Page 25 of The Last Night in London
Neither of us spoke as she continued along the dirt-and-gravel drive, our pace slowed by the threat of loose rocks dinging the BMW’s red paint. Then Arabella navigated the little car around a bend, and the house came into view, and for one of the rare times in my life, I found myself speechless. It wasn’t a house really but more like an abbey, as in Downton, constructed of white stone with multiple wings on both sides of the main entrance, six chimneys, and too many steeply pitched roof gables to count. There were more tiny-paned windows than stone, and I found myself wondering what the heating bill must be like in the winter.
Arabella pulled into the wide circular drive and parked in front of the main door, which was set beneath a massive broken pediment and a wavy fan window. Fluted stone columns set flush against the house framed the door and did nothing to take away the warmth offered by the pots overflowing with brilliantly colored flowers on either side. Two worn marble steps led the way up, and before I could suggest we enter through the back, the door was opened and a tall, slender woman in her late sixties stepped out. She wore riding pants and a white button-down blouse, and her face creased with a wide, welcoming smile. I recalled that Colin’s parents were older, although this woman had a youthfulness about her that belied her age. Her riding pants were splashed with mud above the knees, but the riding boots had been replaced with clogs.
“Fantastic timing! I’ve just taken the quiche out of the AGA and was deciding on whether or not it was warm enough to sit outside in the back garden.” She and Arabella gave each other a kiss on each cheek before she turned to me.
“Aunt Penelope, this is Maddie Warner, a school friend of mine and Colin’s from our Oxford days.”
I wanted to correct her, to explain that I wasn’t really a friend of Colin’s, but before I could speak, she grasped both of my hands in hers and smiled at me warmly. “You’re the one who took all thosebeautiful portraits of Arabella and Colin at university, aren’t you? You have a real gift.”
I’d forgotten those initial forays into portraiture, most likely because I hadn’t kept any of them. “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Eliot.”
“Oh, please, call me Penelope. May I call you Madison? I feel as if I know you, although we’ve never actually met, have we?”
“No, I don’t believe we have. And do call me Maddie. All my friends do.”
A small “v” appeared between her brows. “Just not Colin?” Without waiting for a response, she ushered us inside to what could have been a cathedral, but was actually an incredibly grand and bright entrance hall. “Please excuse my attire—Frieda, my mare, slipped a shoe on our ride this morning, so I walked her back. Sadly, that didn’t leave me enough time to change. I hope my famous quiche will make up for it.” She laughed a deep, chuckling laugh that seemed completely alien to anyone who claimed to be Colin’s mother.
Her laugh and smile were infectious, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Penelope had the pretty, fresh-scrubbed face of a woman who loved being outdoors in a climate that allowed exposure without visible sun damage. Only a thin map of wrinkles lined her forehead and the corners of her eyes. I imagined the latter was because she smiled a lot. She wore only mascara, which made her blue eyes stand out, and her cheeks were naturally rosy. Aunt Lucinda would have had a field day plying her with cosmetics, but I had to admit that Colin’s mother fit in so well as the lady of the country manor that I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
“Let’s go out to the back garden, shall we?” Penelope said, slipping her arm through Arabella’s. “I’m very intrigued by your quest to find Precious’s friend, but first we must eat. I am absolutely famished.”
They began walking past the giant staircase, but I stopped, too awestruck to do anything but stare. Light poured in from a wide bay window that ran the entire height of the tall wall. An ancient grandfather clock stood near the heavy wood balustrade of the widestaircase; it would have been dwarfed by the space but for the dark carved paneling that encircled the large room and climbed up the walls, lending the space an almost cozy appeal. An enormous brass chandelier hung down from the coffered ceiling, illuminating the oil paintings of people in old-fashioned clothing hung above the paneling.
The staircase in my grandfather’s house had a lot of old paintings of long-dead Madisons who’d lived there way before I was born. I’d always thought it was strange having dead people watching me, and I used to run up and down the stairs to escape their scary gazes. I tried to imagine a younger Colin racing up these stairs for the same reason, and couldn’t. He didn’t seem the type to give in to childish fantasies.
I stepped closer to one of the largest paintings: a family group consisting of a mother, a father, three children, and a large dog posed in the exact same room I stood in, on the very same carpet and in the identical spot. Footsteps approached behind me.
“It’s like gazing in a mirror and looking back in time, isn’t it?” Penelope said, her words reflecting my thoughts.
“Exactly. How old is that painting?”
“Mid-seventeen hundreds, I believe. But the painted canvas panels on the other side of the room are much older. They are said to have come from King Henry’s banqueting tent.”
“King Henry?” I asked, spinning around to examine the colorful panels depicting hunting scenes that covered most of the wall.
“The Eighth. The one with six wives and a proclivity for removing their heads.”
The weight of what I was looking at hit me, and I had to remember to close my mouth as I stared. All this hung in Colin’s boyhood home.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” I said.
A choking sound made me turn to see Arabella stifling a giggle. Penelope wore a look of surprise. I was about to apologize for using the word “butt” in polite company, but then Penelope belted out one of her laughs, and I knew I’d been forgiven.
Still chuckling, she looped her arm through mine and led us through a vaulted doorway. “Come on, then—let’s eat. And then we can talk about our dear Precious and her friend. It’s absolutely fascinating that you’re related, even distantly. It’s a very small world, isn’t it?”
A young woman, introduced as Anna and dressed in jeans and sneakers, brought out the food and placed it on an iron table set in the shade of the house. A riot of flowers filled every container on the back terrace, and in the near distance, I saw a more formal garden with precisely trimmed hedges and more flowers.
The table had been set with bone china, probably English and also covered with flowers, and the entire lunch of delicious quiche and salad looked like something from one of Lucinda’s celebrity gossip magazines. Or maybe this would have beenMartha StewartLiving. As we sat eating a dessert of fresh strawberries and clotted cream, I wondered how Colin had ever managed to leave home.
Anna returned with a teapot, and I resigned myself to yet another cup of hot tea. Although I still missed my sweet tea, I had to admit that I was getting used to the English version, along with a generous dollop of milk and sugar to make it drinkable.
As we sipped, Penelope excused herself. She returned with two large canvas Sainsbury’s shopping bags and set them on the ground by my chair. “All of this belonged to my mother-in-law, Sophia. It is through her that we know Precious, and how Precious became Nana to Colin. Sadly, my mother passed when I was a newlywed, but dear Precious filled in as second grandmother very nicely. Sophia died five years ago, so Precious is our last connection to that generation.”
She pointed to one of the bags. “These are most of Sophia’s photo albums, letters, and trinket boxes that I found in her room after she died. I don’t think she’d mind you rummaging through them, as long as they are returned eventually. If Colin ever has any children, they might like to have them. And I’m quite sure if this Eva person was a good friend of Precious’s, then my mother-in-law would have known her, too. Something in these bags might be your best chance of finding her.”
“This is wonderful—thank you,” I said. “I’m curious, though. How did your mother-in-law know Precious?”
“They met because of fashion, of all things. Before the war. Precious was a model, and my mother-in-law was a customer who became friendly with a few of the models who showed the clothes. Sophia was one of those rare individuals who got on with everyone, regardless of class or nationality. She was certainly always aware of her status and could sometimes be quite the snob, but that was because of the world in which she’d been raised, I think. I always knew her to be a kind and giving woman.”
