At Home With The Templetons (50 page)

No, Henry assured her. It had always been well maintained. It had been leased to an Australian pastoral farmer and his family until recently.

‘But what will we do with it?’

He paused. ‘I thought we could live in it.’ More laughter until she realised he was serious. ‘Eleanor, I’m in something of a predicament.’

That night he talked more than he ever had to her about his work. It was an unusual trade, the antiques business, he explained. So much of it was on supply and demand. It depended on so many factors - who wanted an item badly enough, perception, rarity. Who was to say that one piece of silverware was worth ten thousand pounds when another was worth less? From his point of view, there was also often a fine line of honesty to cross. If an elderly woman was showing him one item, and he knew it was worth nothing compared to the small brooch she was wearing, was it criminal to casually make an offer for that as well? If he was asked to sell on consignment, was it immoral or simply good business to buy the entire lot himself, pay the seller what he or she believed was a good price, and not divulge that four of the pieces in the two-hundred-item lot would fetch many more thousands? Hundreds of thousands, even? As for another hypothetical situation - what if the seller of some rare jewellery preferred not to disclose the items’ origin? Was it Henry’s role to push for details, or simply to find a buyer?

‘You’ve been dealing in stolen property? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I have to make moral calls every hour of every day, Eleanor. I’ve realised there are degrees of deception.’

How that sentence would come to haunt her.

She picked up the photograph of the sun-soaked mansion. ‘So we’d be running away?’

‘We’d be withdrawing discreetly for the time being.’ ‘To do what? Lie low in the Australian outback?’

‘Not just lie low, no. I need to do some more family research, but I’ve had an idea, Eleanor. A crazy idea, but we might even be able to make a business of it. All I’d need is the start-up capital. A lump sum to get us on our feet.’

She knew what he was talking about. The rest of her inheritance. By the time they went to bed that night, she’d agreed.

Henry flew out to Australia first, to inspect the property and set his plans in motion. When Eleanor, Hope and the children arrived two weeks later, a full-scale renovation was already underway.

‘Can we afford this?’ she asked as he showed her sketches, fabric and wallpaper samples.

‘Of course.’

Of course they couldn’t, is what he should have said.

Hope had come with them, ostensibly to assist Henry with the garden design, in truth because she had no one left in England to take care of her. She was completely in the grip of her addictions by then. Secret drinking. The tablets. The erratic behaviour. But always the tears afterwards, the heartfelt gratitude. ‘Eleanor, what would I do without you? I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.’

For all the heartbreak that

followed, Eleanor had to acknowledge that there had been good times at the Hall. Henry had been the very best version of himself at first: busy, motivated, charming. She’d watched in amazement as his business idea became a thriving tourist attraction. It had felt good to work together, as a couple, a family …

Until the cracks began to appear again. The mail started to go missing. The bills, more specifically. After that, it was like dominos falling, one event setting off another. She and Henry fighting all the time. Spencer’s wayward behaviour. Charlotte’s refusal to come home, her announcement about her job in Chicago. Audrey’s school play disaster. And Gracie, Eleanor’s little Gracie, falling in love with and practically moving in with Nina …

Nina.

Had it been happening between Nina and Henry even then? Under Eleanor’s nose? No, she refused to let it be true. She would have known, wouldn’t she? And Nina had been a friend then, to all of them, hadn’t she? They couldn’t have done without her in the first years after they left, either, calmly accepting every explanation they offered about why they weren’t coming back, even going to the trouble of packing and shipping all the belongings and paperwork they’d left behind in that first hasty departure. Too busy working fulltime, arguing with Henry about the outstanding debts, it had taken Eleanor years to find the energy to go through even a few of the boxes. It wasn’t until she had the house to herself, after Gracie had gone to France and Italy with Tom, that she’d made a proper start on them. Within minutes she’d been cursing Henry’s filing methods. His lack of filing methods, more accurately. There were folders filled with more bills and more lawyer demands bundled in with old brochures, magazine cuttings, school reports. But in one box she’d found folders filled with paperwork she’d never seen before.

