“Is it the copper red hair or the rattling laugh that makes her stick in the mind, d’you think?”
“Both. And her habit of smoking French cigarettes. How did she even get this number?”
“Your father gave it to her.”
“Uncharacteristically helpful of him.”
“Not really. He couldn’t stand her. Probably put her in touch to spite me. But I liked her. She has character. When we shared a student flat a hundred years ago she was fun.”
“So why has she turned up now? You haven’t seen her for years.”
“She wants to come and stay!”
“Really? What prompted that?”
Flora gave a shrug. “She just said she’d heard about me and Philip splitting up, that you and I had moved … wants to come and see our new home … sort of thing. We have exchanged Christmas cards over the years.”
“Still, seems a bit out of the blue. And we haven’t got a spare room.”
“That doesn’t matter.” Flora smiled. “She can sleep in here. The sofa’s perfectly comfortable for one person.”
Xanthe took in the muddle that was their living room. Even though nine months had passed since they had moved in there were still boxes in corners, chairs stacked up, and all manner of office chaos littering the space. Her mother saw the look on her face.
“She’ll be fine,” she assured her. “Helga’s not the fussy type, and it’ll only be for a couple of nights.”
“Well, she can’t smoke in here. She’d set fire to something for certain. When does she want to come?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Blimey, that doesn’t give us long to get this lot sorted out.”
Flora pointedly fluffed up the cushions on the sofa. “She wouldn’t want any fuss. I think it will be rather nice, catching up with an old friend. Especially without your father to roll his eyes at her like he used to.”
Flora showed no sign of finding discussing her ex-husband painful anymore. The divorce settlement had at last been agreed on and all but completed. The first part of the divorce decree had been granted; a significant legal step in the process. Xanthe recalled the day the paperwork had arrived from the solicitor and remembered how subdued Flora had been for the entire weekend. Now though, it felt as if she was properly moving on, putting her marriage behind her. Perhaps she was right. An old friend visiting their new place was another step away from the difficult bits of her old life while holding on to some of the better bits. There was surely more room for friendships now. Old connections being reforged with their new life.
“You’re right,” she said, pulling her hair back to secure it into a band. “It will do us good. The two of you can have a good catch-up and we can take her out a bit. Somewhere nice to eat, perhaps. Maybe a walk up by the white horse. Does she like walking?”
Flora frowned. “Can’t picture it, somehow, but who knows. It’s been years.” The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. “Shouldn’t you be on your way? You’ll need a bit of time to look around the sale before it starts.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve studied the catalogue and planned my campaign. And Gerri’s given me her thoughts on what to look out for. I’ve even put together a packed lunch to keep me going. I have a feeling this one will attract the trade in numbers.”
“I hate the way the London dealers only venture out for the high-end sales and then swan around snapping up all the best pieces because they plan to charge city prices.”
“Do swans snap?”
“You know what I mean.” Flora threw one of the scatter cushions at her.
Xanthe caught it, brushing off the small puff of dust it sent up. “I will beat them at their own game.”
“Just don’t…”
“… blow the budget. I know, I know.”
* * *
However well planned she thought her day had been, the drive to the sale venue took longer than she had expected. Her trusty black cab was running smoothly after having spent some time in Liam’s workshop, but it made no difference to the journey time. The traffic farther west was heavy, with lorries making their way to the motorway and the first holidaymakers of the season adding to the lines of cars and caravans filling the roads. By the time she turned through the charming gatehouses and sped along the tree-lined drive of the big house it was already nearly ten o’clock. As she had feared, there were lots of vehicles in the car park that had the look of dealers’ wheels. She would have to choose her stock with care. No point bidding on the obvious, safe sellers; they would likely reach higher prices than was sensible with so many traders chasing the same lots. She parked between a large van and a jeep with a trailer, which did nothing to allay her fears.
The car park was in fact a small field near the stables, a little way apart from the main house. This was a private property, not owned by the National Trust nor opened to the public, so it wasn’t set up for hordes of visitors, as the temporary signs put up for the sale attested. The route took Xanthe across a spotlessly clean and beautifully maintained stable yard. There were no horses in residence, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how impressive the place would have looked filled with carriages and the horses to pull them, liveried footmen and ostlers and grooms hurrying with quiet efficiency about their work. There was an archway through which the carriages must once have entered, having allowed their passengers to alight at the house. It was only once she had passed under the creamy stone of this portal that she got her first view of Corsham Hall itself. It was splendid enough to make her stop in her tracks, shielding her eyes against the sharp morning sun to better take in the grandeur and scale of the building in front of her. It struck her in that moment that what she was looking at was the quintessential example of a fine Georgian mansion. Its proportions were classically perfect, with three stories of long windows, balanced by a porticoed main entrance sporting fine Doric columns, approached by a flight of broad steps. It was constructed of flawless pale golden stone which showed no signs of weather, no crumbling or distressing, just a smooth beauty that had withstood time and the elements wonderfully well. As she gazed up at the impressive facade a woman with a soft French accent paused behind her, commenting on the loveliness of the place. Her companion’s reply was to point out the impossible cost of the upkeep of such a place; the maintenance of the buildings, the heating bills, the work and staff needed to keep up a house of such size and importance. Xanthe wondered that the house had remained so long in private ownership, as most stately homes of its ilk that she had come across had long ago been taken up by trusts or preservation organizations. That or turned into luxury hotels. The thought made her wonder how the family—she recalled Gerri saying their name was Wilcox—had succeeded in hanging on to it as long as they had. And what had brought the current owner to this point? There was an inescapable sadness to selling off the entire contents of such a historic and significant home. She always sensed a different feel to sales that followed the death of the last inhabitant of a place compared to sales that were to disperse goods and raise money while members of the family still lived. What, she wondered, had made them give up such a heritage?