I walk along a gallery lined with pictures, all of them portraits, and I stop at each one and read the brass plates at the bottom of the gilt frames. They’re of my ancestors, starting with the first earl. It feels strange to look at the faces of people who existed a couple of hundred years ago, who built and lived in this house, and yet I didn’t know about it until a few days ago. There are portraits of women too, the Countesses of Cavendish. I work my way along, noting the differences in clothing over the years, until I reach the one that says the seventh earl. My uncle. I’m finally looking at the face of the man who left me all of this.
I can see my resemblance to him, more so than I look like my father. He was a handsome man, also blond like me, and we have the same golden amber eyes. Tall but slim built too. He looks around thirty in the painting, and despite it being only painted twenty-five years ago, around the time I was born, it still has an antique feel to it. He’s in a suit, navy blue, with the landscape of the hall and grounds in the background. He looks serious, like he’s weighed down by life already. I know that feeling.
“Your uncle.” A voice startles me and I spin round to see Jones emerging from a door along an adjoining corridor.
I turn back to the painting and Jones comes to stand next to me.
“He was a good man.” I can hear the sadness in his voice. I guess you don’t work for and practically live with someone for thirty years if you don’t like them and miss them when they’re gone.
“I wish I’d met him,” I say.
“He wanted to meet you too one day,” Jones says, and I turn to look at him.
“Then why didn’t he get in touch?” He certainly knew about me. I get that he was estranged from my father, but when my father died, he could’ve reached out. I would’ve liked to have known him and then maybe all this wouldn’t have been such a shock.
“He had his reasons,” is all Jones offers, yet again the tight-lipped staff member. I’m not going to get any direct answers, that’s for sure. Another painting next to the one of my uncle catches my eye and I move along to look at it. It’s of a woman, but it’s not modern—at least not from her dress, which looks straight out of the 1920s, low-waisted and heavy with beads. A feather boa is slung round her neck and she’s sporting a headdress made from peacock feathers. It seems like an anomaly among the timeline of earls, and I stare at it. Something doesn’t look quite right. I squint until I see it, the eyes giving it away. I look at Jones as he pre-empts my question.
“Also your uncle,” he says carefully, as if waiting for my reaction. My uncle’s secret is hiding in plain sight after all.
CHAPTER 6
KAI
Ilift my head, noticing the sky beginning to lighten outside. I’ve read right through the night. I rub my neck to ease the stiffness and put down the book on a pile in front of me. One of many of my uncle’s journals.
After I discovered the painting yesterday, Jones showed me into my uncle’s study, a large room mostly lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s a large desk, a couple of comfortable armchairs, and a low leather couch, which is where I’ve spent all evening and the night. Jones had directed me to a large trunk next to the desk and held out a key on a ribbon to me.
“He said to give this to you. That I’d know when it was the right time. Honestly, I don’t know if this is that time, but I think it will answer your questions.”
Taking the key, I’d opened the trunk and found it filled with leather journals and a couple of scrapbooks. I put the scrapbooks to one side and took out a journal and started reading. It barely registered in my consciousness when Jones left, closing the doorsoftly behind him. After I’d read the first one, I went to the trunk and pulled them all out, sorting them into date order and starting at the beginning. My uncle kept a very detailed journal, and what I’ve read so far is a fantastic story. Jones had brought me some cottage pie, which was as tasty as it promised to be, but I didn’t stop reading.
I stand and stretch. I haven’t even made it through half of them yet but I need a break. I’d like some air, and more importantly to process what I’ve read. I take my coat this time and let myself out of the hall to start walking. My uncle Edwin had what he refers to in his journals as an alter ego. Winnie, the woman in the painting. It’s curious that throughout the diaries he refers to her in the third person, as if she’s separate from him. I have no idea if this was deliberate or his way of accommodating that side of him. I know he didn’t live wholly as Winnie, but there seemed to have been a number of parties and weekend gatherings where he would spend most of his time as her.
The diary entries are fascinating and occasionally quite sexually explicit. There would be tales such as “Winnie was sparkling tonight and caught the attention of R. She found out the rumours that his cock was nine inches were not unfounded.” Or “Of all the discussions tonight, Winnie found the admission by Lady P—that she finds a bed lined with furs preferable to anything else, which prompted a debate on whether artificial fur was as decadent as real fur and the moral and ethical implications of those choices—most interesting.”
I’ve discovered a number of things. That the parties were almost exclusively held here at Cavendish, and that they were for men who wished to spend some time as women or men who wanted to be with those who did. Everyone, with the exception of Winnie, is referred to with an initial, which mayor may not be an indication of their real name or a name they gave themselves while they were here. But perhaps the most interesting is that I’ve read enough to understand that these men were important and well known—cabinet ministers, business owners, even members of the royal family. All men for whom, if any of this would be known, it would be so scandalous as to rock the foundations of some of the oldest British institutions. Especially as many of them would be respectfully married and had children. That Cavendish Hall was a place for them to freely express themselves and share the company and bodies of others like them is both shocking and exhilarating.
I stop walking when I find myself by the side of my uncle’s grave. No headstone yet as they have to leave it to settle for a few months. I look down at his final resting place, the soil still looking freshly dug over. I wonder if within that wooden box he is Edwin or Winnie, and something breaks inside me. I don’t attempt to stop the tears that flow down my cheeks and drop onto the soil. I weep for an incredible man who I never knew, one who had to keep a secluded life to protect himself and others like him. It’s no surprise that his funeral was just as private as his life; not one person would have been able to attend to even acknowledge their acquaintance. I weep that I would never be able to ask him all the burning questions I now have. And I weep for myself, left with this hall, this title, this legacy, and the secrets I now have to keep.
I rub my eyes, trying to soothe the soreness, and take a deep breath. I’m done shedding tears for now. I want to return and continue reading his journals, and learn as much as I can about my uncle from his own hand. I leave the small cemetery and make my way through the woods, and as I reach the rise the clouds clear and the low January sun fills the valley before me. It lights up the house and I stand for a moment looking at themellow stone. It’s beautiful, and I remember Mr Nagle’s words that my uncle had requested I see the house from here for the first time. I wonder what he wanted me to see, what he was trying to tell me. I see Jason and his brother walking near the walled garden and I’m reminded of Martha’s words about the carefully selected staff, almost a family, the significance of that not clear until I started reading his diaries. The weight of responsibility for it all makes my heart feel like lead as I walk down the hill and back to the study.
I’ve only been back a few minutes when Jones enters with a tray.
“Have you read these?” I ask, holding up one of the journals as he places the tray on the low table in front of me.
“No, sir.” He gives a little frown. “It wouldn’t be my place to do that.”
“But you know about them and what they contain?”
“I do.” He doesn’t give anything else away, but I feel it’s not because he doesn’t approve, more like he’s waiting for my reaction.
“I think he was remarkable. I wish even more that I’d had a chance to meet him.”
He smiles at me, the first I’ve ever seen from him, and I release a breath. I’ve passed the test.
“I brought you a coffee, sir.” He indicates the tray and I look at it for the first time.
“Coffee?” I don’t think I could stand the stuff he made before, but on the tray it looks like a latte. I look back at him.
