’ Rosie asked in surprise. Lady Anne and Candida had looked surprised, too.
Mr Jones, the elderly lawyer, who had driven down from London to Hartley, explained. ‘I suggested a long time ago to Mr Granville that he should make a new will, but he obviously kept putting it off,’ he added, shaking his head regretfully.
‘What’s wrong with this one?’ Amanda asked bluntly. She looked pale and blotchy as she pushed her glasses higher up her nose with her forefinger. Never pretty, she now looked positively plain, with her fair hair cut short, and her baggy grey jumper and skirt more suited to a forty-year-old.
Mr Jones peered at her through his own spectacles, wondering for a moment if she was one of the family. ‘There’s nothing actually wrong with it,’ he replied defensively, ‘it’s just that he made it in 1914, when he was newly married and off to war. I don’t believe he thought he’d ever come back from the Front. He certainly had no idea that he would one day have children.’
‘Does it matter?’ Juliet enquired. She was thinking that probably the two witnesses to his signature might no longer be alive and this might prove a technical problem.
‘Why should it matter?’ Rosie demanded. ‘Eventually everything will be split five ways, so what difference does it make?’ Under the circumstances she couldn’t very well add, ‘when Mummy dies.’
‘But why didn’t he make a new will?’ Candida asked.
Mr Jones looked fussed, and smoothed his wispy white hair with a knotty hand. ‘Every time I told him he should make a new will, for all your sakes,’ he said, flashing a quick look at Liza, ‘he made some excuse. Said he would do it later. In fact, I believe he was very superstitious about it. He once told me that having made a will in 1914, and then having survived the Great War, he didn’t want to tempt fate by making another one,’ he added, as if to absolve himself from any blame in the matter.
‘Well, that’s fine,’ Juliet pointed out reasonably. ‘God knows, he gave us all everything he could when he was alive, and none of us are exactly on the breadline, so I don’t see a problem.’
Liza leaned forward as if to reassure her daughters. ‘You’ll still have your dress allowances, because Daddy set up a trust-fund for that, and the trustees will continue to pay it directly into your bank accounts every month.’
‘Exactly,’ Juliet replied, casting Louise a brief glance. No one in the family knew that for the past few years, she’d passed on her allowance to Louise who needed the money far more than she did.
‘So be it,’ Lady Anne said calmly, rising from her armchair. ‘Thank you for coming all this way to see us, Mr Jones,’ she said and reached out to shake his hand. ‘I suppose we’ll have the dreaded valuers here, to tell us how much we’ll have to pay the taxman in death duties?’
‘I’m afraid that’s inevitable,’ he replied, bowing over their clasped hands. ‘Death and the tax man are always with us.’ His dry attempt at a joke fell flat as he met Lady Anne’s cool eyes. ‘You have a beautiful place here. At least Hartley Hall is safe for future generations.’
‘I should hope so,’ she said graciously, as she turned to leave the room followed by Candida.