It somehow looked dated and brand new all at once, like a locked showroom, left to go stale and gather dust. My eyes fell over the girlish things, reminiscent of someone much younger than Louisa would have been. A child, even.
The glass dome inside a gilded cage, where a ballerina performed her arabesque in a white tutu. The rocking horse in the corner with its white mane and braided tail, with a peach-coloured saddle and reins. A southern gothic dolls house beside the terrace doors, with its shutters closed, as if hiding its inhabitants from the world; allrecluses like me...and perhaps him.
Tears rose in my eyes. These could be my things, if I’d ever had the choice. They were all things I’d seen on the TV in the pub, and in home interior magazines that I flicked through in the post office; things I’d pined for when I was little.
Nicholas had replaced everything Louisa either had or would have wanted, and kept the room just-so.
There was a distinct feeling of fate about it, as if this room had always been meant for me – not Louisa. As if Nicholas had styled it to fulfil all my private dreams of a childhood I’d never had, closed it up, and waited for me.
Like he always knew I’d be here. Like he knew me.
But of course, that couldn’t be true.
“She was very feminine, Louisa. Like a little porcelain doll. So fragile,” said Maggie, following my gaze around the room, looking at all the treasures.
“Where is she buried?” I asked.
Maggie looked surprised at the question, blinking rapidly as she smoothed down her apron.
“Her remains were cremated. Her ashes were scattered in the greenhouse,” she said very quickly, as if I’d made her uncomfortable by asking.
I changed the subject back to Nicholas. I knew I shouldn’t pry, but I couldn’t help myself. Maggie put me at ease with her motherliness and I felt I could confide in her, just a little.
“There’s a sadness about Nicholas. He’s so serious,” I said, trying to choose my words carefully.
Maggie smiled. “Brooding. He was always that way, even as a boy. So different from his brother. Morecontemplative. Quiet.”
“But his sadness...has he had that sadness about him ever since the fire happened?”
Maggie sighed, standing up. She turned her head and gazed out at the drizzle, and the murky view of the gardens beyond.
“People are very cruel about him. Even now, all these years later – they talk. Rival funeral directors from other firms like to spread vicious rumours, implying that Nicholas started the fire on purpose. As if he would tear apart his own home and business, let alone his beloved family, the love of his life, for heaven’s sake –”
I noticed her neck flushing pink, and the fire in her eyes as the anger began to take over. She threw her hands as if to shoo away the thoughts, but they shook as she replaced the cloche on the trolley, her mouth forming a grim line.
“But why would they be so quick to believe he’d do a thing like that?” I asked.
“Because he was adopted. They thought he had no right to inherit the Crowthorne business, seeing as he was Eliza’s nephew and not Niles’, but it didn’t make a blind bit of difference – we weren’t centuries in the past, when a woman had no right to shares or ownership of her husband’s family business. They had the papers. Nicholas was their son, wholeheartedly andlegally,” said Maggie, clenching her hands into fists.
“But they wouldn’t let that fact betray a good story. They thought he had something he didn’t deserve, and so they sullied his name. They conjured up a story that Nick had murdered them all to inherit the business andthe wealth,allbecause there was talk of Nicholas and Alexander not getting along. That’s all they based it on; a bit of sibling rivalry.
“The story spread like a disease for a while, impacting the business. The locals didn’t trust poor Nick after that. Over the years, though, a few loyal families kept him afloat, and soon his excellent service took over the rumours, and now they’re nothing but spiteful whispers amongst the businesses. They’re jealous, Grace. That’s what it is. Jealousy is a spiteful, wicked thing.”
I placed my teacup down on the little saucer and placed it back on the trolley. We shared a silence, listening to the rain.
It sounded ghastly, all of it, and beyond cruel. My heart ached for Nicholas and all he must have gone through; how lonely he must have felt through all of it, without his love by his side. Maggie looked so upset that I daren’t press her any further on the subject of the fire.
“What about you?” I asked instead. “If you’ve always lived here, how did you...”Have a family of your own, I wanted to say, but I thought it was a step too far. Too familiar.
Maggie seemed to read my mind, though. She watched the rain on the windows while she answered me, memories dancing in her eyes.
“Decades ago, my husband and our little son were killed on the northbound motorway. Everything I loved...wiped out. Niles had just taken over Crowthorne House; I found his advertisement in the papers. I sat in that parlour downstairs, distraught, begging them to help me. God, I was so lost. He knew I couldn’t possibly pay for itall, not without debts stretching as long as my life, but I felt drawn to this place. Theyhadto bury my husband and son.” She cleared her throat, toying with the chain at her neck.
“They were looking for a housekeeper. I offered to work for free. Niles wouldn’t hear of it. He was a stern man, he wasn’t perfect, but...he knew a good deal when he saw one. He offered me an enormous discount on the funerals, base costs only, if I agreed to take up the housekeeping job. “What do you say to childcare?” he asked me, knowing I’d lost my little boy. “We’ve a baby, Alexander.” And of course, later, came Nick. “Yes,” I said, “I’d love to take care of him.” Those little boys mended my broken heart. I vowed I’d never leave. I knew I belonged here.”
I watched her silently as I took in the gravity of her words.
“Death brings us all here and keeps us all here,” she muttered, her eyes still fixed on the window. She blinked softly, as if waking up from her memories. “Or so it seems.”