Henry had been doing more than reading his antique magazines night after night in his office, it seemed. She found pages and pages of notes about his family’s history, early research into his family tree, sketches. Not just the details of the stories they liked to tell during the tours. This was different, more private, as if he was truly trying to find his place in the world. She was surprised how much it moved her.

She and Hope had always known exactly where they came from, who their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents were. Henry hadn’t had that. He hadn’t known his mother, who’d died when he was only two. His father had died when he was in his teens. The fact he’d virtually raised himself had made him an even more romantic figure to her.

Something changed inside her as she read his notes that night. The fury she’d felt towards him started to dissolve. For the next two days, alone in the house, she found herself remembering only good things about him. How he could make her laugh. His stories. The way he made love to her. He had always been a wonderful lover, skilled, attentive …

She left the boxes from Templeton Hall alone and found herself drawn towards the family photo albums. She was in tears by the time she finished looking through them: their wedding, the arrival of the children, Christmas parties, summer holidays, Henry at the centre of each image. How had she forgotten those times? How had she let money come between them? Yes, he’d made mistakes. Yes, he’d lied to her about the bills, but hadn’t she vowed to stay with him through good times and bad? Was it too late to try again as a couple, as husband and wife?

She was walking towards the phone that evening to call him, to ask him to come back to her, when it rang. For a joyful moment she thought it was Henry, ringing to ask her for a sec and chance. It was Spencer, barely coherent, calling from Italy, the words tumbling from him - an accident, hospital, Gracie, drinking, Tom badly hurt …

It took Eleanor more than eight hours to get to them, between flight delays and overbooked airplanes, her fear rising as each hour passed, worrying for her children, for Tom, for Nina. It was Eleanor who’d broken the news to her. Spencer had begged her to make the call. Nina’s voice had been almost unrecognisable. ‘Is he going to die, Eleanor? Will he die?’ All she could tell was all she knew, that Tom had been in surgery for almost three hours, that he was in intensive care, that she should get there as quickly as she could.

Eleanor was waiting in the hospital foyer when Nina arrived. She ran in, they hugged, two mothers. ‘He’s this way.’ She took her by the hand. They barely spoke. What was there to say? Nina had to be with Tom.

It was two hours later, after Tom was recovering from more surgery, that Nina came to her again. She had stopped crying. She was now angry. She met Eleanor outside the ward Gracie was in, in the corridor, her voice too loud. She didn’t ask about Gracie or Spencer. She stood in front of Eleanor and delivered a statement, almost shouting. ‘Tom won’t ever walk again. It’s Gracie’s fault. Gracie was drinkdriving.’

‘Nina, she wasn’t.’ They’d done blood tests. She was under the limit. She tried to tell Nina.

Nina shook her head. ‘I’ve read the police report. The truck driver said she was driving all over the road.’

‘Nina ‘

‘Your daughter has destroyed my son’s life, Eleanor.’ ‘It was an accident.’

‘She was drunk.’

‘She wasn’t. It was an accident.’

Nina’s voice was getting louder. ‘It’s my fault. I should have told him to come home. I should never have let him stay with you. I should never have had anything to do with any of you. I should have trusted my instincts years ago.’

‘Nina, please, don’t ‘

‘It’s the truth. It’s the truth, Eleanor.’ Her voice raised again. ‘My son is in pieces. His whole body, everything’s broken. His face is …’ Her tears started then, her body heaving with them.

Eleanor’s compassion returned. She led Nina into an empty room nearby, held her, let Nina cry, tried to think of soothing words but could find none. There was only bad news, and the bad news was all Nina’s. It was only luck, some kink of fortune, that had it this way around, Tom with the terrible injuries, Gracie and Spencer almost unhurt. Like a terrible lottery, Eleanor the only winner. She would be as angry at Nina if the positions were reversed, she knew. As shocked, hurt, scared, crying as hard …

She tuned back in then to what Nina was saying. Nina was talking about Henry. Why was she talking about Henry?

‘It’s a game to you, to Henry, isn’t it? Just a stupid game, to lure people in and then laugh in their faces, turn them into fools. Your family are dangerous, all of you. You seduce people and then you destroy them. Henry did it to me, and now Gracie has done it to Tom. You’ve destroyed us both, all of you. I want you to leave me alone. You, Gracie, Henry, Spencer, all of you. Leave us alone. Do you hear me?’ Nina was now shouting and crying at the same time.

