Rumours. Freya North

taught by Reynolds – and Reynolds painted a similar portrait of the Prince Regent.’

      Lydia brushed the air. ‘Longbridge is full of portraits. Fortescues, royalty, Fortescues with royalty, with swords, guns, with horses, dogs – it’s who we are.’

      Stella worked hard to keep her tone conversational, but she was excited. ‘I think this painting would have been given to Lord Frederick Makepeace William Fortescue, the first Earl of Barbary – but as a rather barbed gift. It’s a slur – an elegantly concealed two fingers – from the Prince Regent. He did it to others. A very nicely painted insult, quite literally shoving his horse’s great big bum in the face of Lord Fortescue. But no doubt the Earl knew that and turned the joke on its head by graciously accepting it and hanging it right here, pride of place.’

      Lydia was looking at the painting again, her eyes travelling over it in little bursts. She turned to Stella and nodded.

      ‘So one oughtn’t to look a gift horse in the mouth – but up the arse?’

      ‘Something like that,’ Stella smiled at the painting. ‘You might want to have it valued. Do you know of any fracas between the Prince and the Earl?’

      ‘There is some salacious family rumour about the Earl and one of the Prince’s mistresses and the billiards table right here at Longbridge.’ Lydia’s tone suggested it was all beyond ridiculous. ‘I’ll be sure to call Christie’s,’ she said. ‘They can come and sift through all the historic backsides at Longbridge – human and equine – whether hidden in the library or hanging, bold as brass, right here.’

      She sounded sharp and Stella felt deflated. Best leave all art in the past – her own as well as the Fortescues’. Leave it behind. Move on. Here to sell the house, remember. Then a notion sent a shot of adrenalin which almost winded her.

      ‘How many bedrooms?’ Stella asked, taking a sweeping glance at a queue of closed doors and that was just in this semicircular landing of the house.

      ‘Five.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Only five bedrooms? Here? At Longbridge?’

      ‘What are you talking about? Twelve bedrooms including the three in the Victorian wing,’ Lady Lydia said.

      ‘Pardon me, I thought you said five and I thought to myself surely not—’

      ‘You are pedantic – it’s tiresome,’ she barked. ‘These days, five of the rooms have beds in them – so the other rooms are not bedrooms, are they?’

      Stella was tempted not to bite her tongue, she was tempted to say, well, if I’m pedantic, you’re downright rude. ‘Logical,’ she said instead. ‘It’s the estate agent in me – we’re trained to call even a store cupboard a bedroom if the headroom is sufficient and it is physically possible for someone to stand and also sleep in it.’

      ‘The more bedrooms, the higher the price?’

      ‘Square footage is the priority,’ Stella said, ‘and you certainly have that at Longbridge Hall – never mind the quota of bed frames.’

      ‘Well,’ said Lydia, ‘you’d better see if the servants’ rooms right at the top count too.’

      ‘How many bathrooms?’

      ‘Three.’

      ‘I don’t mean with baths – I mean, rooms in which there is the relevant plumbing.’

      ‘Three,’ Lydia said loudly, giving the ‘r’ a good roll around her tongue, as if Stella had reverted to dim and deaf again. ‘Mind you, there was only one until after the War.’

      Oh dear, Stella thought. Three bathrooms? That’s it?

      ‘Chop chop,’ said Lydia, leading on; opening door after door and giving Stella just enough time to walk to the windows and back. ‘Do keep up.’

      ‘In there?’ Stella motioned to a door they passed that Lydia didn’t open.

      ‘Slaves.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Don’t say “What”, say “I beg your pardon”,’ Lydia snapped. ‘It’s one of the slaves’ quarters. We don’t have them any more – not even Mrs Biggins. She’s a useless slave because she won’t do a thing I ask. But the house was once full of them.’

      ‘Staff,’ Stella said, relieved, when she went into the room and realized it was a sizeable store for linen and laundry.

      ‘The Fortescues have always called them “slaves” – in jest, of course. No one has ever minded,’ said Lydia. She ran her hand lightly over the butler’s sink by the window. ‘At least, no one said they minded.’ She looked around the room. ‘We didn’t call them slaves to their faces – we didn’t say, “Slave! Come here!” The youngsters were called by their first names, which was fairly liberal of the Fortescues. And the senior staff by their surnames. Apart from the housekeeper, who was allowed to keep her title. Hence, Mrs Biggins – though, really, she ought to be called Useless Woman.’

      ‘I love this,’ said Stella, fingering the embossed brass plate above the three taps. ‘Hot. Cold. Soft.’

      ‘For rainwater,’ said Lydia. She ran the tap and placed her hand under the water. She kept it there, as if the feel of it hastened a memory just coming back into focus and one that she wanted to revisit. ‘All the children had their hair washed in this sink – rinsed again and again with the water from “Soft”.’

      Corridors that started poker straight and then suddenly veered off at angles with stairs to trip and confuse. Room after room after room. With clever wording in the particulars and positioning of furniture for the photos, Stella reckoned she could list twelve bedrooms at least. The three bathrooms were a worry though, not least because the most modern of them all, the only en-suite, was a homage to 1970s design with a corner bath, bidet, basin and toilet in a dull avocado shade.

      It surprised her to find they were back on the ground floor. She’d quite lost her bearings.

      ‘Kitchen,’ Lydia said, opening a door and revealing a space so sizeable that even Mrs Biggins, ensconced in the Daily Mail, looked diminutive. Stella’s heart sank a little. Of all the rooms she’d been fascinated to see, this was the one she’d built up in her imagination. She’d anticipated flagstones and a vast range, scullery, pantry, cold store, gleaming copperware and all manner of utensils of historical importance. Instead, she stood in a large space in which rather nondescript units varnished an unpleasant amber sat haphazardly under a melamine worktop, like bad teeth. The fridge and the oven were free-standing and akin to those she remembered her grandmother having in her small flat in Wheathampstead. At least there was an Aga, if a relatively small one. It was some consolation finally to be shown a sort of pantry with lines of shelves painted soft white and an impressive run of slate worktop. Most of the shelves were empty; the ones that weren’t were stacked with jars of all sizes filled with jam.

      ‘I’m tired now so you must go,’ Lady Lydia announced, still walking ahead and not turning to look at Stella. ‘You will come back again tomorrow. To see the grounds. To see Art. Eleven a.m. Prompt, please. Mrs Biggins, show Miss Hutton out please. Goodbye.’

      And with that, Lydia went.

      ‘Coat,’ said Mrs Biggins, bundling it into Stella’s arms. ‘Ta-ta, duck.’ And she chortled a little as if, perhaps, this was a scenario that had been re-enacted many times over the years.

      The rain had stopped, everything glistened and shone but Stella shivered and put her coat on, hugging it tightly around herself as she walked across the driveway to her car. Inside, she put the heat on high and realized how that old house had quite chilled her to the bone. She thought again of Tess Durbeyfield, how Tess had wondered about Mrs d’Urberville.

       ‘If there is such a lady, it would be