The Debutante (3 page)

Just before the drive, a discreet sign pointed the way to a campsite on the grounds, nearly a mile down the hill, closer to the shore and out of sight of the occupants in the main house. Below, the bay curved gently like an embracing arm, and beyond, the ocean melted into the sky, a pale grey strip blending into a vast canopy of blue. It was cloudless, bright. Cool gusts tempered the heat of the midday sun.

Jack pulled up, wheels crunching on the gravel of the drive, and turned off the engine.

They sat a moment, taking in the house, its position; the view of the countryside and the sea beyond. Neither of them wanted to move. Silence, thick and heavy, pressed in around them, tangible, like the heat. It was disorientating. The internal compass of every city dweller — the constant noise of distant lives humming away in the background — was missing.

‘It’s much bigger than I thought it would be,’ Cate said at last.

It was an odd observation. The beauty of the place was obvious, overwhelming. Could it be that she was calculating how long they would be alone here?

‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

Swinging the car door open, she climbed out. After so much time driving, the ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.

Jack followed and together they walked past the line of rose bushes, full-blown and fragrant, alive with the buzzing of insects, to the front door.

He pressed the bell. After a moment, footsteps drew closer.

A tall, thin man in a dark suit opened the heavy oak door. He was in his late fifties, with a long, sallow face and thinning, grey hair. He had large, mournful eyes, heavily ringed with dark circles.

‘You must be Mr Coates, from Deveraux and Diplock,’ he surmised, unsmiling.

‘Yes.’

‘Welcome.’ He shook Jack’s hand.

‘And this is Miss Albion, my … assistant,’ Jack added.

‘John Syms.’ The man introduced himself, inclining his head slightly in Cate’s direction, as if he’d only budgeted for one handshake and wasn’t going to be duped into another. ‘From the firm of Smith, Boothroy and Earl. We’re handling the liquidation of assets on behalf of the family.’ He stepped back, and they crossed the threshold into the entrance hall. ‘Welcome to Endsleigh.’

The hall was sparse and formal with black-and-white marble tiles and two enormous mahogany cabinets with fine inlay, both filled with collections of china. Over the fireplace hung a large, unremarkable oil painting of the house and grounds. Four great doors led off the hall into different quarters.

‘How was your journey?’ Mr Syms asked crisply.

‘Fine, thank you.’ Cate turned, examining the delicate Dresden china figurines arranged together in one of the cabinets. Their heads were leaning coyly towards one another, all translucent porcelain faces and pouting pink rosebud mouths, poised in picturesque tableaux of seduction and assignation.

‘Yes, traffic wasn’t too bad,’ Jack said, immediately wishing he’d thought of something less banal.

Mr Syms was a man of few words and even fewer social graces. ‘Splendid.’ Pleasantries dispensed with, he opened one of the doors. ‘Allow me to show you around.’

They followed him into the main hall with its sweeping galleried staircase, lined with family portraits and landscapes. It was a collection of country-house clichés — a pair of stiff black Gothic chairs stood on either side of an equally ancient oak table, stag’s heads and stuffed fish were mounted above the doorways; tucked under the stairwell there was even a bronze dinner gong.

Cate looked up. Above, in a spectacular dome, faded gods and goddesses romped in a slightly peeling blue sky. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

‘Yes. But in rather bad repair, like so much of the house. There are ten bedrooms.’ Mr Syms indicated the upper floors with a brisk wave of his hand. ‘I’ve had the master bedroom and Her Ladyship’s suite made up for you.’

He marched on into the dining room, an echoing, conventional affair with a long dining table tucked into the bay-fronted window overlooking the fountain and
front lawns. ‘The dining room,’ he announced, heading almost immediately through another door, into a drawing room with an elaborate vaulted ceiling, library bookcases, soft yellow walls and a grand piano. Marble busts adorned the plinths between shelves; two ancient Knole settees piled with cushions offered a comfortable refuge to curl up with a book and a cup of tea. A ginger cat basked contentedly in a square of sun on top of an ottoman, purring loudly.

‘The drawing room.’

He swung another door open wide.

‘The sitting room.’

And so the tour continued, at breakneck speed; through to the morning room, the study, gun room, the fishing-tackle room, the pantry, the silver room, the main kitchen with its long pine table and cool flagstone floors leading into the second, smaller kitchen and cellars. It was a winding maze of a house. No amount of cleaning could remove the faint smell of dust and damp, embedded into the soft furnishings from generations of use. And despite the heat, there was a permanent chill in the air, as if it were standing in an unseen shadow.

Mr Syms returned to the sitting room, unlocking the French windows. They stepped outside into a walled garden at the side of the house where a rolling lawn, bordered by well-established flower beds led to a small, Italian-style rose garden. It was arranged around a central sundial with carved stone benches in each corner. In the
distance, the coastline jutted out over the bay; the water sparkling in the hazy afternoon sun.

Mr Syms guided them to the far end of the lawn where a table and chairs were set up under the cool shade of an ancient horse-chestnut tree. Tea things were laid out; a blue pottery teapot, two mugs, cheese sandwiches and a plate of Bourbon biscuits.

‘How perfect!’ Cate smiled. ‘Thank you!’

Mr Syms didn’t sit, but instead concentrated, going over some internal checklist.

‘The housekeeper, Mrs Williams, thought you might need something. Her flat is there.’ He indicated a low cottage at the back of the property. ‘She’s prepared a shepherd’s pie for tonight. And apologises if either of you are vegetarians.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Coates, that I have another appointment and must be going. It’s my understanding that you and Miss Albion will be spending the night, possibly even two, while you value and catalogue the contents of the house. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here’s a set of keys and my card. If you need anything while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Otherwise, you may leave the keys with Mrs Williams upon your departure and I anticipate hearing from you in due course regarding the value and sale of the contents.’

