Rory nodded eagerly. ‘Chocolate and ice cream with them?’ he added, spelling the word out patiently for me before wriggling out of Orlando’s arms and taking my hand.
‘We’ll look for some. You go and unpack,’ I suggested to Orlando over Rory’s head, knowing how he liked to be organised.
‘Thank you,’ he replied gratefully.
There was no chocolate sauce, but I sourced a Mars Bar from the pantry and melted it down to put with the ice cream on the pancakes. Rory wolfed them back as I explained to him slowly that he would have to help me with signing because I was far behind him. Once I’d wiped him clean of chocolate smears, he yawned.
‘Sleep?’ I signed.
He frowned reluctantly in reply.
‘Shall we go and find Orlando? I bet he tells the best bedtime stories.’
‘Yes.’
‘You will have to show me where your bedroom is.’
Rory led me up the grand staircase and down a long, creaking corridor until he reached the door at the end.
‘My room.’
As he led me inside, the first thing I noticed amid the football posters, bright-coloured Superman duvet and general clutter were the paintings stuck haphazardly with Blu-Tack to the walls.
‘Who did these?’ I asked him as he climbed into bed.
‘Me,’ he indicated with his thumb.
‘Wow, Rory, they are fantastic,’ I said as I wandered around the room studying them.
There was a brief knock before Orlando entered.
‘Perfect timing. Rory wants your best story,’ I told him with a smile.
‘Then I will gladly oblige. Which book?’
Rory pointed at The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and Orlando rolled his eyes.
‘Again? When can we move on to the rest of the series? I’ve told you many times that The Last Battle is perhaps my favourite book of all time.’
Not wanting to intrude on their bedtime ritual, I headed for the door, but as I passed Rory’s bed, he opened his arms wide to me for a hug. And I responded.
‘Nigh, Stah.’
‘Night, night, Rory.’ With a smile and a wave, I left the room.
With Orlando and Rory happily occupied, I went downstairs and wandered into the dimly lit sitting room where I paused to look at the pictures dotted on side tables around the room. Most were grainy black-and-white photographs of people in evening dress, and I smiled at a colour photo of Rory sitting proudly on a pony, with Marguerite standing next to him.
Exploring the house further, I walked along a corridor to a room that appeared to be a study. An ancient partner’s desk was strewn with paper, books were piled up on the floor, and an ashtray and an empty wine glass sat precariously on the wide arm of a worn leather sofa. Various prints hung on the walls, whose faded striped paper told me it was a long time since this room had seen refurbishment. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a beautiful blonde woman in Edwardian dress. I stepped over an overflowing wastepaper basket to take a closer look, then jumped as I heard the tread of feet on the stairs above me and scurried out of the room to the kitchen. I didn’t want Orlando to know that I had been snooping around the house.
‘One nephew tucked up safe and snug in his bed. Now . . .’ He proffered me a bottle of red wine and six eggs. ‘I can see to one, if you can turn the other into an omelette for us.’
‘Of course,’ I said, and, already knowing my way around the kitchen, it was only fifteen minutes before we were sitting at the table eating companionably. Just like an old married couple, I thought. Or perhaps brother and sister might be a more appropriate analogy.
‘Now, tomorrow, Rory and I will give you a tour of the estate. Given your professed penchant for botany, you will almost certainly gasp in horror at the state of the gardens. But I find their muddle rather beautiful. The remnants of bygone days, et cetera,’ he sighed. ‘And at the root of it all – to use an appropriate metaphor – lies the lack of funds.’
‘I think this house is perfect as it is.’
‘That, my dear girl, is because you don’t have to reside in it or pay for its upkeep. For instance, the Great Hall of High Weald, once the setting for elegant society gatherings, has been closed off for years due to lack of funds to restore it. And I am sure that after a weekend of a lumpy horsehair mattress and the lack of hot water to cleanse yourself, plus the fact that the bedrooms are toe-curlingly cold due to the absence of a modern heating system, you will perhaps alter your opinion. Aesthetically, I agree, but practically, the house is a nightmare to live in. Especially in the winter.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m used to roughing it,’ I shrugged.
‘That was in hot countries, which, I can assure you, is an entirely different matter. The truth is, after the war, like so many families, the Vaughans fell on hard times. I find it rather ironic that little Rory will one day become a “lord”, when he has only a decrepit and ailing manor to preside over.’
‘A lord? I had no idea. Who will he inherit the title from? His father?’
‘Yes. Now’ – Orlando swiftly changed the subject – ‘What can we dig out of that pantry for dessert?’
I woke the next morning in a room I felt I had seen before in a period drama on television. The bed I’d slept in was made of brass and every time I turned over, the knobs on the four posts rang like Christmas bells due to the rickety construction, and the mattress was as lumpy as Orlando had warned me it would be. The patterned wallpaper was peeling back in places, and the curtains shielding the windows had tears in the fabric. Climbing out of the bed, even my long legs dangled a few inches above the wooden floor, and as I tiptoed across it to go to the bathroom, I looked longingly at the cast-iron grate and wished I could light a fire to ward off the chill.
Last night I’d been plagued with odd dreams, which was unusual for me. I normally slept peacefully, remembering nothing of my brain’s nocturnal machinations when I woke. Thinking of CeCe and her own nightmares, I dug out my mobile to tell her I’d arrived safely, then realised there was no signal whatsoever.
I looked out of the window, seeing the delicate fronds of frost that crept across the small square panes, through which glimmers of early morning sunlight heralded the dawn of a bright autumnal day – just the sort that I loved. I dressed in as many layers as I’d brought with me and went downstairs.
By the time I reached the kitchen, a yawning Orlando was already there, wearing a paisley silk dressing gown with a woollen scarf wound round his neck, and an outrageous pair of peacock-blue silk lounge slippers on his feet.
‘And here is the cook! Rory and I have sourced some sausages and bacon from the fridge, and of course we have eggs aplenty. How about a full English breakfast to set us up for the day?’