The Heirloom
“Thereit is,” he said, easing his foot off the accelerator, partly because they were at the top of a steep slope and partly because he wanted to savor—and wantedhertosavor—the sight below.
“Mm, wild,” she said. ‘‘But lovely for a week’s holiday away from the rat race.” She stretched her arms above herhead and her legs out ahead of her, and yawned.
He did not want to admit that the mildness of her reaction disappointed him. ‘‘The Cartref Hotel,” he said, movingover to the far left of the road so that faster traffic couldpass them. He pointed to the large whitewashed building atthe foot of the hill. “ ‘Cartref’ means ‘home’ in Welsh,you know.”
‘‘Yes.” She laughed. ‘‘You have told me so a million times, John—and that many moons ago it was one of yourfamily homes. It is no more than a cottage in comparisonwith the others, though, is it? And it is so remote fromcivilization that I wonder anyone ever came near it. Andthey would have had to come by carriage, wouldn’t they?It must have takendays. Ugh!”
“Everything was sold off or given over to the National Trust by the beginning of the century,” he said. “This wasthe last to go—my grandfather sold it in 1920.”
“Probably because everyone had forgotten all about it until then,” she said, laughing again.
He pulled right over onto the shoulder of the road and stopped the car. It was not the safest place in which to dosuch a thing, even though he put on the hand brake, but itwas something he wanted to do. Every time he had beenhere as a boy they had zoomed down the hill, glad to beat the end of their journey, eager to be at the hotel andrelaxing in its old-fashioned but luxurious rooms.
To him it had always seemed the loveliest place on earth. He had never minded its remote location on the coast of Cardiganshire in West Wales. That had been its maincharm, in fact. And there was an added seclusion to theparticular location of the Cartref Hotel because it was located at the bottom of steep hills rising to either side of it.Across the road from it were grassy dunes, a wide goldenbeach, and the ocean. Behind it was a high fern-coveredhill. The hotel itself, once a family home, was a small andelegant mansion.
It had always hurt him to know that it might have been his one day if he had lived in a previous age. It wassomething he did not feel for the other ancient homes andestates that had once been in the family. Just this one.
“Can you understand why I wanted to bring you here for this particular week?” he asked, reaching for Allison’shand and holding it tightly. “Is there a lovelier place onearth?”
“Oh.” She laughed. “I am sure I could think of a dozen without even having to try too hard. But this is very picturesque and I know it is special to you. And I suppose there will be no chance to feel boredom. Notthisweek.”She turned her head and leered at him, waggling her eyebrows.
He lifted his sunglasses and dipped his head to kiss her, despite the fact that one passing motorist leaned on hishorn—with the hood down on the car, they were in fullview, of course. No, this week there would be no boredom.This week, they had both agreed, would be spent largelyin bed, with the occasional walk or drive for relaxation.This week was for themselves. He was to forget his lawpractice, knowing very well that all his outstanding caseswere in quite capable hands for the coming week, and shewas to forget her thriving boutique, which had been left inequally capable hands.
This was the week of their engagement.
He released the hand brake, flicked on his signal light, and pulled out onto the road before continuing on the waydown the hill. At the bottom he made a sharp right turnonto the horseshoe driveway that led up a slight slope tothe front of the hotel. There was parking off to either side,but he stopped in front of the doors. He would park later,after they had settled in.
It was over twelve years since he had been here last. He had come with his parents at the age of sixteen, despitetheir assurances that they would understand perfectly if hedid not wish at his age to go on holiday with them. Heprobably would have remained at home or gone to stay witha school friend if they had been going anywhere else butCardiganshire. But their destination had been irresistible tohim.
“Mr. Chandler?” The owner of the hotel and his wife were both in the foyer to greet him and Allison, even though there was a receptionist behind the desk. Huw Jones held out his right hand and smiled broadly. “I would haverecognized you anywhere, though you were just a pipsqueak the last time we saw you. Hasn’t changed at all, hashe, Blodwyn?”
His wife laughed. “Only that he has got taller and darker and handsomer, Huw,” she said. “How do you do, Mr.Chandler?”
They had long memories, these people from one of the more remote areas of Wales. Not only memories of his lastvisit with his parents, but the memory that his family hadowned Cartref for two centuries.
“This is my fiancée, Allison Gorman,” he said, setting an arm loosely about her shoulders. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones,Allie.”
They were upstairs in their room ten minutes later, their suitcases and bags just inside the door. Huw Jones had gonehimself to park the car. It was a front room at the centerof the house, the one John had specifically asked for, theone he supposed had been the master bedroom in a formerage.
Allison plopped down on the bed after kicking off her shoes. It had been a long drive. They had come all the wayfrom London with only one meal stop. She sighed withcontentment.
“Wake me for dinner,” she said.
He strolled to the window to look out. It was a perfect view. The slope of the hills on either side of the valley wasalmost geometric. Whoever had built this house had takengreat care with its exact placement. There were masses offlowers in beds between the horseshoe driveway and theroad. The tide was half in, but there was still a fairly wideexpanse of sandy beach. The late afternoon sun made ashimmering band of light across the water. There was an old lighthouse on a small island beyond one of the headlands. He remembered that one could walk out to it at low tide.
He hunched his shoulders. If he could just ignore the hotel sign and the traffic on the road ...
There had always been a funny feeling about the Cartref Hotel. Perhaps it had something to do with the name—home.And yet it was not entirely a feeling of homecominghe felt here, though that was definitely a part of it. He hadalways had a feeling of—nostalgia. He was not quite surethat was the right word. He had it now, powerfully strong.He felt the ache of tears in his throat.
Maybe it was merely curiosity, the desire to look back in time to see it all as it had been. Though he never hadthat feeling when he visited any of the other former familyproperties. Mr. and Mrs. Jones must be close to retirementage. He had found himself wondering lately—it was whathad made him bring Allison here, perhaps—if they wouldbe interested in selling. It was a foolish idea when his lifeand Allison’s were so much bound up with their careers inLondon.
Sometimes he wished ... Oh, sometimes he hated modern living. He hated the global village idea. He hated computers and instant communication, though, as Allison had pointed out when he had said these things to her, he wouldprobably scream to have it all back again, if deprived foronly a day.
“Wouldn’t you like to live here for the rest of your life?” he asked now without turning. “Forget about the ratrace? Bring up children close to nature and the ocean, awayfrom the ugly pull of civilization?”
“Telephones, television, modern transport,” she said after yawning, “they are all here, John. You cannot escape them. And, no, I would not like to live in a country backwater, picturesque as it may be, thank you kindly. I am not the back-to-basics type. Don’t get any ideas.”
