Three Graces (13 page)

Carys travelled in the first car with Richard, his mother and Jamie. Phoebe and Serena followed with Amanda, Cecily and Evelyn. It was the saddest procession Carys had ever seen for standing in line along the driveway were all the estate workers in black, heads bowing as the duke’s hearse drove by.

St Mary’s Church was tiny and icy cold all year round. Carys shivered as they walked in behind the coffin. Following Richard and his mother to the front pew, she couldn’t help thinking of her own future and how it was probably tied to this very church. She would more than likely end up here, wouldn’t she - in a little urn on a stone ledge in the Cuthland Chapel? But what about her own family? Would she have to forget them? That was the thing when you married into these families: you went along with their traditions and forgot about your own history and heritage. She was a Bretton now and belonged here, and it was a position she’d take with her even beyond death.

The service was beautiful in its simplicity.
Immortal, invisible, God only wise
, was the first hymn but voices didn’t want to be roused. Carys’s own voice quavered somewhat when she heard Francesca’s notes break off into a numbed silence, and Richard’s voice was barely above a whisper. Would he be able to muster up the courage for his reading?

The hymn ended and Carys squeezed Richard’s arm before he walked the few paces to the front of the church and faced the congregation. He read the moving words about Time from
Ecclesiastes
and his voice was low and calm and desperately sad and, when he finished, he lifted his eyes to the many familiar faces that had crowded into the tiny church.

‘My father could never lay claim to being the easiest of men to live with,’ he began, and his statement raised a few nervous chuckles from the pews, ‘but he was a good man and much admired and, what is more, he loved Amberley and cared for it with the very fibre of his being.’

Richard paused and gazed into the empty space in front of him almost as if he could see his father standing there, listening to his words.

‘And, I know,’ he went on at last, ‘that there will always be a part of him here with us and that it is now our responsibility to continue his extraordinary work.’

For a moment, he looked as if he were about to say something else but was waiting for the right words to form themselves. The church was silent with anticipation as everybody watched him, but his words never did materialise and he returned to his seat.

There were a few moments of silent contemplation. Carys picked Richard’s hands up in hers and held them tightly. They felt like the hands of a little boy and she couldn’t help feeling a little anxious for him, for it was into these hands that the Amberley estate had now fallen.

It was one week after the duke’s funeral and Carys walked into their private apartments to find Richard bent double over a packing box.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked him.

‘Moving out,’ he said simply.

Carys’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

For one awful moment, she thought that he’d finally cracked - that his job had finally got the better of him and he’d decided to leave Amberley for good.

‘We’re moving to the west wing,’ he explained.

‘But your mother’s there.’

‘She’s moved out.’

‘What? When?’ Carys asked, not really surprised that nobody had told her what was going on - as usual.

‘She’s in Cuthland House. By the west gate.’

Carys knew of the property: a sturdy Victorian building with large windows and a pretty garden.

‘Isn’t this all rather sudden?’

‘Not at all,’ Richard said. ‘It’s perfectly normal.’

For a bleak moment, Carys saw herself in the future: an ancient lady of ninety being kicked out of her home by her own son. How heartless. How cruel! She was a lonely widow. She was-

‘And, before you accuse me of being heartless, it was her own decision to go straight away’

‘Oh,’ Carys said. ‘I guess I’ll never understand how these houses and families work.’

‘You will,’ he said. ‘You’re the duchess now, you’ll have to learn.’

Carys stood there feeling completely dumbfounded She was the duchess now - the Duchess of Cuthland. She hadn’t even had time to get used to being the Marchioness of Amberley and now she was a duchess.

‘But what’s wrong with our apartments here?’

‘Nothing,’ Richard said. ‘But it’s usual for the duke and duchess to take up residence in the west wing. I’m sure you’ll love it.’

‘Don’t you want to choose for yourself?’ she dared to ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where do
you
want to live?’

Richard frowned. ‘The west wing.’

