Barbara Taylor Bradford - Playing the Game

‘Thanks, Mrs R. I think I’ll drive around the area a bit, take a dekko, and come back later for a spot of lunch. Mr R. said you’d be working here all day.’

‘That’s right. I hope we can leave about four or five, not later than that. So, you can please yourself, do what you want. Oh, and Mr Delaware said you’re to make yourself at home if you do decide to relax in the back parlour.’

Paddy nodded. ‘That’s very kind of him.’ As he brought the car to a standstill, pulled on the brake, he added, ‘And here we are, ladies.’ Opening the door he jumped out, then poked his head back inside. ‘I’ll get the wheelchair, Miss Laurie, and then I’ll lift you out. Won’t be a tick.’

At this moment the huge iron-studded oak door opened, and Christopher appeared on the drawbridge with a young man Annette recognized as his friend James Pollard. Before she could open the car door, Christopher was hurrying forward, doing it for her and saying hello to Paddy at the same time.

Helping her to get out, he grinned and exclaimed, ‘You’ve made it in good time! Welcome to the old homestead.’ He then muttered, ‘If one can call it that. It’s more like a stronghold.’

Once Annette was out of the car, he glanced inside again. ‘Hi, Laurie, I asked my friend Jim to come down for the weekend. He’ll keep you company while we work. I’m sure you remember him from the auction.’

‘Yes, I do, and that was thoughtful of you, Christopher.’ She gave him a wide smile, and then turned to Paddy who had appeared at her side of the car.

The driver had worked for Marius for eighteen years and knew her well, and it was with great care that he lifted her out of the car and carried her to the wheelchair. And as usual he thought the same thing he always thought as he held her gently, like a baby, in his arms: What a gorgeous girl, what a shame. In his own way he loved her, but then everybody loved her. You couldn’t help yourself. She had the sweetest nature and he had never heard her complain once. A shame. A bloody shame.

‘Thank you, Paddy,’ Laurie said, looking up at the big, warmhearted man, with mischievous obsidian-black eyes and shock of dark wavy hair. If anyone was a genuine black Irishman it was Paddy. It was obvious he was descended from the Spanish sailors who’d been shipwrecked on the Irish coast when the Spanish Armada had foundered.

‘My pleasure,’ he murmured. He put her into the chair and she went across the drawbridge.

‘I’ve never seen anything quite like this place ever before, have you, Miss Laurie?’ he asked, walking next to her.

This was said in such a droll way, she couldn’t help laughing. ‘No, I haven’t.’ As she spoke she glanced up at the imposing house and took a deep breath. An involuntary shiver ran through her. Annette had used the wrong word. It wasn’t merely daunting, it was forbidding. And she shivered again as a strange sense of foreboding took hold of her and she shrank inside.

A moment later, Jim Pollard was hurrying alongside her, greeting her. ‘It’s so nice to see you again, Laurie. I was delighted when Chris asked me to spend the weekend, and especially chuffed when I knew that you were coming for lunch today. We can keep each other company and laugh like we did at the auction. I haven’t had as much fun since then.’

‘Me neither,’ she answered, and realized how glad she was that Jim was here. She would have hated to sit alone waiting for Annette in this gloomy place. It was so dark and unwelcoming.

There was lots of bustle as Christopher led everyone into the house. He insisted on showing Paddy to the back parlour, where he introduced him to Mrs Joules, his housekeeper, as she came hurrying out of the adjoining kitchen. Immediately, she took charge of Paddy. Christopher then asked Jim to escort Laurie to the blue sitting room. Linking his arm through Annette’s, he led her down a corridor, across the vaulted hall and into the library.

She remembered this room very well. It was gargantuan in size, panelled in light oak, had a huge fireplace at one end, and soaring mullioned windows at the other. Filled though it was with books, there was some free wall space where two exceptional horse paintings by George Stubbs were hanging on either side of the fireplace. She was quite certain they had been painted about 1769, around that time. She loved the formality of the composition, the glossy coats of the horses, their elegant stance, the traditional landscaped park in the background, which was so very English. They were incomparable. And at least they were in excellent condition. Sir Alec Delaware, Christopher’s uncle, had looked after these two beauties very well indeed. This pleased her. If Christopher wanted to sell them, she could get a fabulous price for the pair.

‘You looked at those horse paintings last summer, and long and hard, just as you’re doing today,’ Christopher remarked, coming to a standstill next to her. ‘You said they were valuable.’

‘They are. Paintings by George Stubbs are hard to come by. I haven’t seen any on the market in a long time. But of course they wouldn’t sell anywhere in the same range as your Rembrandt did, although they would bring an excellent price if you were to put them up for auction.’

‘I’m going to keep them. They looked very handsome and fit this room extremely well. They genuinely belong in here, and they enhance it.’

‘Your uncle most probably purchased them specially for this library.’

‘No, actually he didn’t, Annette. My mother told me that the horse paintings were inherited from my grandfather, Percy Delaware, and that he’d inherited them from his father. They’ve been in the family for many years.’

‘How long has this house been in your family, Christopher?’

‘Hundreds of years, since the Stuart period, the 1660s, and it’s entailed, you know, it can’t be sold. It must always pass to a direct descendant.’

Annette nodded. ‘The family is not titled, though, is it?’

‘No. Uncle Alec was knighted for services to British industry, but the knighthood ended when he died. That’s how he made his money, through big business, I mean.’

‘Yes, I know. I did a bit of research.’

He gave her a faint smile, and walked over to the coffee table in front of a leather Chesterfield. ‘How about a cup of coffee before we get to work?’

‘Thanks, Christopher, I’d like that.’ She sat down on the sofa and accepted the cup when he handed it to her. She needed this after the long drive from London. Yet she was anxious to get to work. I must make this coffee break quick, she decided.

Christopher remained standing in front of the fireplace, his back to it, sipping his coffee. After a moment, he remarked, ‘I’ve really searched the house, almost ransacked it, you could say, and I’ve found a few interesting things.’

Her head came up alertly. ‘That sounds promising. What did you find?’

‘A notebook of my uncle’s. It was in an old briefcase, and I must tell you this. His father did buy the Rembrandt in the 1930s. There’s mention of it in the notebook. So the bill of sale is incorrect because his mother’s name is on it.’

‘That’s interesting, but it doesn’t matter. It came into this family at that time, so provenance is valid. But may I see it?’

‘At once.’ Christopher went to the desk, brought out a black notebook and took it over to her.

Annette saw that it was shabby, worn at the edges and had obviously been much handled. ‘What’s in it? Not a catalogue?’ A blonde brow lifted hopefully; she stared up at him. ‘Oh, that would be just wonderful!’

‘Not quite a catalogue, but references to some of the paintings and a list.’

She flipped through the pages, glancing at them, finding the small, precise writing difficult, and handed the notebook back to him. ‘You know where the interesting bits are, so please find them. It will be much faster; I would be searching blindly.’