Will you believe me if I say that in all of those months Edward and I did not ever discuss Fanny? Neither did we consciously avoid the subject. It seems hopelessly naive to say it now, but Fanny simply was not on our minds. There was so much else to talk about, and she did not seem important. Lovers are ever selfish.
It is one of my greatest regrets, to which I return over and again in my ruminations, wondering how I could have been so foolish: my failure to understand how unwilling Fanny would be to let Edward go. I was blinded, as was he, by the knowledge that for us there was no choice: we had to be together. Neither of us could contemplate the possibility that others could not see and would not accept this basic truth.
She has come back!
Elodie Winslow, the archivist from London, keeper of James Stratton’s memory and Edward’s sketchbook.
I see her at the entrance kiosk, trying to buy a ticket to enter the house and garden. There is some sort of bother: I can tell by the air of polite frustration on her face as she gestures towards her watch. One glance at my clock in the Mulberry Room and I know what the matter is.
Sure enough, when I arrive at her side it is in time to hear her say, ‘I would have arrived earlier, but I had another appointment. I came here immediately afterwards, but my taxi was stuck behind a piece of farm machinery and the lanes are so narrow he couldn’t get past.’
‘Be that as it may,’ says the volunteer, whose badge announces that he is called Roger Westbury, ‘we only allow a fixed number of visitors in, and the last allotment for today is full. You’ll have to come again next weekend.’
‘But I won’t be here. I have to go back to London.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure you understand. We have to protect the house. We can’t have too many people traipsing through at once.’
Elodie looks towards the stone wall surrounding the house, the gables rising above it. There is an expression of utter longing on her face and I vow to make certain that Roger Westbury has a particularly uncomfortable winter. She turns back to him and says, ‘I suppose it’s okay to buy a cup of tea?’
‘Of course. The cafe is just behind us, over there in the long barn near the Hafodsted Brook. The gift shop is beside it. You might like to pick up a nice bag or a poster for your wall.’
Elodie starts towards the barn, and when she is halfway there, without a hint of duplicity, she turns right instead of left and slips past the open wrought-iron gate and into the walled garden of the house.
She is wandering along the paths now and I am following her. There is something different in her attitude today. She does not take out Edward’s sketchbook, and she does not wear the mooning expression of completeness on her face that she did yesterday. She is frowning slightly, and I have the distinct impression that she is looking for something specific. She is not here just to admire the roses.
In fact, she is avoiding the prettiest parts of the garden and tracing the outer border where the walls are covered with rampant ivy and other creepers. She stops and digs around in her handbag and I wait to see whether she will pull out the sketchbook.
She withdraws a photograph instead. A colour photograph of a man and woman sitting together outdoors in a grove of abundant greenery.
Elodie is holding the photograph up, comparing it with the garden walls behind, but evidently she is not pleased with the comparison, because she lowers her hand and continues on the path, following it around the corner of the house and past the chestnut tree at the back. She is nearing Jack’s rooms now, and I am determined that she should not be allowed to go without my learning more. I see her glance towards the kitchen where yesterday she saw Jack scraping his pie dish. She is in two minds; I recognise the signs. She just needs a little encouragement and I am only too happy to provide it.
Go on, I urge her. What have you got to lose? He might even let you look inside the house again.
Elodie goes to the door of the malt house and knocks.
Jack, meanwhile, who has been keeping odd hours of an evening and sleeping poorly, is napping and does not even stir.
But I refuse to see her leave, so I kneel down close beside him and blow with all of my might into his ear. He sits bolt upright and shivers, just in time to hear the second knock.
He staggers over and pulls open the door.
‘Hello again,’ she says. There is no hiding the fact that he has just got himself out of bed and she adds, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Do you live here?’
‘Temporarily.’
He gives no further explanation and she is too polite to ask.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but you were so kind yesterday. I wondered if you’d mind letting me look inside the house again.’
‘It’s open now.’ He nods towards the back door, indicating the other tourists who have just been disgorged.
‘Yes, but your colleague on the ticket desk pointed out that I was too late today to be sold a ticket for the last entry period.’
‘Did he? What a pedant.’
She smiles, surprised. ‘Yes, well, I thought so, too. But you seem less … pedantic.’
‘Look, I’d let you in any time, but I can’t tonight. My … colleague … informed me earlier that he’s sticking around to supervise some repairs. Worse luck, he expects to be back tomorrow morning to oversee the return of the furniture to its proper place.’
‘Oh.’
‘If you come back at midday they should be done.’
‘Midday.’ She nods thoughtfully. ‘I have another appointment at eleven, but I could come straight after that.’
‘Great.’
‘Great.’ She smiles again; she is nervous of him. ‘Well, thanks. I might just go and enjoy the garden for a little longer now. Until they kick me out.’
‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t let them do that.’
It is almost six o’clock. The last of the day’s visitors are being ushered to the gate when Jack finds her sitting on a garden seat against the stone wall that separates the lawn from the orchard. He has split a beer into two small glasses and hands one to her. ‘I told my colleague that my cousin had dropped in to say hello.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You looked like you could use a little longer.’ He sits on the grass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ She smiles and takes a sip of the beer. Neither one speaks for a while and I am deciding which of them to press when she says, ‘This is a beautiful place. I knew it would be.’
Jack doesn’t answer and after a time she continues.
‘I’m not always so …’ She lifts her shoulders. ‘It’s been a strange day. I had a meeting earlier and I’ve been reflecting on it. I go back to London tomorrow afternoon and I don’t feel like I’ve done what I hoped to do while I was here.’
I want Jack to probe further, to ask her what it is that she hoped to do, but he resists my urging and in this instance he is right, because she fills the silence without being asked. ‘I was given this recently,’ she says, handing him a photograph.
‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Someone you know?’
‘My mother. Lauren Adler.’
Jack shakes his head, uncertain.
‘She was a cellist, pretty famous.’
‘And he’s your dad?’
‘No. He was American, a violinist. They’d been playing together, a concert in Bath, and were driving back to London when they stopped for lunch. I had hoped that I might find the spot where they were sitting.’
He hands back the photograph. ‘They had lunch here?’
‘I think so. I’m trying to find that out for sure. My grandmother lived in this house for a few years from when she was eleven; she and her family had to evacuate out of London after their house was bombed in the Blitz. Grandma Bea isn’t alive any more, but her brother – my great-uncle – told me that in the week before this photo was taken my mother came to see him, eager to know the address of this house.’