Carys shook her head. ‘Don’t you ever feel like rebelling a little bit? How about moving into a nice semi in Carminster? Or a little cottage out near the moors?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Choice,’ Carys said.

‘But we’ve got choice here - there are dozens of rooms.’

‘So why the west wing?’

‘Because it’s convenient and comfortable,’ he said. ‘Carys, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re being rather perverse.’

She sighed. ‘But I’ve only just grown to love it here.’

Richard smiled. ‘I know we seem to spend our time moving around but it’ll work out fine in no time. You’ll see. Now, pass me that picture, darling,’ he said, nodding to the old print of Amberley Court which was hanging on the wall. ‘We’ll take that one with us - make us feel more at home, eh?’

Moving rooms, in itself, didn’t bother Carys. It was not being asked her opinion that irked. Nobody ever seemed to think she might have thoughts on a particular subject and that bothered her. She didn’t want to become invisible. Her job at Gyland and Green had allowed her a certain level of responsibility that, although was not enviable in that it meant endless overtime, gave her a feeling of self-worth. That was important to her. She didn’t want to be the unseen wife who worked quietly in the shadow of her husband.

Should have thought about that before marrying a duke
, her inner voice told her as she walked around her new living room. It was beautiful, of course, with dark cream flocked wallpaper, a wine red carpet and ornate plaster ceiling. The views across the gardens were stunning too. She hated to admit it, but it was far more lovely than their previous apartments.

‘All right?’ Richard had asked her over breakfast on their first morning in their new quarters.

She’d nodded.

‘Think you can make yourself at home here?’

It wasn’t in Carys’s nature to brood over such trifling things and so she’d beamed him a smile.

‘Good,’ he’d said before running out of the door to begin another frantic day of trying to make the estate pay for itself.

And that’s when Carys decided to pay a visit.

She bolted down the rest of her breakfast and headed down the stairs, collecting Mungo and Badger on the way. The other dogs, it seemed, had already found somebody to take them out.

It was a bright summer’s morning, the shadowed grass still drenched with dew. Casually glancing up at the sky to check for rain clouds, she saw that it was a peerless blue, dazzling the eyes and making you believe that grey days were but a myth. The air was soft and sweet and full of birdsong as Carys led the dogs down the driveway until they came to a footpath. It wasn’t the most direct route, she knew, but it was the most picturesque, skirting the beech wood before crossing the open fields which afforded unrivalled views of the Cuthland countryside and Carminster Cathedral’s proud spire in the distance. She could, if she looked hard enough, just make out where her old street should be and liked to imagine her old house smiling back at her. It was rented now, to a young couple and no longer felt like her home at all which was just as it should be. Amberley was her home now and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the world.

She strode through the golden-green fields, her bare limbs warmed by the sun, her strides slicing boldly through the grass. The ground had been baked hard under the spell of sunny weather since the duke’s funeral but the grass remained lush and felt cool against her legs. Badger ran on ahead, his tail wagging furiously like an overworked metronome, whilst Mungo strolled casually behind, stuffing his nose into various plants and holes in the hope of making some great doggy discovery.

‘Come on, you two,’ she called, climbing over a stile and taking another footpath which would take them to their destination.

There were many entrances to the Amberley Estate but the west gate was one of the most impressive. It consisted of one glorious arch topped by a bold relief crest of the dukes of Cuthland, with two smaller arches flanking its sides. It wasn’t used very often so its gates remained closed and locked. But it wasn’t the gate she’d come to look at and, seeing Cuthland House standing before her now, she wondered if it was such a good idea. What was she actually going to say? She didn’t have anything planned. All she knew was that she had to speak to Francesca. She’d looked so pale and fragile at the funeral as if a great chunk of her heart had been chiselled out and carried away. As far as Carys was aware, Francesca hadn’t spoken to Richard or to anyone. Carys wasn’t sure how close she was to her daughters but suspected that they were all so isolated in their own grief that they hadn’t thought to reach out and help each other.

