Finding Home (35 page)

‘What do you mean?'

He stares up at the beamed ceiling. ‘Gran always talked like she hated her life in England. So you can imagine how surprised we were when she pitched up one Christmas and said that she was moving back there.'

‘Did she give a reason?'

‘Just the usual – homesick for her own country and all that.'

‘So what happened?'

‘She left – just like that.' He snaps his fingers. ‘We didn't hear much from her – just cards at birthdays and Christmas. But once or twice I heard my mom arguing with her on the phone. Later on, Flora and I found out that her main reason for going back to England was to confront Henry Windham once and for all. All through the years she'd been so angry that he got her pregnant and just dropped her. That he never even tried to contact her.'

‘I can see why she'd be angry. I think she said something to me about “never a letter or a how d'ya do”.'

‘But it didn't stop there. What she really wanted him to do was rewrite his will to leave Rosemont Hall to her. And if he didn't, she threatened to tell Arabella about Henry's child. Arabella was unstable, I believe. Paranoid because she hadn't given Henry an heir.'

‘So she blackmailed him!' I try to reconcile this with the old woman I know. It's not that hard to do. But on the other hand, if Jack's account of what happened to her is accurate, maybe she was justified.

Jack nods. ‘Henry was a bit senile by that time. But he didn't doubt her word. I don't know if he ever loved her or not, but he'd never forgotten her.'

‘Well that's something, I guess.'

‘And anyway, he did change his will. But he left the house to Flora and me, not Gran. He also gave Arabella a life estate – so that we would only inherit the house after she died.' He shakes his head. ‘Gran was livid, but what could she do? She stayed on at Rosemont Hall because she insisted that it was her home. And now…' he pauses, choosing his words. ‘Let's just say, she's not very rational when it comes to Rosemont Hall.'

Ignoring the obvious understatement, I nod.

‘My mom first spoke to Ian Kendall when Henry Windham died. He told her about the inheritance and the life estate. He also told her about what Henry did, and about Gran “applying some pressure” to get Henry to change his will. Mom was disgusted with the whole thing – still is. She told me that when she was growing up, Gran would rave sometimes about Rosemont Hall, and how Arabella had stolen the life she should have had.

‘Mom didn't want anything to do with the place or the Windham family. To her, Tim was her dad. He'd worked his way up from nothing, and it was ingrained in her – in all of us – to do the same. She was no gold-digger – she didn't need or want anything from the likes of Henry Windham.' He shrugs disdainfully. ‘Flora and I felt exactly the same – it was family history best forgotten. Plus, at the time Henry died, I'd just finished my engineering degree. Flora was married and had started a small fashion boutique. We had our lives in America. What were we going to do with a crumbling old pile in England?'

What indeed?

‘Anyway, Arabella was alive for some years. Gran worked as her housekeeper and companion until she died.' He shakes his head. ‘They probably made each other miserable, for all I know.'

‘Remarkable. I thought Mrs Bradford was devoted to Arabella.'

Jack runs his finger along the line of my jaw. ‘So that's it,' he says. ‘The whole story.'

‘It's all so terrible – yet fascinating – at the same time.'

He nods. ‘Though as far as I know, Henry Windham and Arabella were content in their marriage. At least until Gran tried to make things difficult. And I guess she had her reasons – a ruined life and a broken heart.'

‘Yes. It's hard to know who to feel sorriest for.' I pause, considering. ‘And there's one other thing too.'

‘What's that?'

‘The fire.' I tell him about what Mr Wakefield told me. That a servant was blamed for the fire, but nothing was ever proven. ‘Do you think she had anything to do with it?'

Jack frowns. ‘Gran is strong-willed, that's for sure. But I find it hard to believe she would do something like that.'

‘Me too. I can't see her wanting to harm Rosemont Hall.'

‘But if she was accused, it would explain why she left England. I guess the only person who knows for sure is her.'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘You're probably right.'

