Kristen Ashley - Sommersgate House

“I’m happy you’re here, Auntie Jewel,” Lizzie murmured sleepily, but even tired, she didn’t sound happy at all.

“I’m happy too,” Julia lied, bent forward and gave her niece a kiss on her temple.

Julia rose and crossed the room but stood uncertainly at the door for several moments after she’d turned out the light, completely at a loss of what to do for the girl. She wished Gavin was there to tell her but, of course, she wouldn’t have had to do anything if he was.

With a heavy heart, she went to find Mrs. K.

“I’m off to the husband,” Mrs. K. announced when Julia arrived in the kitchen and saw that Mrs. K was putting on her coat. “Breakfast for the children is at seven o’clock. They have to leave no later than seven thirty. I expect you’ll have a lie in tomorrow, you must be done in.”

Julia looked at the clock. It was ten after nine. If Mrs. Kilpatrick was here in time to feed the children by seven, she was working incredibly long hours.

“I’ll be at breakfast, Mrs. K,” Julia, resolute, told the housekeeper and something in her tone made Mrs. K’s head come up.

The other woman regarded Julia closely. “I suspect you will, luv, but it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Give yourself a wee bit of a break. And don’t you worry. You’ll get settled in, you all will.” Julia heard more hope than certainty in Mrs. K’s voice but she had no time to worry about it because with that, Mrs. K left.

As Julia headed out of the kitchen, she noticed that Mrs. K had put the house to sleep just as she did the children. Curtains were drawn and small lights were on here and there that did nothing to break the dark and everything to extend the frightening shadows of the big house with its large rooms and high ceilings.

Sommersgate House, her home for the next decade.

She shivered at the thought.

It was beautiful, haughtily and even brashly so, but it was not welcoming. Indeed, it was not welcoming in a tangible way, as if it had its own personality, its own set of eyes with which to look down on her with disapproval.

In fact, the house reminded her a great deal of Douglas.

She shook off that thought as she made her way to her rooms.

Julia had not been surprised to see that she had been put in the guest suite, which was off the dining room and down the back hall that lead to a small Chapel (a lovely little Chapel which was really its own building but attached to the house, it nestled snugly in the sloping hill in which the curving drive was cut over a century ago).

Julia was not placed upstairs with the children or the other members of the family, even though all three children had their own room, as did Douglas and Monique. Douglas’s rooms (in plural, Tamsin told her after her and Douglas’s father died, and by tradition, Douglas had moved into the master suite when he’d inherited the title, the estates and all they contained) included his own private sitting room although Julia had never seen it. Julia knew that upstairs there were still four bedrooms besides and still, she was isolated, away from the rest.

Julia always loved the guest suite but now she felt as Monique meant her to feel, separate and not a part of the family.

The guest suite was decorated in periwinkle blue and clover green with accents of mushroom, silver and gold. This strange colour combination worked, in fact its interior designer won awards for it (according to Monique).

There was an antique, tall tester bed that was kept in pristine condition by Carter, (chauffer, errand-runner and handyman extraordinaire). The bed was draped in blue and green curtains and covered with an undoubtedly three billion-thread-count, clover green, sateen duvet. It was headed with twin stacks of three fluffy pillows with an enormous European square resting in front and a plethora of toss pillows encased in beaded, embroidered, tasselled or ruched satin or silk. There was an ornate, ivory marble-manteled fireplace with a chaise lounge covered in mushroom velvet with a clover green cashmere throw artfully decorating it which sat invitingly in front of the fire. There was a circular window that was the base of the turret that rose up the side of the house and in it were two comfortable chairs with a shared ottoman, this time in a sateen clover specked with periwinkle, one with another throw, this in blue, and a small, circular, intricately carved table in the middle. There was a writing desk facing the room with an ornate chair that had curved legs that matched the desk. The gleaming parquet floor was covered in a variety of thick, silk rugs.

Opposite the fire was a doorway leading to a dressing room that started with a hall which was lined on both sides in rails, inset drawers and shelves. This led to an opening that contained a dressing table built into one side with a huge mirror surrounded entirely with bright lights and fronted by a swirly-legged stool padded in periwinkle velvet. Behind the dressing table, a floor to ceiling three-way mirror was set into the opposite wall. Walking further down, there were more rails, drawers and shelves ending in a sparkling white bathroom which featured a mosaic-tiled floor, a claw-footed, roll-topped bath with gleaming silver taps and sprays and a separate shower cubical. Sumptuous towels in blue, mushroom and clover were hanging from heated towel rails and wrapped, rolled and tucked in various cubbyholes with thick piled rugs strewn appealingly about the floor.

Julia shed the suit she had not found the time to change out of and took a quick shower. Veronika had made certain her shampoo and soap were exactly where they needed to be.

Even though she was exhausted, Julia knew she would not sleep, it was daytime in Indiana and, anyway, sleep had eluded her for months.

She located and then put on a pair of pale blue yoga pants and a white, ribbed tank top and inspected Veronika’s work. The fact that she hadn’t unpacked her own case made Julia uncomfortable, not that Veronika would be inappropriate, just that Julia was not used to someone else doing her chores. Nevertheless, Julia had to admit Veronika did very good work. Everything was put in place, properly (even obsessively) hung or folded and Julia noted, a bit stunned, ironed. Rows of shoes matched carefully and lined up perfectly. Her toiletries were nicely displayed at the dressing table and, when Julia went back to the bedroom, the framed photographs and scented candles she’d brought with her were arranged to their best advantage.

A photo of the kids, Gavin and Tamsin with Patricia and Julia sat on the bedside table, everyone with their arms around each other in front of Patricia’s Christmas tree from two years past. Julia stared at it, felt the familiar hot tears at the back of her eyes and shook her head. She couldn’t give in, she’d shed enough tears and now was the time of healing, of moving forward, of making the best of an impossible (and inconceivable) situation.

She sat down and opened the desk. Someone, most likely Mrs. K, had thought to put some writing tablets, pens and pencils and other office supplies in the shelves and drawers.

Just a few days ago, Julia was the head of a grant-making foundation attached to a small group of three non-profit hospitals. She had been responsible for disbursing the profits of the hospitals. With her small team, they called for and assessed grant projects for everything from equipment for basic research laboratories to doctor and nursing fellowships to scholarships for students studying any kind of medicine, be it nursing, physical therapy, midwifery, or the like.

She’d worked there for twelve years. She loved it there. She would miss her staff, her duties, even her damned desk.

Julia shook her head again to oust the melancholy that always seemed threateningly close to drowning her and started to do what she’d always done when a project loomed.