But what made Carys think
she
could help? She’d never experienced the pain of loss. There was her father, of course, but that was a different story altogether.

‘Mungo? Badger?’ she called behind her and the they trotted towards her obediently.

There was a little gate which opened onto a path through a pretty garden. Ash had obviously been at work in time for Francesca’s move and it sighed with delicate colour: palest pinks, mauves and silvery whites.

The front door was large and smart and very blue and Carys reached up for the dolphin-shaped brass knocker and rapped loudly.

Mungo and Badger were happily sniffing round the garden and a blackbird was singing in an old apple tree. It was rather lovely here, she thought, wondering how Francesca was settling into life away from the big house and if she welcomed the relative compactness of Cuthland House. It was still a large home by any standards. There must be at least five bedrooms over its three storeys, but it looked like a little doll’s house when compared to Amberley Court.

Carys rapped again. Silence greeted her. She walked back from the door to look up at the dark windows. Pretty curtains had been drawn back to let the sunlight in but there didn’t seem to be anyone at home.

With her footsteps crunching on the gravel path, Carys walked around the garden to the back of the house. Pots of scarlet begonias and geraniums greeted her and she felt both horrified and amused when Badger cocked his leg, splashing a particularly beautiful terracotta pot. Perhaps it was a blessing that Francesca wasn’t at home.

But, as she walked away from the house, closing the gate behind her, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched. She didn’t see any curtains twitching or any faces peering out from the dark windows but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house wasn’t empty after all.

‘I thought you might like to see your office, your grace,’ Mrs Travis said, leaping on Carys as soon as she returned.

‘Office?’

‘Yes, your grace. It was his grace’s mother’s and will now be yours.’

‘I see.’ Carys bit her lip as she remembered how wonderfully free she’d felt striding across the fields just moments before and thinking how lucky she was not to have an office.

‘Perhaps now?’ Mrs Travis said. ‘It’s just along here and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to make a start on the paperwork.’

Carys tried not to flinch at the word paperwork. Nor did she want to show her ignorance in asking
what paperwork
?

They left the hallway and walked down a dark panelled corridor Carys hadn’t explored before. She’d been aware that it comprised of offices of some description but she had been rather lax in finding out who did what in them. Several doors led off the corridor but it wasn’t until they reached the end that Mrs Travis opened a door on the left.

‘This is your office, your grace,’

Carys turned round to face Mrs Travis. ‘Please, call me Carys,’ she said.

‘Oh, my lady, I couldn’t do that.’

Carys bit her lip. She didn’t feel comfortable being called
your grace
all the time: it sounded so dreadfully archaic, but it obviously made Mrs Travis uncomfortable to call her by her Christian name.

‘How about a compromise?’

Mrs Travis gave a small smile of encouragement. ‘Well, we were permitted to call her grace, Lady A before she became the duchess.’

‘Lady A?’

‘That’s right, my lady.

‘So I could be Lady C, could I? I think that will probably do nicely,’ she agreed even though she was secretly thinking that it made her sound like a character from a James Bond movie. ‘So, tell me about this office,’ she said, peering in to the bright room which looked far too pretty to be a place of work.

Mrs Travis brightened. ‘Well, it’s known as the Old Sitting Room but nobody can remember who actually used it as a sitting room.’

Carys smiled. One more mystery of Amberley Court.

‘It’s been used as an annexe to the library too, which explains the shelves of books. We can have them moved if you need the space for your own things.’

‘Oh, no. Please, leave them here,’ Carys said. ‘They look so at home and I’m sure I’ll have fun reading them.’

‘I think they’re just old books on gardening and such. They should probably be given to the local scouts to sell but the Brettons do believe that once something finds a home here then it stays. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve tried to persuade them to have a good sort out but they won’t part with anything.’

‘I’m the complete opposite,’ Carys said. ‘If something isn’t earning its keep, out it goes.’

Mrs Travis nodded.

‘This really is a lovely room,’ Carys said walking over to the window and gazing down the driveway at the front of the house.