‘Yes – but look at those chairs.’ Fran stood back and gestured for him to look inside.
Chairs? He peered inside and saw a pile of dusty wood in a corner. Was that what she meant?
‘Look at the feet on them,’ she said, coming to stand close beside him, tapping on the glass as she pointed them out. ‘Bun feet. Sign of quality. And those arms, look at the patina on them. Beautiful.’
Johnny was amazed she could see any of those details from this distance, or through the layers of dust, but as he stared at the bottom of the chair legs, he could see the outline of the shape.
‘Bun feet? Named after governesses’ hair, or a bread roll?’ he asked, and was rewarded with a grin.
‘Do you know, I have no idea. Just know that’s what they’re called.’
Fran’s grin had intensified, crackling like electricity through the sparkle in her eyes. Johnny had to struggle against his impulse to lean forward and kiss her, fighting instead to catch his breath and hang on to any thread of rationality he could muster.
Fran leant against the door again, peering at the chairs. She pushed off the door frame with a sigh, and as she did so, there was an audible click, and the door swung open a fraction.
They stared at one another, the same idea springing into her mind as it did Johnny’s, if the look on Fran’s face was anything to go by.
‘Do we dare?’ he said, pushing at the door with his fingers. It swung further open.
‘Why, Mr Taylor, are you suggesting I join you in breaking and entering?’
Johnny couldn’t decide whether she was being intentionally flirty, or whether his interpretation was more of a reflection of his own state of mind where she was concerned.
‘I think you did the breaking,’ he said.
‘Not on purpose.’ Fran peered around the door, then looked chagrined. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t.’
‘You’re right, we probably shouldn’t. But I want to. Don’t you?’ He pushed at the door again. ‘What do you say? Partners in crime?’
Fran didn’t reply, instead she nodded, lips pressed together as she tried to quash another smile. This place was amazing, and all thought of heading back to the hotel had evaporated from her mind at the prospect of investigating this building – and its contents.
Miraculously, the chairs appeared untouched by woodworm, the webbing and upholstery all needed major renovation, but the frames were strong. And they were beautiful chairs. Fran trailed a hand across the back of one of them, loath to relinquish her hold on them as Johnny headed into the next room.
From the scullery, they walked through a kitchen still fitted with an enormous stone sink and cupboards which looked as though they’d been in situ since the forties. The flagstone floor was uneven, but cool, and the thick walls of the corridor dividing this utilitarian space from the grander rooms were whitewashed and flaky to the touch.
The whole place smelt of dust and age. Authentically musty and unloved, but with the potential for such beauty, if it was shown a bit of attention. A bit like Red, she thought as she tucked her sunglasses into a pocket and shoved her hair behind an ear. He was unloved and forgotten, too, but was beginning to show her what he was capable of being, given half a chance.
The downstairs rooms were numerous and generous in size, full height sash windows allowed light to pour in, and there was what looked like original parquet flooring throughout. Fran scuffed at the grime and dust and was rewarded with the rich tone of hardwood. The place seemed to go on and on with each room opening onto another. They ran out of superlatives by the time they’d worked their way around and were back in the main foyer. As they’d thought when they’d peered through the front door, this space stretched into a vaulted ceiling a couple of storeys high. A pair of staircases ran up both sides of the space, with a balcony landing wrapping itself around the wall, appearing as though it was suspended in mid-air.
‘Do you think it’s safe to go up there?’ she asked, peering more closely at the construction of the staircase.
‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ The sparkle in Johnny’s eyes was hard to ignore, his enthusiasm to get up those stairs barely under control.
‘Tell you what, you go first, and I’ll wait here. That way, if the staircase goes all Indiana Jones on you, I’ll be able to call the pompadours.’
‘The who?’ He managed to retain his boyish expression of enthusiasm, but it was joined by a definite look of amusement.
‘The fire brigade.’
Johnny grinned.
‘They’re not called pompadours, are they?’
He began to laugh, but it wasn’t unkind. ‘No, they’re not. They’re calledles pompiers. Ten out of ten for effort, though.’
She frowned, keen to gauge his level of sarcasm, but there didn’t seem to be any. He seemed genuinely amused, not judgmental. ‘In that case, what’s a pompadour?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘No idea.’