Jack took the keys, frowning. ‘And is everything to be sold? There are no pieces the family would like to keep?’

‘There is no family left in this country, Mr Coates. The
entire estate has been purchased by developers who wish to turn it into a luxury hotel, the proceeds of which go to a number of charitable causes. So, sadly, no. Again, if I can be of any help —’

‘Forgive me, but who were they?’ Cate interrupted, settling into one of the chairs. ‘Who lived in Endsleigh?’

Mr Syms gave her a look, both surprised and slightly suspicious. ‘I thought it was common knowledge. The late Lady Avondale, more famously known by her maiden name, Irene Blythe, lived here. She died two months ago, aged ninety-two. She was a wonderful woman; very loyal and generous. Lady Avondale was an extremely active campaigner for children’s causes, especially of UNICEF. She received her OBE in 1976. Unfortunately, of course, it’s her sister everyone knows about. But that’s the way, isn’t it?’ he sighed. ‘The good in this world are never as glamorous as the bad. I’m sorry but I really must go. I’m reading a will in Ottery St Mary in an hour.’ He nodded to them. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you both. Mrs Williams is always on hand if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your stay.’ Then, with a small bow, he took his leave, cutting across the lawn with long strides.

‘Is it just me or does it feel like he’s running away?’ Cate poured out two mugs of tea. ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’ Jack picked up a sandwich. ‘He wouldn’t be the first. I have that effect on people.’

‘I’ve never heard of the Blythes.’ She passed him a mug. ‘And who is this infamous sister?’

‘Diana Blythe. The beautiful Blythe sisters. They were both debutantes; famous for being famous between the wars. Do you really not know who they are?’

Cate shook her head. ‘Am I just a mass of ignorance? Tell me everything you know.’

‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘to be honest, that’s it. I know Diana went missing during the war and was never found. Some say she went to live in America. Others think she was murdered. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.’

‘Obviously my education is lacking.’ Cate sipped her tea. ‘How strange and romantic!’

‘You have a very odd idea of romance.’

‘I have odd ideas about a lot of things.’ The wind blew across the lawn, gently ruffling her skirt. ‘What an old relic!’

‘The house?’

‘Hmm.’

‘You don’t think it’s charming?’

‘Well, it may be. But it’s sad too. And so staid; a great big cliché of a house.’

‘All these houses have a sameness about them. I’ve seen dozens and dozens over the years. It’s the position and the grounds that make this one special. I love looking out over the sea. And although it’s only small —’

‘Small!’

‘Ten bedrooms is nothing.’ He settled into the chair opposite. ‘I mean, it must’ve been wonderful for entertaining but it’s no size, really’

‘Now there’s only you and me and Mrs Williams.’ Cate closed her eyes. ‘It’s peaceful,’ she sighed. ‘And the name is so evocative. Endsleigh!’

The sea was too far off to be heard but the sound of the wind through the trees, the birds and the warm smell of freshly cut grass bathed in sunlight soothed her.

‘It is peaceful,’ Jack agreed.

The dull, persistent ring of a mobile phone buzzed, coming from her handbag.

Her eyes flicked open.

It continued to ring.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘I didn’t think there’d be a signal here.’

Finally, it stopped.

‘So,’ Jack grinned, ‘avoiding someone?’

The look on her face was cold, like being splashed by a bucket of iced water.

‘I was only —’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She stood up. ‘It’s too hot out here. I’m going upstairs to unpack. Let me know when you’d like to begin.’

He tried again. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I —’

‘It’s nothing,’ she cut him off. ‘It’s of no importance at all.’

Taking her handbag, she walked across the lawn. Jack watched as she stepped between the layers of sheer fabric floating in the breeze by the French windows, disappearing into the house.

17, Rue de Monceau
Paris

13 June 1926

My dearest Wren,

Muv sent me a copy of the article in The Times featuring your lovely photograph. Miss Irene Blythe — one of the Debutantes of the Season! And rightly so! How did they get your hair to look like that? Have you had it shingled? Remember that I want to hear every tiny detail, especially about anything that HAPPENS to you — even a brief fumble in a corridor is thrilling for me, as I am in EXILE till next year.

As for me, I am limp with boredom, despite the romance of the Greatest City in Europe. That is Madame Galliot’s constant refrain. ‘You girls are spoilt! Here you are in Paris — the Greatest City in Europe — your parents are spending a fortune on you … on and on and on … Of course she doesn’t actually allow us to go anywhere, which is too vexing. Apart from our drawing classes and trips to Ladurée (the French cannot make a decent cup of tea) and endless expeditions to churches — you can see she is truly exerting herself on behalf of my education — we are rarely allowed to venture foot into Paris itself — a theatre or nightclub, let alone to Les Folies- Bergère. She also has perfected a sneer she reserves for me when she says things like, ‘There are certain subtle refinements that simply cannot be taught, ’ (cue said sneer), referring of course to the fact that you and I were not born into our class so much as thrust upon it. To her we are and always will be counterfeits. Which is why it is so thrilling to leave cuttings of The Times around for her to see!

Under her tutelage I have learned precisely three things:

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  How to eat oysters.
  

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  How to wear my hat at a beguiling angle.
  

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  How to engage in surreptitious eye contact with men in the street, who, being French, are only too glad to ogle you back.