Thinking of Ash is still so painful, but I haven’t ruled out the possibility of one day trying to find closure with him too. Presently, though, the thought of him being married to Beca makes me feel as fragile as cracked glass, so for now I need to leave him in my past.
But with this news of Berkeley Hall’s acquisition, I won’t sleep until I find out exactly how this happened. Did Peter Berkeley die?
I make it only as far as my little blue Renault ZOE in the car park before I’m typing ‘Viscount Peter Berkeley’ into the search engine of the new iPhone I got a few months ago so I could listen to audiobooks on my commute to work. I’m still on a hiatus from social media after I went onto Instagram one time and couldn’t resist checking out Evan’s profile. He’d obviously left Berkeley Hall, but I felt so raw at seeing his face and being taken back to that time, I deleted the app.
The results for Viscount Peter Berkeley turn up contact information, a Wikipedia entry and … an obituary:
Viscount (Peter) Berkeley has died, aged sixty-five.
The article waxes lyrical about his important work, his varying interests and the history of his family, so I skim over the words, feeling ill at the sight of his smug face and steel-grey eyes, until I reach the bottom.
The heir to his viscountcy is his only remaining son, Ashton.
I quickly scroll back up to the top to check the date and I’m shaken to discover that Peter Berkeley died in the middle of January, five months after I’d left Berkeley Hall.
Did Ash try to reach me? Didanyone? This was around the time I’d changed my phone, but my number should still have worked. I’m disturbed by the way my stomach has become taut with tension.
I’m trembling as I type ‘the Honourable Ashton Berkeley’ into the search engine before deleting it and typing ‘Viscount Ashton Berkeley’ instead.
Very little comes up about him, but I do find the news of the house sale to the National Trust, as well as the mention of his engagement to Rebecca. There appears to be no coverage of their wedding.
The hope that floods my chest at this scares me. I’m not thinking straight as I open my contacts and curse out loud at the reminder that I only transferred over the details that I wanted at the time.
Back to the internet: I start with Siân and find her on LinkedIn. I’m surprised to read that she’s left Berkeley Hall and now works near Cardiff at Dyffryn Gardens, which is run by the National Trust.
Using the same standard configuration for all NT staff members, I type out an email.
Subject: Hello stranger!
Siân! How are you? I hope you don’t mind me emailing you out of the blue – it’s been a long time, sorry – but I’ve only just heard about the acquisition of Berkeley Hall. Do you know anything about it? I’d love to talk to you. If you could give me a call, I’d really appreciate it.
I sign off with my name and number and then start the ignition, turning my attention to driving home.
My phone rings with a number I don’t recognise soon after I’ve arrived back at my apartment.
I’ve just been reading what I can about Beca. She seems to be living in London and working for a fashion PR company, and her Instagram page shows images of her on holiday in Crete, draped over a hot man with an eagle tattoo on one arm.
The sight of her with someone other than Ash makes my pulse race with frightening speed, but I don’t dare hope, not until I know for sure what’s going on. I haven’t found any more news about Ash.
I answer the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Ellie!’
‘Siân!’
‘It’s so good to hear from you!’
Some of the tension in my body begins to ease at the sound of her warm voice.
‘Thank you for calling me,’ I say.
‘I was so happy to see your name in my inbox. I’ve thought about emailing you so many times, but I never quite manage it. It all became so weird at the end.’
‘I know,’ I agree.
‘But enough about the shit old days. How are you?’
‘I’m well, thanks. I’m still at Hidcote – I love it. I see you’re at Dyffryn?’
