Finding Home Read online

  FINDING HOME

  Lauren Westwood

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.aria-fiction.com

  About Finding Home

  A month ago, Amy Wood had her perfect home, her perfect boyfriend and her perfect job. Now she is broken-hearted, living in her parents' tiny bungalow, and working in local estate agents in Bath.

  At least her new job keeps her busy. Rosemont Hall is a crumbling mansion riddled with woodworm, dry rot – and secrets. As Amy searches for the perfect owner to restore the house to its former glory, she begins to uncover pieces of the past that some people would rather remain hidden.

  In her battle to save Rosemont Hall, Amy will encounter scary housekeepers, evil property developers and handsome American heirs - and will discover whether the secrets of the past can bring her closer to the future of her dreams...

  To mom and dad – with love and thanks

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Finding Home

  Dedication

  Part One

  Prologue

  I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  II

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  III

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two

  IV

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  V

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part Three

  VI

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Four

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  VII

  Chapter 38

  VIII

  Chapter 39

  IX

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Part Five

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  About Lauren Westwood

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  - Part One -

  The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness.

  ~ PG Wodehouse – The Code of the Woosters

  ‘Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear—without a kiss—without a word?’

  ~ Charlotte Brontë – Jane Eyre

  Prologue

  October, London, NW—

  On paper, the flat looks perfect.

  I rummage in my bag and uncrumple the printout of the particulars. The blurb describes it as a ‘bolthole’, ‘with lots of potential’ in an ‘up-and-coming area’, ‘close to transport’. However, in the short time that I’ve been flat-hunting, I’ve learned that 'estateagentspeak’ is a whole different language from the Queen’s English. I’m pretty sure that ‘bolthole’ means tiny, and ‘lots of potential’ means bad plumbing, a grotty kitchen, and no central heating. The ‘up-and-coming area’ means no Starbucks for miles, and the blister on my heel is testament to the fact that ‘close to transport’ means that in the wilds of Zone 3, the Tube is a twenty-minute walk, but you can park a car in the street without a resident’s permit.

  I double-check the map and put the papers back in my bag. After walking for miles down the busy road from the Tube, I’m finally getting closer to the arrow that marks Thornton Gardens. I like the name because it reminds me of Thornfield – the house where Jane Eyre met Mr Rochester. The sign for the road is half-hidden behind a flame-coloured Boston ivy on the corner house. Turning down the road, I instantly leave behind the squeal of bus brakes and the smell of fried chips, and enter what feels like another world.

  Thornton Gardens is lined with parked cars and London plane trees, and as I crunch through the yellow leaves on the pavement, I spot not one, but two blue plaques on the houses of the slightly down-at-heel Victorian terrace. I’ve never heard of either the composer or the Crimean war journalist that apparently lived there, but I sense a sudden crackling of electricity in the air – an undercurrent of history that seems like a good omen for my new job teaching English literature at the college.

  Near the end of the terrace there’s a ‘for sale’ sign shaped like a giant lollipop propped against the steps. I make my way towards the house. From afar, I can see that the paint on the windowsills is chipped and the brickwork needs repointing. But something flickers inside my chest as I crane my neck and look upwards at each floor of the tall, red-brick house. The flat for sale is at the very top. From the frieze of cherubs over the door to the pigeons swirling in the sky high above the Dutch gable, I have a strange feeling that I’ve been here before. That I’m meant to be here now.

  While I’m waiting for the estate agent to arrive, I mentally rehearse how I’m going to convince my boyfriend, Simon, to come and have a look. Even with some ticks against it, the flat is still over our budget. Whilst I’m content to find a place that ‘just feels right’, Simon will want to crunch the numbers. I’ll tell him that between cycling to work and climbing all those stairs, I won’t need to pay for a gym membership to keep fit. And we can do loads of the work ourselves – it will be so much fun to strip wallpaper, sand floorboards and choose paint colours together, not to mention scouring little antique shops for period furniture. Maybe I can take a weekend course in upholstery or sewing and make the curtains and cushions myself…

  The fragile autumn sun goes behind a cloud and the sudden chill jars me back to reality. I look around for the estate agent – he’s a few minutes late. To be honest, I’m a little nervous to meet him. When we spoke on the phone, he hadn’t sounded overly impressed with my budget or the fact that I’ve spent the last seven years doing my PhD. In the end, I found myself exaggerating ever so slightly about my salary and Simon’s promotion prospects at the bank where he works. Surely finding the perfect home is about more than facts and figures; noughts of a bank balance. It’s about finding that place you’ve been looking for all your life without even knowing it; a safe little nest; an island in a turbulent sea. My mum always says that ‘every pot has a lid’. I can only hope that she’s right.