Eleanor took a small step back, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘Nina, what are you talking about? What do you ,

‘I’m talking about your husband, Eleanor. Your lying bastard of a husband.’

‘Henry? You’ve seen Henry recently?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen Henry, Eleanor. I recently spent the weekend in bed with Henry.’

Eleanor wasn’t hearing this. Nina was upset, angry. She was raving. It was jetlag, shock … ‘Nina, what are you saying?’ ‘I’m talking about your husband screwing me, Eleanor. In every meaning of the word.’

Eleanor went still. Their children were hurt, lying in hospital beds only metres away, but this was her focus now. Sharp, cold, clear. ‘When, Nina? Where? Tell me.’

Nina’s chin lifted, her eyes hard, glittering. ‘At Templeton Hall, of course. Where else?’

The words tore into Eleanor. It didn’t matter that she and Henry had been separated for years. It didn’t matter when it had happened between Nina and Henry. The pain of it felt like

a knife in her heart. She tried to find words, any words … ‘But he’s my husband. You’re my friend. I trusted you.’ ‘Trust? Will I tell you what he said, Eleanor? What your liar of a husband said to me?’

Eleanor held up her hand, stopping Nina. She couldn’t hear it, whatever it was, whether it had been happening when they all lived there, whether it had just started recently. She had to stop her saying anything else. Hurt her, too.

She forced her voice to stay calm, her expression composed. ‘I don’t want to hear, Nina. Not any of it. You think I haven’t heard it before? You think he hasn’t been having flings on the side for years? That you were unique? That you were special to him? He says what people want to hear, Nina. He always has done, he always will do. You weren’t the first and you won’t be the last. Let me tell you that.’

‘Eleanor ‘

Eleanor silenced her again. All hope of a reconciliation with Henry had just died. Her husband had not just had affairs with colleagues, possibly with Hope, he had slept with her friend Nina. Had sex with Nina. Their friend Nina. She felt grief and anger rise inside her, fire and ice in her veins, masking her pain, overshadowing concern for Tom, changing everything. Her voice was as cold as her expression when she spoke again.

‘And you dare to tell me to leave you alone, Nina? To tell me to keep my family away from you? You get out of our lives. You and your son, get out and stay out of our lives.’

‘Eleanor ‘

‘I don’t want to hear it, Nina. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Leave me, my children and my husband alone, do you hear me?’ She walked out of the room first.

Facing Gracie afterwards was one of the hardest things she had done. Hearing her youngest daughter crying, begging to talk to Tom and to Nina, knowing it was impossible for more reasons now than she would ever be able to share.

Back in London, it got worse. Henry arrived to see Gracie and Spencer. All concern and love, making Spencer laugh and even Gracie smile within minutes. Eleanor had to leave, barely able to look at him, let alone be in the same house as him.

One afternoon, she nearly told Gracie, needing to somehow put a halt to Gracie’s hope and despair about Tom, to stop her writing letter after letter to them both. At first, despite everything she’d said to Nina that day in the hospital, Eleanor had posted them for her. Eventually, Eleanor broke all her own parenting rules and stopped at a cafe down the road and read two of the letters. Her heart nearly broke to see Gracie’s guilt and grief laid bare, pages of heartfelt lines begging Tom to write back, telling him how much she loved him, how she would do anything to turn back time. She told him that if she could swap places, if she was the one unable to walk, she would do it. Her letter to Nina was as sad, so confused, so guilty, pleading with Nina, telling her how much Nina meant to her, how she loved her too. It was that letter that stopped Eleanor from telling Gracie about Henry and Nina. Her daughter was already devastated, already so fragile. What would news like that do to her?

It barely seemed possible eight years had passed. Eleanor knew that something had stalled for her and for Gracie since then. Not for Spencer. He’d somehow emerged untouched. He had the same charm as Henry, Eleanor knew, the expectation and knowledge that people liked him, were drawn to him, that things would turn out well. It was helped by his looks, his sparkle - Henry’s traits, replicated in the next generation.