Oscar had decided that they should start the day early, and Helena made her way downstairs to the restaurant for breakfast as early as possible.
He was already seated reading a morning paper, a large cafetière of coffee in front of him, and he stood up as Helena came in and glanced down at her. She was wearing slimline black trousers and a pale blue shirt, her hair tied back away from her face, which was devoid of make-up. She looked rather wan today, he thought, and for the merest second he saw again the lovely, innocent girl of long ago. He pulled out a chair for her to sit down.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said. Then, ‘I didn’t expect to see you for at least another hour.’
Helena shot him a look as she took her seat. ‘I’m used to getting up early,’ she said. She wasn’t going to tell him that it was the horrible dream she’d had which had woken her at dawn.
Declining Oscar’s invitation to share his coffee, Helena decided to order a pot of tea for herself, feeling very thankful that he, too, seemed to need little to eat. She had never been a breakfast person.
Later, driving rapidly in Oscar’s car, they arrived at Mulberry Court and as they made their way along the broad, curved drive, Helena felt her stomach churn. This was now her house—partly her very own property. The much loved building she’d privately thought of as home all those years ago was legally hers! She still felt it too incredible to believe as she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, looking around her.
There, to one side, and out of sight of the main entrance, were the two semi-detached staff cottages, one each for the housekeeper and the gardener, and Helena turned her head to gaze back as they went past. After her mother had died, Helena and her father had come from their rented house in Dorchester to live in the gardener’s cottage and for the following eight years, until she’d gone to university, she had lived what she now thought of as a charmed life, roaming free in the wonderful Dorset countryside and the extensive grounds of Mulberry Court, where her father had been the full-time gardener and general factotum. Louise, a local woman, had been Isobel’s housekeeper and cook, and Helena would frequently drop in next door to enjoy her company—and share her wonderful home-made cakes.
As for Paul Theotokis, Isobel’s husband, Helena had barely seen him at all. He had been a rather shadowy figure, constantly away looking after his business interests, but when Helena was about thirteen Paul had died suddenly, and the impressionable child had been amazed at the extravagant funeral arrangements and the hundreds of people who’d attended. Huge, glistening cars arriving, one after the other.
‘Who lives in our… I mean… who lives in the gardener’s cottage now?’ Helena asked curiously.
Oscar glanced across at her. ‘Benjamin. He joined the “firm”, as my aunt liked to call it, a month or so after your father died,’ he said shortly.
‘And Louise? I know she’s still here, isn’t she?’
‘She is. She’s been keeping everything ticking over until… well, until the future becomes clearer,’ Oscar said. ‘But she’s having a few days away in Durham with a cousin at the moment, I believe,’ he added.
Poor Louise, Helena thought. Mulberry Court—and her little cottage—had been her home for so many years. Now there was the prospect of no home, and no employment, either.
Oscar drew the car slowly to a halt outside the entrance door to Mulberry Court, and they both got out and went into the house. And as soon as she stepped over the threshold, the smell of the place filled Helena with a warm rush of welcome. She took a deep breath, feeling almost faint for a second as a wave of nostalgia rippled through her.
‘It’s been such a long time,’ she said quietly. ‘Although Isobel very kindly arranged a small reception here for my father’s funeral, it was held in the conservatory… and, anyway, I was so… distraught… I hardly knew where I was at the time.’
Oscar gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I haven’t been here myself much, either,’ he admitted. ‘There just never seems to be the time… or a suitable opportunity.’
Together, and not saying much, they wandered through the rooms on the ground floor, Oscar making notes as they went, though Helena didn’t bother to follow suit. To her this was all so familiar, and little seemed to have changed, she noticed happily.
The glistening, well appointed kitchen was exactly as she knew it would be—the Aga still comfortingly warm and, in the dining room next door, the huge polished rosewood table was graced by the customary massive fresh flower arrangement in its centre. Helena smiled inwardly. Louise had obviously been determined that standards wouldn’t be allowed to drop just because Isobel was no longer there.
The main sitting room leading into the conservatory was still furnished exactly the same, though the heavy ivory-coloured curtains at the full-length windows were new, she noted. The smaller occasional room next door was where Helena and Isobel had spent many evenings together playing Scrabble or watching television.
Further along was the library, which had always been Helena’s favourite place, and now, as they went inside, she was stupidly relieved to see that her figurines were still there in their usual softly lit alcove.
But dominating the room on the opposite wall was the amazing gold-framed portrait of Isobel, and Helena had to put her hand over her mouth to stop her lips from trembling.
The painting was so touchingly real that it felt as if Isobel might get up from the chair she was seated in and step forward to greet the two of them in the room. She was shown wearing a soft, loosely fitting dress in a delicate shade of pink, her luxuriant silver hair elegantly coiffed on top, her large grey eyes smiling that gentle smile that Helena knew so well.
As with the other rooms, every available space was taken up to display all the ornaments to best effect and, as they turned to go, Oscar clicked his tongue, looking back briefly.
‘My aunt was some collector,’ he remarked obliquely. He refused to acquire much for his own homes, preferring to keep his space empty and clutter-free—much like his life.
‘Yes—but there are collectors, and collectors,’ Helena said, immediately on the defensive. ‘Every single thing here is exactly right for its situation. Isobel had an eye for such things and she had wonderful taste—and it shows.’ She paused, her head on one side. ‘I don’t know what you intend… I mean… I don’t know what your opinion is, but I think it’s best if everything is left exactly as it is for the time being—until after the sale of the house, I mean. I don’t think we should move a thing. After all, any prospective buyer is going to be far more impressed when viewing a property that looks lived-in… loved… cared for.’ She looked up at Oscar earnestly. ‘Once everything’s gone, the house will be just an empty shell. Lifeless.’ The fact was, she admitted, she couldn’t bear to see Isobel’s beloved home broken up and sold off in bits and pieces, even though it was inevitable one day. To Helena, it would seem like the ultimate betrayal.
A nerve pulsed in Oscar’s neck as he looked down at her, and he was aware of a certain hunger he hadn’t felt for a very long time.
‘We’ll have to think about that,’ he said, averting his gaze. Then, ‘By the way, as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to have anything you want… Take it now.’ He paused. ‘I don’t need any of this,’ he added.
Helena looked up at him seriously. No, I don’t expect you do need anything, she thought. And did she, Helena, need anything? Despite her prospective inheritance, she could never envisage a time when she’d eventually settle somewhere which would happily house such wealth.
‘I don’t want to think about what I want, or don’t want or need,’ she said coolly.