‘Hoity-toity madam that she is,’ said Edith. ‘Fancies herself as lady of Cerensthorpe Abbey.’
‘She is married to your heir,’ reminded Tabitha.
‘The house will choose,’ replied Edith enigmatically. ‘Have you seen Lacey? She’ll be able to organise things.’
‘She was in the orangery about half an hour ago,’ said Tabitha of the organised and helpful housekeeper.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Edith and, gathering up her iPad, left the room with a wave of her hand.
Tabitha returned to her screen, a wry smile on her lips. Edith would be ninety in a few months, but she had the energy, mental capacity and sense of humour of a much younger woman.
She needs it, living here, thought Tabitha as she scrolled across her spreadsheet, realising her plans of finishing the descriptions of the books in the small library before the end of the day were not to be fulfilled. The task, like everything else at Cerensthorpe Abbey, had been fiddly, demanding and full of unexpected surprises which delayed the already painstaking process of cataloguing.
Tabitha stretched and glanced at the huge station clock on the wall. It was nearly 5p.m. and Edith was insistent about finishing on time.
‘I refuse to allow you to do more each day than is necessary; working hours are working hours and if I catch you trying to do more, I shall tell you off,’ she had said with mock sternness six months earlier when Tabitha had taken the job at Cerensthorpe Abbey. ‘You might be my head curator, but the items in this house have been here for centuries; there is no need for you to wear yourself into the ground cataloguing them because of my whim to have everything on a list. They will wait. Life does not. Therefore, my dear, take it from one older, if not wiser: live every moment with joy.’
Tabitha had been unsure how to reply; having come to Cerensthorpe Abbey from a fast-paced marketing agency where overtime was expected, this was a revelation. It also made her nervous; work was her safe place. It was the environment where she was forced to push her own thoughts and feelings aside, to focus entirely on the project at hand, rather than allow her mind to wander into the dark corridors of her own grief and the horror of the events that had sent her searching for a place to start again.
‘Breathe,’ she whispered to herself, as the unexpected wave of panic swept over her. She inhaled deeply, holding her breath for the count of three, releasing it for three, then repeating as her counsellor had instructed. ‘Breathe, this will pass.’
Her dread lessened, ebbing away, little by little, and she was able to unclench her fists as her calm returned.
I’m tired, it’s why I panicked, she told herself as she saved the spreadsheet and powered down the Mac.It’s time to go home.
She returned the books she had been cataloguing to the long table on the other side of the room before wandering back to her desk, shrugging on her jacket and picking up her shoulder bag. She gave one last look around to check everything was as it should be and left the room, closing the door behind her. The long, carpeted corridor stretched out: to the right were the rooms used by the family during the day, to the left was the winding route to the kitchens, offices and other work spaces. Tabitha headed towards the family rooms and the vast oval entrance hall, letting herself out of the stately, double wooden front doors.
A round pond with an ornamental fountain, which was rarely used, was the focus of the turning circle in front of Cerensthorpe Abbey. An elaborate sculpture with the depiction of a falcon soaring upwards in flight housed the mechanism for the pump – the display was designed so the water gushed from the bird’s open beak. Tabitha thought the expression of the bird looked less like joy in flight and more like a scream of anguish.
There was only one occasion when she had seen it in full flow. A month after her arrival at Cerensthorpe Abbey, it had been Gulliver’s birthday and his mother, Molly – who, like Tabitha, lived in a cottage in the grounds – and Edith had announced it was a family tradition to run the fountain on family birthdays. The ensuing spray of water had soaked both Tabithaand Gulliver, causing Edith and Molly to hang onto each other laughing.
‘This is the reason we rarely run it,’ Edith had managed to gasp through her giggles. ‘There’s a design fault and the water is more like a sprinkler than a fountain, unless you know where to stand to avoid it.’
‘Why did you stand beside me?’ Tabitha had said to Gulliver, wringing out the water from her long chestnut hair.
‘I knew what they were doing,’ he had said. ‘Edith sees it as a rite of passage to, at some point, be soaked by the fountain. Not everyone finds it funny, though; Lucia was incandescent with rage.’
‘Edith did this to your wife?’ Tabitha had asked in astonishment.
‘Yes, it didn’t go well,’ he had replied. ‘I thought you’d find it funnier, but I wanted to offer moral support while Auntie Edith played her naughty joke.’
To her surprise, Gulliver had then handed her a towel.
Tabitha grinned at the memory; she had appreciated Gulliver’s support, even if she would have preferred it if he had warned her what was coming. She would have allowed Edith to play the trick, standing where she was directed, but at least she would have been prepared for the worst. She struggled to cope with secrets, even small ones, particularly after all she had experienced during her marriage.
She pushed these thoughts aside and looked at her watch, calculating the time difference. Gulliver would probably be at the airport by now, if his plan was to return by this evening. She wondered again why he was arriving home unexpectedly.
It will be good to see him, she thought, as she followed the path towards her cottage. No doubt all will be revealed.
Her thoughts flickered towards Gulliver’s wife, Lucia, with less enthusiasm. Tabitha was a cheerleader for women; she wasone of five sisters and, apart from the usual sisterly squabbles, the Mundy girls were best friends who prided themselves on always supporting other women. When she had met Lucia, however, Tabitha had quickly found herself wondering how it was that there were people in the world of all genders who went out of their way to be spiteful for no apparent reason.
After plentiful snide sideswipes from Lucia on Tabitha’s hair, her clothes, even her views on a particular television series, she had decided to give Gulliver’s unpredictable and spiky wife plenty of space whenever the couple was in residence.
Gulliver and Lucia usually lived in Rome, where Lucia’s family ran a series of art galleries and gift shops catering to the high-end tourist market. Lucia had a degree in Fine Art and was the buyer for the family’s largest gallery. Gulliver was a financial and wealth management adviser who could work from anywhere as long as he had an Internet connection.
‘Which means I can be supportive of my wife’s career,’ he had said to Tabitha not long after she had arrived at Cerensthorpe Abbey, when they had announced they would be moving to Rome for the foreseeable future.
Edith had been shocked but Gulliver had assured her they would be home regularly – a promise he had kept, even though on the past two visits it had been Gulliver alone who had appeared for fleeting weekend visits with his mother and great-aunt.
