Page 36 of Ever After

“Maybe,” Lord St Claire says rather doubtfully. He follows my gaze to the statues looming over us. “It’s all rather creepy, isn’t it?”

“Where did the statues come from?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Who knows? Some ancestor of mine obviously had an affinity for marble. Maybe he got a job lot once. It’s usually the way that the St Claire’s approach interior design.”

I look at the towering figure of the angel. She’s carrying a torch and has an expression on her face that’s similar to Blue’s when we have to sit in a traffic jam.

“Very grim,” Lord St Claire mutters. “It’s a funny old place. Some areas are very fertile and anything you plant will flourish, but in other places, nothing works.” He gestures vaguely to a patch of grass by a low stone wall which does look rather dead. “Even the weeds have given up hope." He walks away and we fall in behind him.

I tug at Blue’s arm, so he’ll slow down. “What is happening?” I whisper.

“This is me working on the fly. Take notes.”

“Yes, I don’t think I will because now we are committed to a house tour.”

“Don’t even pretend you’re not getting hard about that. You like house tours more than a guide at English Heritage.”

I snort. Lord St Claire pauses and looks back at us, seeming surprised that we aren’t on his heels. “Come along,” he calls. “We’ll start with the orangery.”

We follow him inside, and he points out various paintings in the huge hall. It’s a stunning building. I can almost imagine the candlelight dinners and balls in the past with coaches pulling up the gravel drive discharging their aristocratic contents. I blink. I could swear I just smelled candle wax. I glance at Blue and note that his nose is twitching like a beagle my godmother had once.

I refrain from informing him of the fact and try to pay attention to what Lord St Claire is saying about sculleries. Even with my love of old buildings, I’m finding it hard to be enthusiastic.

Blue drops back to stand next to me. “Funny atmosphere,” he whispers.

“What do you mean?”

There’s a cold draft and he nods absentmindedly at someone I can’t see. “Sorry,” he says. “It was the housemaid. She’s waiting to lay the fire.”

“Oh well, let’s get out of her way by all means. It’s bloody freezing in here.” He snorts, and I look ahead at Lord St Claire who’s talking merrily about the house. “What sort of atmosphere?”

He runs his fingers gently along a tapestry on the wall. “The house is sad.”

“Is it?”

He nods. “It’s either the house or the occupants. Or both. Everywhere feels unhappy. Don’t you feel it? It’s like a greyness. That’s the only way I can describe it.”

I hesitate and then nod. Now he’s said it, I can feel it. It’s a pervasive melancholy that seems to live in the walls. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I don’t like it.”

Lord St Claire opens a door and gestures us through and into a long, carpeted corridor. The walls are lined with what looks like family photographs and the decor is immediately different from the grander main rooms we just walked through. It’s more homely, with flowered wallpaper and faded carpets.

“We have a weekly tour for the public parts of the building,” Lord St Claire says. “But I thought we’d do something different, as it’s the weekend, and I’ll show you the private family apartments instead.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” I immediately say.

He waves a careless hand. “Nonsense. You’re staying at Gorse Cottage, so that puts you on a different standing than the general public.” He hesitates. “Erm, how is the cottage? Everything okay?”

Blue and I exchange a quick loaded glance and then I smile at the older man. “It’s perfect,” I say.

“Really?” His astonishment is very clear, and he coughs and says, “Well, that’s good. It’s very good, isn’t it?”

Blue’s lip twitches. “Absolutely.”

Lord St Claire guides us down the corridor and opens a huge, studded door. I feel a welcome wave of heat and step through. “Oh, this is lovely.”

It’s a library, lined wall to wall with books. Two comfy-looking leather wingback chairs are drawn up in front of a marble fireplace in which a fire crackles merrily. Lamps offer soft pools of light fighting against the dark day outside, and a tall, mullioned window looks down on the drive. I realise this must be the room where the blond man I’d seen was standing.

Lord St Claire looks around affectionately. “We always keep this room warm. Must keep the treasures safe.”