Jack rolls onto his back. ‘So now, the house will be sold. Flora doesn't want it. I didn't either…'

He stops talking and seems to be debating with himself. For a dreadful moment, I worry that he's about to get out of bed and go on his way. ‘The sale should complete in a few weeks,' he says. ‘Then the debts of the estate can be paid.'

‘But surely you know that your grandmother wants you to keep the house?' I recall Mrs Bradford's past ravings about the house being torn apart brick by brick, and about how the heirs were ‘peasants' not to appreciate the place.

He gives me a sideways glance. ‘Of course she's tried the “you should appreciate where you came from” lecture a few times. Then she tried the “I worked so hard to get this for you and you're just throwing it away” card.' He shakes his head. ‘I'm afraid those kind of arguments don't work very well with me. I guess Gran and I aren't on the same wavelength. Maybe we never will be.'

‘Maybe not.' I sigh.

‘Anyway, I've got a meeting with Mr Kendall tomorrow. I'll drop off the letters to Gran on my way. I guess Henry must have wedged them behind the painting. Unless Gran put them there herself.'

I nod.

‘And then I'm flying home – to America. I'm a non-exec director of my former company, and we have an important board meeting coming up. This was just a bit of a whirlwind visit.'

‘Yes, Jack,' I choke.

‘Hey,' he says cupping my chin with his hand. ‘Don't look so glum. Now that I've seen you again, I hope this will be the first of many whirlwind visits.'

‘Okay,' I say, snuggling into his chest.

He strokes my hair. ‘So once again, I'll ask you – do you want to go to Rosemont Hall now and have a look at that painting?'

‘Right now?'

‘Well, maybe not
just
now…'

My answer dies on my lips as he covers them with his.

Letter 7 (unsealed envelope addressed to ‘A Reilly')

(Transcription) (Dated June 27
^th
1952)

Rosemont Hall

My darling—

My hand is shaking as I write these words. You were right all along – my father guessed our secret plans and set out to ruin them. I should have known from the moment that SHE arrived – some simpering little girl with a rich daddy and dreams of being Lady of the Manor. But I'm ashamed to say that I was still labouring under the delusion that Father meant to honour me, not marry me off. Why did I not suspect that he was capable of such cruelty? Why did I think I was a match for his cunning and ruthlessness?

This morning, I went to tell him once and for all that you and I will marry. He laughed in my face. He told me that he burnt the note I sent you – telling you that at the ball I was planning to play along with my father for the sake of appearances, and then renounce everything in the light of day. My heart aches thinking of the torment that last night must have caused you!

But I told him that none of that mattered – and there is nothing he can do to keep us apart. And then he dropped his bombshell – his ‘belief' that you started the fire. My father said that he found the lighter you gave me for my birthday in the wreckage. Such tosh! But the constable was all too happy to believe him.

I know that you have done nothing wrong – that you would never lift a finger to harm your beloved Rosemont Hall. I am told that you have fled to safety. My darling, I will try to clear your name – find out who really set the fire. And then you can return. I want you with me forever, as we have planned all along. Write and let me know that you are safe. Write that you love me still.

—H

I return to Rosemont Hall, no longer a burglar; and in fact, a different person in so many ways. I have to pinch myself as Jack and I approach the house in his hire car because it feels like I'm with the right person coming home to the place where I belong. I glance over at him, trying to burn his profile into my mind. For when he leaves – tomorrow. And in an instant, the fantasy shatters, leaving a dark, empty hole inside.

‘You ready?' Jack glances over at me.

I bite my lip. ‘Yes, let's do it.'

Though I'm still dressed in my burglar black, this time I enter much more respectably through the front door. I follow Jack up the stairs to the landing. He seems to have caught my enthusiasm for the mystery. He stands back from the painting of the girl in the pink dress and studies it thoughtfully.

‘She was so beautiful,' I say quietly.

‘And you're sure it's really Gran?' He cocks his head.

‘That's what she told me.'

‘I guess she does look a little bit like Flora.'

I laugh, remembering how Flora saw no resemblance to herself.

‘It all fits, Jack,' I say. ‘Everything points in one direction.'

