Ash left Berkeley Hall only weeks after I did? If he was willing to walk away from his family and all this, why didn’t he come to find me?
‘He came back after his father died,’ Catrin reveals.
‘Can you tell me anything else?’ I ask desperately.
‘No, but his mother might be able to.’
The public car park is closed to visitors and a green barrier is down across the entrance. I notice a National Trust office that wasn’t there before, with a new entranceway to thehouse and gardens. Over the top of a beech hedge is what looks to be the beginnings of a children’s adventure playground.
Pride swells inside me. I can’t believe Ash did it. It can’t have been easy to give up five hundred years of his family’s heritage. How did he come to make that decision? The regret I feel at not being here to help him face whatever he’s been going through makes me feel as though I’ve stepped into quicksand.
But I have to keep my chin up. I still need answers.
In the end I park on the verge by the walled garden and walk to the hall. The sun set a while ago and the sky is a deep navy blue, but there’s enough light to see the house looming above me as I approach, and once I reach the gatehouse, I can see that there is no doorbell.
Suddenly I remember the understated side entrance Ash and I used after his father walked in on us. I feel a wave of nausea at the memory as I walk on past the western bay of the house, my footsteps on the gravel sounding overly loud.
A small security light comes on as I approach the private entrance to the family’s living quarters, and I’m relieved to see that there’s an intercom with a built-in camera fixed to the wall. But then I remember who I’ve come to see and my anxieties rise once more.
I press the button and wait, folding my arms across my chest.
‘Hello?’ A tinny voice comes out of the speaker.
‘Hi, I’m here to see Lady Berkeley.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Eleanor Knapley.’
‘Please wait.’
What if she refuses to see me? There’s every chance she will. I still have Beca as an option, but I’ll have to create an Instagram account and the thought of contacting her makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I will, though. I’ll do anything.
The door opens and a young woman in her early twenties appears, dressed in a black dress with the Berkeley crest embroidered in white on her right breast.
‘Come in, please.’
Relief cascades over me as I follow her in and up the narrow staircase to the family’s private door. She deposits me in the grand living room that Ash once told me was his mother’s favourite place to socialise.
‘Please wait,’ the housekeeper says. ‘Lady Berkeley will be here in a minute.’
I don’t sit down. I’m too agitated remembering what happened the last time I was here. But then I look towards the windows and try to think of the view, the Berwyn Mountains off in the distance.
‘Eleanor Knapley.’
At the voice of Philippa Berkeley, I whip round and breathe in sharply.
She looks like a different woman. She’s wearing no make-up and she’s drawn, gaunt. Her dress is loose-fitting, but I can see how thin her arms are, and when she walks towards me, her hip bones jut against the pale grey fabric.
‘Please, take a seat.’
She indicates one of her sofas and sits down opposite. We’re divided by a low wooden coffee table.
‘I didn’t think I’d see you again,’ she says.
She doesn’t sound dry, she doesn’t sound bitter or haughty or angry.