  A dark green Mini with a racing stripe down the bonnet turns into the road and nips into a tiny spot on a double yellow. A man with spiky gelled hair wearing a pinstriped suit jumps out. His eyes flick past me, and I wish I’d worn a smart suit and heels rather than a vintage skirt from Camden Market and ballet flats left over from my student days.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  Realising that I must be the client, he breezes over to me. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, all charm. I recognise his drawled vowels and nasal intonation from the phone. ‘I’m Marcus Hyde-Smythe. And you must be…’

  ‘Amy Wood.’ As we shake hands, I’m instantly annoyed with myself for forgetting the Doctor Amy Wood part.

 
; ‘Are we waiting for anyone else, or are you on your own today?’ He gives me a little wink.

  ‘Just me today. When I find the right place, I’ll bring my boyfriend round. We’ve been renting for a few years, but now we’re hoping to buy.’

  Or, I am, I don’t tell him. Because when I told Simon that I’d registered us at a few local estate agents, ‘just in case something comes up’, he hadn’t actually sounded too keen. He was even less keen when he started receiving a daily barrage of text messages with particulars of every available flat in a five-mile radius. Sometimes I worry that to him, the rented ex-council flat in Docklands with the leather and chrome three-piece suite and the 50-inch 3D TV feels a little too much like home.

  ‘Good good.’ Marcus Hyde-Smythe’s thin lips curve into a smile. ‘Now do remind me again, are you looking for modern or a fixer-upper?’

  ‘Oh – nothing too modern. I’d love to find a place with lots of character and original features.’ Turning away, I look again at the front of the house. I can almost picture the women who might have lived here in the past: their long silk skirts rustling as they come out of the front door; hailing a Hansom cab, rushing off to attend a fitting for a new hat on Regent’s Street, followed by tea at Fortnum and Masons… ‘In fact,’ I say dreamily, ‘from the outside, this house seems perfect.’

  ‘Original features.’ His long nose flares at the words like there’s a foul smell. ‘Good good.’ He checks an over-sized gold watch on his wrist. ‘Well, let’s go up then. The other viewing should be just about finished.’

  ‘Other viewing?’

  ‘This flat is listed with a few different estate agents. I’ve been told that another couple is viewing it before you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Worry clumps in my chest. Unfortunately, my perfect flat might be someone else’s perfect flat too – lots of people’s, in fact. People with a lot more noughts on paper than Simon and me. But I can’t think about that now. ‘Great,’ I say briskly. ‘Let’s go up.’

  He fishes out a bundle of keys from his pocket and opens the door. I step inside reverently. The foyer is littered with junk mail, but underneath there’s an original red and black tile floor in a geometric pattern. At the rear, a staircase with a railing painted in layers of white gloss rises upward below a cracked moulding of intricate plaster fruit. I breathe in the smell of Mr Sheen, old house, and a slight undernote of wet dog. It’s an unfamiliar smell, but one that I could definitely get used to.

  From somewhere above there’s a clip-clop of heels. A moment later, a ginger-haired woman in a red trouser suit with a clashing fake-tanned face appears on the stairs.

  ‘Hello, Florence,’ my estate agent smarms. ‘Good viewing?’

  The ginger-haired woman rolls her eyes. ‘Give them a few more minutes,’ she says. ‘They can’t keep their hands off each other. They like the flat so much that I think they’re about to try out the bedroom before the offer’s even gone in – or any furniture.’

  The breath freezes in my lungs. Have I lost the flat before I’ve even seen it? ‘Um, I’d still like to view it, if that’s okay,’ I say.

  My estate agent gives me a look like he’s a bit sorry for me. But I’m determined not to be put off by the competition. Before anyone can suggest otherwise, I march up the stairs.

  There are several other flats in the building off the first and second floors, with doors painted in different colours of caked-on gloss. The final flight of stairs that goes up to the attic flat is narrow and rickety. From behind the shiny black door at the top I can hear high-pitched laughter that devolves into a passionate squeal. All of a sudden, I’m reminded of the scene where Jane Eyre discovers Mr Rochester’s nasty little secret locked away up in the attic and her ill-fate is sealed. My resolve begins to waiver. Maybe I should come back another day…

  ‘Do you want me to go first?’ My estate agent comes up beside me. ‘Make sure they’re decent?’ He gives me another irritating wink.

  Ignoring the smarm, I steer him back to business. ‘So can you tell me how this works?’ I say. ‘If I love the flat can we put in an offer today, or what?’ I’m counting on the or what option since I’ll need to get Simon on board first. As we reach the top of the stairs, I take out my phone and draft him a one-line text. If he can meet me after work to view the flat, then we might have a better chance of getting in before there’s a bidding war.

  ‘One step at a time,’ Marcus Hyde-Smythe says, somewhat condescendingly. ‘Let’s make sure you really do love it first, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ My thumb hovers over the send button.

