Chapter 32

Thirty-Two

THE CONSERVATORY

I sat in the Conservatory with one of Aunt Louisa’s diaries in my hand, my legs crossed, my foot bouncing.

Update.

Clearly Portia and Daniel were in the throes of an epic make-up fuck session. They hadn’t been seen all day, and to my text to ask her how she was, Portia replied, Talk later, Daph. We’re busy. She ended that with five kissy face emojis, and if I didn’t get the gist, an eggplant and a peach.

No.

My sister would never grow up.

I found that heartening and worrying at the same time.

Ian and I would be doing much the same thing, however, if he hadn’t set a late morning meeting with his dad to talk about the title handover.

So, although I’d read a bit of what Louisa wrote about Lord Walter and Lady Anne (and yes, they seemed a true love match), mostly my mind was on what was happening with Ian and his dad.

It seemed he’d been gone forever, and I was worried.

When he emerged from the plants about two minutes after I had that thought, I was no less worried.

“Looking at your face, I don’t really have to ask how it went, but still, I’m going to ask. How’d it go?”

“For shit,” he bit off, going directly to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a stiff whisky, not bothering with ice.

He came to me with glass in hand, folded onto the couch beside me and immediately turned to his cigarettes.

“Since nothing is going to change, except a title, I don’t know how it could go poorly,” I noted carefully.

He lit his smoke, blew out a plume, sucked back some whisky even though it was barely noon, and said, “I didn’t say things weren’t going to change.”

“Uh-oh,” I mumbled.

He turned to me. “As this event began to loom, I pulled the covenants and read them. So did my solicitor. I had ideas. Obviously, I would carry them out after Mum and Dad were no longer with us, but I had ideas.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like the days of house parties and hundreds of people attending a ball are long gone. Mum entertains. Small dinner parties. Huge bashes for all our birthdays. Her annual Christmas party. They host a Bonfire Night out on the front lawn every November for the village. And she and Dad throw a massive event every five years for their wedding anniversary.”

That would seem sweet if they were a happily married couple who were truly celebrating their love through the years.

As it was, it was more than a little sad that Lady Jane would go through that motion.

“Okay,” I prompted when Ian said no more.

“But I’m sure you’ve noticed on the first two floors alone, three wings of eight go entirely unused. The whole second floor is constantly deserted. It’s a waste.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“So, I thought a veteran’s convalescent home,” he continued. “Or an orphanage. Or a psych hospital. There aren’t enough good mental healthcare facilities in this country.”

I was staggered.

And more than a little alarmed.

“You’re going to turn Duncroft into…something not a home?”

“Daphne, for the most part, only two people live here. The trust that runs this place is embarrassingly enormous. It’d have to be to use the interest to run this house and provide for the staff and family in it. But the years of something like Duncroft existing for the purpose it was built, to lord, quite literally, over the location where it was erected, are long past. This is a relic of another time. But it could be useful.”

I couldn’t disagree about that either, even though it gave me a funny feeling it wasn’t mine to have.

And this explained how things went awry with his dad.

“I can imagine your father definitely wasn’t thrilled with that news.”

“I didn’t share it. The covenants are ironclad. As long as the Alcott trust can support this house, it’s to be used only as the home of the earl. It cannot be deeded or gifted, not even to someone inside the family, should I, say, want to give it to Danny. It can be used for no commercial enterprise. It is for the earl’s personal use only.”

“Okay,” I repeated slowly.

“So I had another idea. And that is what Dad got pissed as shit about.”

“What is that?”

“I told him, he and Mum are secure. I had no plans to take over, move home from London, change anything, even their allowances, unless inflation or the market forces me to. That went over fine. He seemed relieved.”

He took a drag of his cigarette, another sip of whisky, but didn’t immediately return to talking.

So I pushed, “And?”

“Then I told him Duncroft was a part of the British legacy. That it wasn’t just the earls who made it great. The people who built it, the people who staffed it and took care of it, the things collected along the way that are in it, were a testimony to this country. And as such, it should be enjoyed. And although I assured him it wouldn’t be through the National Trust or English Heritage, both of which he respects, in a manner, since they safeguard and maintain some of Britain’s greatest structural, historical and natural locations, he still looks down on those who own their properties and allow visitors through those organizations. Nevertheless, I told him I’m opening the house for two weekends a month to ticketed tours to show people this legacy.”

