She produced a bottle of wine and two glasses, and trailed by what, to Ellis, seemed like every Labrador in the northern counties, they walked out through the French windows and across the terrace. Crossing the lawn, they found a battered-looking wooden table with four mismatched chairs set under a shady tree and made themselves comfortable. The dogs found a patch of shade, collectively retracted their undercarriages and fell deeply and doggily asleep.
‘This is very nice,’ said Ellis, looking up at the rambling building around them and thinking nice must be the understatement of the year. The building had surely passed ‘nice’ about six hundred years ago.
‘Originally built in the late fourteen hundreds,’ said North, unconsciously confirming his thoughts. ‘Then again in the fifteen hundreds. And again in the sixteen hundreds. Then added to in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds. Mostly rebuilding because the family invariably backed the wrong side in whatever wars were going on at the time. We were for Mathilda, not Stephen, until it was too late. We were Yorkists under the Henrys and then Lancastrians under Edward. We backed the northern Catholics against Elizabeth, and declared for the king against Cromwell. We stood solidly behind both the Young and Old Pretenders and just generally got it wrong every time. The only time we did get it right was against Hitler. Fortunately, the then countess couldn’t stand either Edward or Wallis Simpson so there was no danger of us becoming embroiled with the Nazis. Oh, and we were a first-aid post and hospital during the Civil Uprisings so the east wing took a bit of a bashing. Thirsk sent a lot of their people here to recover so we did at least get it right that time. Otherwise, we’re a bit of a disaster when it comes to picking winners. Most of us have to take a blood oath never to back horses. Archie says that even today most of the aristocracy look to see what the Norths are doing, then head firmly in the opposite direction.’
She sipped her wine, staring up at the building. ‘It’s not huge, but it seems so because it rambles about all over the place – that’s because usually not only could the earls and their spouses not stand each other, but they never liked their offspring either, so everyone wanted as much space as possible between themselves and the rest of their family. Half the house is practically in the next county. Anyway, picturesque makes up for grand, or so they tell me.’
Major Ellis was very fond of his parents and the three-bedroomed semi-detached house they’d lived in all their married life. Not grand, nor rambling, nor picturesque. If, for some reason, his parents weren’t speaking to each other, then his father sat in the garden shed for half an hour. Or until his mother took him out a cup of tea – whichever came first – but it was as warm and welcoming as his parents could make it. He remembered the sacrifices they’d made to give him an education. How they’d struggled to give him as good a start in life as they could manage.
‘You’re very lucky to live here.’
‘I am, yes. The boys, less so. Especially Archie.’
He sipped his wine. ‘How so?’
‘He was born to be Earl of Blackbourne, but he really wants to be an architect. He did the training. He even worked in London for a couple of years. He was good. He enjoyed it. Then our father died, and like it or not, he wasn’t an architect any longer – he was officially the Earl of Blackbourne, with everything that entails.’
Ellis gestured around. ‘Living here, for example.’
‘Yes. Living here. Attending to estate duties. The social round. Obligations. Responsibilities. Some people like that sort of thing. Archie just wants to design buildings.’
‘What does Davey do?’
‘Davey was in the army. He loved it but he had to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘He served – all the boys do – but he’s the spare. Until Archie marries and has a son, Davey’s next in line. We can’t afford to have anything happen to him until the succession is assured, so out he came.’
‘What will he do?’
‘I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t.’
‘What about Chuffy?’
She twisted her glass on the table. ‘Chuffy’s dead.’
He sat up with a jerk. ‘Celia, I’m so sorry. Why . . . ? How . . . ?’
‘He died . . . oh . . . about twelve years ago now.’
‘How?’
She nodded across the green lawns. ‘Drowned in the lake.’
He followed her gaze. ‘That one?’ and then kicked himself for his stupidity. How many lakes could one family possibly have?
‘Yes, that one. There’s another smaller one on the other side of the Rose Garden, but no – that one. You’ll notice, when Mama comes home this evening, she’ll always sit with her back to it. And she rarely ventures around this side of the house at all. She sits in the White Garden when she’s home.’
‘What happened? If you want to tell me.’
‘He fell in. She ran to save him. Everyone ran. She just didn’t get to him in time. She swam and dived for hours looking for him. Convinced he’d bob to the surface at any moment – and of course, he never did. They recovered his body a day later.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I wasn’t home at the time. I was at school.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Nine years old. Oh, he could swim. He was quite good. But not that day.’
She fell silent.
‘Would you like me to make a clumsy effort to change the subject?’
She smiled. ‘That would be a very good idea.’
‘So, Archie the earl, Davey the . . . ?’
‘Ex-Major.’
‘What about you, Celia . . . ?’
‘I’m not sure. I have no calling. I don’t want to be an architect or a soldier. I especially don’t want to be an earl.’
The words, ‘And now I’m not going to be a Hunter,’ hung unspoken.
She seemed to shake herself. ‘But we can’t walk away, can we? Living here is painful for Mama – because of Chuffy – that’s why she spends most of her time in London. But we can’t sell up and move. We don’t own the house – it’s entailed so the house owns us and we must do our duty – that’s what we’re bred to do.’
He considered this for a while. ‘Where do you see yourself ending up, Celia?’
She smiled suddenly. ‘Wherever I like. There’s no pre-ordained path for me – for which I am extremely grateful. It used to be that it was the girls whose lives were so restricted. There would be a little light schooling – certainly not enough to clog up their tiny brains – then they’d be presented at court and dynastically married off to some chinless oik. A year later they’d produce the heir and then two years after that, the spare. Duty done, they’d be permitted a couple of discreet affairs, then a spot of drug or alcohol addiction, followed up shortly afterwards with death by boredom. Now, thank God, we can do as we please. Look at Mama – I’m not too sure what she gets up to in London – it’s classified – but I know she’s something big at Whitehall. No, these days it’s the boys who have the short end of the stick.’