‘Yeah, you keep saying.' He gives me a sideways glance. ‘But now that we're here, before we go lifting paintings and removing heavy frames, can you just run me through it again?'

‘Of course.' I explain how Sir George met the artist Francisco Walredo during his time in Spain during the Civil War. The two of them became friends. The names in Walredo's sketchbook – Feldmann, Stein, Rabinowicz, etc. – were most probably Jewish clients who, prior to WWII, commissioned him to ‘hide' their precious artwork so that it wouldn't be stolen by the Nazis. Then, a decade later, the time for heroism had passed. Sir George had been forced to sell his beloved paintings, and
Tio
Francisco
had gone back to smuggling and petty art crime. But when it came time to part with his most beloved painting, Sir George wrote to his friend for help in his ‘hour of need'. The Rembrandt was withdrawn from the auction, the original frame was removed from the John Singer Sargent and replaced with a new one. Walredo came to Rosemont Hall, ostensibly to paint Henry's portrait to put over the Rembrandt. But instead, he painted a young beauty who had caught his eye – Maryanne Reilly. He painted her in a style that he used for his other ‘overpaintings' – the same style as the one on the
Antiques Roadshow
that hid the Cassatt.

Jack frowns and hangs on my every word. ‘And he went to all that trouble so that he could keep the painting, but also collect the insurance money?'

‘Which was never paid out.'

Jack stares at the painting in silence for a minute. ‘Well,' he says finally, ‘although I haven't actually seen the infamous knicker drawer evidence, it all sounds pretty convincing.'

Blushing, I cross my fingers behind my back. We just
have
to find something.

Jack's hand brushes mine. ‘Okay, so let's see if you're right.'

He motions to me to take one side of the painting while he takes the other. I grip the ornate gold frame tightly and stand on tiptoes to steady my side while he lifts the painting off the wall. There's a sharp cracking noise and a rain of white plaster as together we stagger forward under the unexpected weight and ease the bottom edge of the frame to the floor.

I keep the frame upright while Jack kneels down and studies the back of the painting. There's a heavy piece of board bolted to the back and a wire used for hanging. I scan the piece of wood for any marks of identification, but there's nothing.

Jack pulls a Swiss army knife out of this pocket. ‘Good thing I was a Boy Scout,' he says. He finds the right tool – a tiny adjustable wrench – and starts loosening the first of the bolts.

‘Be careful,' I say. My stomach feels suddenly queasy. Are we about to find an important ‘lost' Rembrandt? Or just a pretty picture of a girl in a pink dress? ‘Do you think we ought to leave it to an expert?'

Jack laughs softly. ‘I have — You.' He hands me the first of the bolts.

It takes him the better part of a quarter-hour to loosen all the bolts. They clink together in the pocket of my coat. When the last bolt is off, he tries to pry the board off with a small screwdriver, but it's wedged too tightly into the edges of the frame. I watch as Jack the Engineer analyses the frame again and finds a weak spot in one of the mitred corners.

‘I'm afraid we might have to do this the hard way,' he says. He inserts the screwdriver to pry the frame apart. I look away. The wood and nails give way with a loud crack and a cloud of dust. The long side of the frame comes loose, hanging onto the bottom by a few nails. He wrenches it all the way off. I move around the painting to his side.

‘Look!' I say fizzing with excitement. ‘There are two canvases – one behind the other.' In fact, there's a sandwich of various layers of thin plywood, cloth, scrim and wadding behind the top canvas. It was clearly done by an expert framer – or art smuggler.

‘Well I'll be damned.' Jack gives a low whistle. He runs his fingers reverently over the layers. ‘Quite a clever feat of engineering, I'd say. It's like one painting has been hermetically sealed behind the other. You'd never have any idea that it was there.'

He puts his Swiss army knife back in his pocket. ‘Now, I think we ought to leave the rest to the experts. What do you think?'

‘I completely agree.' As much as I'd like to see the unveiling of the second canvas, I know that Jack's right – it needs to be done with proper tools by proper art restorers. I'm suddenly conscious of the cold and damp. The paintings need to be moved to safety as soon as possible.