Rumours. Freya North

it Elmfield?’ she could hear another voice asking.

      ‘No, it’s Stella Someone.’

      ‘Well, it’s probably Stella Someone from Elmfield’s. Gracious me!’

      That must be Lady Fortescue.

      The plump woman returned. ‘Are you from Elmfield’s?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Stella. ‘Sorry – I should have said.’

      ‘Come this way, please. Coat.’

      But what Stella really wanted to do was stand still for a moment and take it all in. Beyond the entrance hall was the grand stairwell, lit from above by a beautiful glass lantern roof, a swooping double staircase leading upwards to a galleried landing. But her coat was being all but wrenched from her back.

      ‘I’m Mrs Biggins – I’m housekeeper here. Lady Lydia takes coffee at this time – would you like coffee?’

      ‘No, thanks. Well – just a glass of water, please.’

      ‘Or tea?’

      ‘Tea! Oh yes, please – I’m gasping for a cup.’

      The woman looked her up and down. ‘You’ll take it strong – like me.’ Stella was unsure whether she was referring to her own strength or a well-brewed cup, whether the woman’s remark was an observation, or a statement not open to dispute. If the housekeeper was this disarming, what could Lady Fortescue be like? Mrs Biggins opened the soaring double doors in front of them and gave Stella a little shove. The room was so stunning, in a thoroughly Alice in Wonderland way with everything oversized, that momentarily Stella forgot all about locating the owner of the house and making her introduction. It was dual aspect, occupying three bays of the east front of the house and one bay south, and the four magnificent sash windows, at least eighteen feet high, flooded the room with light despite the dreary day outside. Stella was, quite literally, dazzled.

      ‘Good morning.’

      Sitting in a wingback leather chair, Lydia slowly folded the Telegraph and placed it across her lap. Her knees were together, her legs neatly at an elegant angle; hair in a chignon with stray strands like spun silver. She wore a woollen skirt the colour of peat and a twinset the colour of heather. Her shoes were buffed and the decorative buckles shone. Neutral hosiery gathered just perceptibly in creases around the ankle – like a ploughed field seen from a distance.

      ‘Mrs Fortescue, I’m Stella Hutton.’ And immediately, Stella thought, oh God, I’ve addressed her incorrectly already. ‘Lady.’ No! That sounded plain rude.

      Lydia did not rise. Indeed, she sat motionless and expressionless. ‘I see.’

      ‘I’m here on behalf of Elmfield Estates.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Should she backtrack and apologize for the botched greeting? Stella was unsure. She didn’t know what she was meant to do next. Sit, stand, talk, wait, what? She was being looked at, assessed; she could feel it. It was as nerve-wracking as the one time she’d been hauled in front of the headmistress at the age of thirteen. She felt hot and self-conscious. Did she appear suitably estate-agenty? Or was the fact that she really didn’t do the navy skirt-suit and court-shoe thing actually in her favour? She was today wearing slim-fitting black trousers and black suede ankle boots with a Cuban heel and a white shirt. Perhaps she looked too much like a waitress. Damn it! She’d been in the pale blue shirt first thing, but had changed at the last minute. Perhaps Mrs Lady Barbary-Fortescue was waiting for her to be a little more estate-agenty. Perhaps she should deliver the Elmfield Estates mission statement.

      What Stella really wanted to do was to sink into one of the sofas and say, wow, what an extraordinary place, how long have you lived here, tell me about the house, who is the lady in the painting – is it School of Reynolds? The rug is Persian, isn’t it?

      She was enamoured by everything: the carved frieze above the fireplace of cherubs apparently hunting down a deer; the wealth of photos from sepia, to tinted, to full colour, in a crowd on the grand piano, the thick velvet drapes, the Chinese paintings on silk. The glass-fronted book cabinet. The vast silk rug – yes, most certainly Persian – threadbare in one or two places but still magnificent, yet which went only some way in covering the impressive run of wide floorboards. Huge, heavy columnar curtains with flamboyant pelmets that reminded her of a theatre. More furniture than she, her brothers and her mother had between them. Finally, she noticed the archaic-looking electric bar heater standing in front of the capacious fireplace, trying valiantly to take the chill off the room and adding a warm down-to-earthness too. If there was so much to look at even in this one room, what delights could the rest of the house hold?

      ‘Let me look at you.’

      Stella felt like Tess being summoned by Mrs d’Urberville. But then she thought she remembered Mrs d’Urberville being blind and suddenly she felt very self-conscious that she really wasn’t smart enough and why had she popped her slightly greasy hair into a hasty pony-tail when she’d had the time to wash and dry it? As she approached, Stella decided to polish up her vowels and use words like ‘frightfully’ and ‘splendid’.

      ‘You’re not as I expected.’ Lady Lydia sounded disappointed. ‘But then, Mercy Benton’s powers of description have always been limited. She described her own daughter’s wedding dress as simply a “nice frock” and her son-in-law as a “nice lad”. She said you were a “fine woman” and “everything one could hope for” in an agent.’ She paused, as if waiting for Stella to take the bait. But Stella just nodded with a wry smile in a ‘Gosh, well – you know Mercy Benton’ kind of way.

      Lydia rose a little shakily. ‘You look like a girl – a waitress.’ She was not impressed.

      ‘That’s probably why my clients like me, Lady Fortescue,’ Stella said meekly. ‘I don’t boss them around. I take their order – be it for a house or a sale – and I deliver it to them.’ Stella thought about it. ‘With no spillage.’

      The women regarded each other. Though Lydia was pretty much the same height as Stella, her aquiline haughtiness made her appear far taller. Or perhaps Stella just felt small in this grand room in this phenomenal old house and, for the first time in her life, in the presence of someone titled.

      ‘And have you ever been in a house like this?’

      Stella was diplomatic. ‘There can’t possibly be another like it.’

      Lydia looked at her as if she’d seen straight through her words. ‘Mrs Biggins, wretched woman – she never came with my coffee. Would you care for a sherry?’

      ‘It’s a little early for me,’ Stella said as if she didn’t take her sherry until after lunch. Lydia looked at her witheringly, as if she’d heard sarcasm. She walked over to the walnut drinks cabinet and inadvertently chinked the crystal stopper against the decanter and then the decanter against the glass. She took her sherry and walked to the sofa, spilling a little on her skirt as she sat herself down. She motioned to the companion sofa opposite and Stella sat. Lydia took a thoughtful sip. And then another.

      ‘I detest Asians.’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘All agents – whatever their industry.’

      Oh – agents.’ Stella’s relief was worn as an expansive smile which Lydia appeared to baulk at.

      ‘I am going to sell Longbridge,’ she said levelly, ‘or at least, you are.’

      Stella felt herself sinking into the sofa, as if her surroundings were suddenly growing and she was shrinking under the weight of the realization that this is why she was here. This couldn’t be real – this had to be Lewis Carroll. A joke. A dream.

      But Lydia was continuing. ‘I have been thinking about selling Longbridge for some time. Sometimes I stop thinking about it – but not because I’ve changed my mind. The whole concept is so very tiresome.’ She stared at Stella,