  I turn the brass knob and gently push open the door. One glance and I just know. It’s the right home for Simon and me; the perfect canvas for our new life together. My heart curls up inside me like a contented cat in front of a fire. I step inside a lovely little reception room with a polished wooden floor. On one wall there’s a cosy cast-iron fireplace with blue and white tiles. Beyond that, under the eaves, is a perfect corner for me to set up my desk – just below the row of sash windows that flood the flat with pink and orange autumn light. I can just see us living here: me holding little soirees for my book group; Simon having a dinner party for his workmates. I picture us standing together at the window, clinking our wine glasses and watching the sky grow dark and hazy over the chimney pots of London.

  The sound of footsteps and cooing voices coming from the kitchen shatters my daydreaming. Hopefully the lovey-dovey couple will get a room for a few hours so I can get Simon here and start the process of putting in an offer. I quickly hit ‘send’ on the text I’ve drafted.

  ‘Let’s look at the bedroom again!’ the woman says. For a split second I see a flash of blonde hair at the door to the kitchen. From inside, there’s the sound of a phone beeping with a text message.

  ‘Oh bugger,’ a man’s voice. ‘Just a second.’

  The man comes to the kitchen door.

  Our eyes meet.

  The moment freezes into slow motion.

  ‘Simon?’ I gasp.

  ‘Amy?’ he gasps.

  Everything speeds up again as the terrible truth registers. The rising nausea in my stomach; the guilty look on Simon’s face; the weight of the phone in my hand; and then the lightness as I swing back my arm and let go; the phone flying through the air, bridging the gap between us. And then the horrible little thud as the throw goes wide and my iPhone makes impact with the woman’s pert little upturned nose. And she screams, and I scream; and I turn and run down the stairs; as the walls of my life come crumbling down around me.

  - I -

  Letter 1 (Transcription)

  Rosemont Hall

  April 10, 1952

  Dear Henry,

  I trust that you are studying hard in your last few weeks at university. Soon you will return home to Rosemont Hall. I fear you will find it changed for the worse.

  Yesterday I sold the Gainsborough that hung in the green salon. For me, it was like losing your mother all over again. The house is diminished: the walls stark and empty, the room devoid of the life and laughter it once held. It is little consolation that the beams in the attic may now be replaced, the boiler fixed, and the rose bedroom repapered. I know what you would say to me were you here – ‘the house is just a house; a painting just a painting’. And we would argue about it and agree to disagree.

  But now, my indulgence has ended. It is time for you to make something of yourself. I have a plan that will end this sorry plight and restore the fortunes of our family and our proud heritage. By the time you return, the arrangements will be in place. Until then, I remain…

  Your father

  - 1 -

  November …

  Nailsea, Somerset

  The car sputters as I pull into the driveway of the bungalow, as if it doesn’t want to be seen outside. I find third gear instead of first, and everything clunks to a halt. Mrs Harvey, the neighbour next door, twitches the curtains at her kitchen window and gives me a little wave. I force myself to smile back at
her until she disappears again, no doubt off to phone her friends at the Scrabble club to tell them that not only is Amy Wood back at home living with her parents, but she can’t drive properly either.

  I open the car door but can’t quite muster the will to get out. Leaning against the headrest, I close my eyes. Everything that happened on that horrible afternoon – was it really a month ago already? – comes rushing back. The horror, the crushing panic, the jealous disbelief at seeing my boyfriend of seven years standing there in that quaint little flat, canoodling with another woman. It was only afterwards that I realised that I knew her – ‘Ashley’, the P.E. teacher at the sixth-form college where I taught – a little blonde, American thing who’s also some kind of Olympic athlete. Now with a wonky nose, thanks to me and my poor aim.

  But worst of all was the aftermath… The chairman of the department’s voice: ‘I’m sorry, Ms Wood, but the Board of Governors cannot condone a teacher-on-teacher assault – no matter what the circumstances.’ My tears and protestations, and his further reply: ‘Yes, I’m sure the flat did have the most wonderful original features…’

  ‘You okay, Princess?’

  I blink back to reality. My dad is standing on a ladder at the front of the bungalow, tussling with a wisteria vine that’s drooping over the window. I force myself to get out of the car and walk over to him. The bungalow was built in the 70s – all red-brick, pebble-dash and stained wood, identical to every other one on the road. When my parents decided to sell the little half-timbered cottage I grew up in and move to town, I felt like a little plant uprooted from my plot of earth and plopped into a plastic pot in a DIY store. I hated the bungalow; everything – from the orange pile carpet and avocado bathroom suite, to the view of the lightening-blackened oak tree out my bedroom window – felt wrong.

  But to be fair, over the years, Dad has worked hard on the place. The bungalow always has a fresh coat of white paint around the door, and the garden still looks lush in the pale November sun. To them, home is being walking distance from the shops and the local church, and down the road from the pub where they play Scrabble and bridge every week. It’s a comfortable, friendly place for their retirement, and I really can’t argue with that.