Another sip and puff and he continued.

“I went on to share the monies received from ticket sales would pay for the tours, and anything left over would be invested in the village. The school or the ambulance service, or no-interest loans to farmers or businesses who might fall on hard times.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

And it didn’t.

It sounded like a great idea.

“Dad doesn’t agree. He was livid. His face got so red, I thought he’d have a stroke. He told me, over his dead body would Duncroft be open ‘to just anybody.’ Regrettably for him, he has no choice. I told him he could absent himself for two Saturdays and Sundays a month from ten to the last tour ending at four, or hide in his room, which would be part of the house not opened to the tour, obviously. Alternatively, he could move out and live somewhere else.”

I stretched out my lips in a non-verbal Eek!

“This isn’t Buckingham Palace, darling,” Ian replied to my expression. “We don’t have an army of staff and host heads of state. Even at Christmas, when Dad’s brothers and sister and my cousins come and stay for a week, only twelve bedrooms are occupied, outside direct family. We have forty-three bedrooms in this house.”

“Yowza.”

“Indeed.”

“So, he lost it,” I deduced.

“He did,” Ian confirmed. “We have three Turners, one Gainsborough, and Persephone was sculpted by fucking Bernini.”

I knew those were Turners and Gainsborough!

And Bernini?

Whoa.

“There’s a magnificent piece by Ansdell in the Hunt Room in the northwest wing. That room’s never used because we no longer hunt, so no one even sees it, for fuck’s sake,” he groused.

I reached out and curled my hand on his knee.

“You don’t have to convince me, honey,” I said soothingly.

It was like I didn’t say anything.

“Houses like this are museums and they should be treated as such. History is fascinating, rich and full of beauty and tragedy. What’s left of that in this house is just beauty. And it should be shared.”

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

He seemed to realize he was no longer stating his case to his father and fully focused on me.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m annoyed.”

“I can tell.”

He watched me closely. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” I said readily.

Ian grew silent, but he did it still watching me.

“You love this house,” I said quietly. “You want other people to enjoy it. You want it to be useful. I think that’s beautiful.” I gave his knee a squeeze. “He’ll come around.”

“He won’t. He’ll hate it every weekend there are tours. He’ll never change his mind. He’ll bitch and hand me shit about it, and he’ll never forgive me for doing it. But I’m doing it.”

At that, I fell silent.

After another sip and drag, he suggested, “Let’s stop talking about it.”

“If that’s what you want.”

His eyes fell to the diary. “What are you reading?”

“About Walter and Anne. The derring-dos of Duncroft’s only pirate and the damsel who waited breathlessly in their home for him to return from his adventures on the high seas. I think I dreamt about them last night. Though, their outfits were wrong. They were all medieval.”

“You dreamt again last night?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“It wasn’t a bad dream. It started with me having a conversation with Dorothy, however. She was kind of a hoot.”

It appeared he didn’t like that. “A conversation with Dorothy?”

“Yes. We were sitting in a void, and she told me Rose didn’t kill her, neither did David.” I grinned. “I think she liked me. At least she told me so. Then again, as you well know, I’m highly likeable.”

Ian didn’t shift with my mood.

He demanded, “What else did she tell you?”

I sobered and shared, “That she was in love with William. That he hurt for Rose. It all faded away and I was in the bailey of a castle, just inside the gate. Some woman, presumably Anne, ran out to meet her husband when he came home from somewhere.”

“The castle was gone before Walter’s time. Dismantled. Some of the stone was used to build Duncroft. He and Anne lived in this house.”

“I know. The dream got it wrong.”

His gaze coasted to the drinks cabinet, down to the whisky in his hand, and he muttered, “I don’t like these dreams.”

“A lot is happening in my days. It stands to reason my mind would process it at night.”

He looked back to me. “Who did the Dorothy in your dream say killed her?”

I shrugged. “She didn’t. She said it was more important for me to worry about what’s happening in this house. I didn’t disagree. Oh, and she told me to tell you about the flute.”

He grew very still, and his words were vibrating strangely when he asked, “The flute?”

I didn’t like his affect or his tone, so it was hesitant when I said, “The flute up in the Music Room, on the second floor.”

He remained perfectly still for a long, tense moment.

Then he surged forward and crushed out his cigarette, his glass went down with a crash, and he was up and moving.

Heart already racing, I got up and followed him.