Rumours (45 page)

Everything else melted away. She heard no sound. She saw nothing else. It was as if she'd been transported into a bare white space at the end of which hung the sketch. She hadn't done a masters at the Courtauld Institute not to recognize a genuine Rembrandt when she saw one. She'd spent most of her student grant on amassing all the gloriously illustrated tomes she could find on the Old Master. She'd been to the Netherlands frequently, and to galleries all over Europe to find Rembrandt van Rijn. And here he was, waiting for her all this time, in a glorified byre in the middle of Hertfordshire.

Circa 1659. Definitely. The beret!

Same period as the self-portraits with the beret, in the national galleries in Washington and Edinburgh – and the unfinished one that Stella had travelled by train all the way to Aix-en-Provence to see when she was a student.

Now here. Not big. A simple frame – badly framed, even. A drawing – pen and black ink, brown wash, oatmeal paper. Little more than a sketch, really, yet in some ways so complete. The eyes soft, knowing, penetrating. Curls of hair licked with gold, the delicate furl of moustache, the warmth of skin, the pervasive sadness of the furrowed brow of a man just fifty-three years old, bankrupt, who'd be dead a decade later.

Think!

Think!

Think!

Do not say a word.

Do not raise any attention.

Just leave your seat, without fuss, and wander over to the sideboard and peruse the photos. Look at it from the corner of your eye, drink it in. Turn, smile to Clarence. Go to the curtains and touch them lightly. Look at it askance again – gather more detail. Turn again to Clarence. And smile. Now take your time looking at the toby jug collection and turn to Clarence every now and then. Stare long and hard at the little water colour of Saffron Walden high street. Have a longer look at the tiny tinted etching of some woodland somewhere. Smile at Clarence. Nod at the men. Now. Only now. Turn and face it full on. Look at the Rembrandt. Look away, regard something else, anything. Now look back at the drawing. Scour every tiny surface detail, look beyond the surface, to the world within it, the compelling realism by the genius's hand. The chiaroscuro, the play of light against dark. The depth of the gaze. The profound beauty of a portrait created over three hundred and fifty years ago, whose sitter appears alive today and all-seeing. Now turn and smile at Clarence. Just the same smile as you've been doing.

Only Clarence was busy offering the fig rolls and the men were busy trying to extricate themselves and no one was looking at Stella. So she sneaked more time with her hero. She took measurements in her head. Gazed and gazed at the face and asked silently, what are you doing here? How on earth did you end up here? How long have you been here? Can you help me?

The men had seen enough – and they hadn't even looked at the curtains. They'd drunk enough tea and had managed to eat a polite section of slightly stale fig roll but they hadn't acknowledged the toby jugs. They hadn't hurried Clarence, who talked in a slow, formal way, but they hadn't noticed the Rembrandt in that time. Clarence looked even more tired, as if the company had been much anticipated, specially prepared for but was, in truth, an ordeal from which he'd need time to recover.

‘Gentlemen?' Stella said. ‘I think we should go.'

They nodded, shook hands with Clarence and left. They stood awhile in the cornfield feeling just a little more humble as if it was slowly dawning on them that there was a human element to Longbridge Hall. Stella watched them, saw how for once they properly took in the view, that they were seeing at last the buildings connected with Longbridge as so much more than bricks and mortar; understanding them to be synonymous with the folk who'd lived in them for a lifetime and, in the case of Clarence, for more than one generation.

Stella thought to herself, you two have no idea whatsoever how everything at Longbridge is going to be fine. She thought, you think you just took tea in a cow barn. You have no idea of the secret it holds and the fact that the future of Longbridge as a Fortescue residence hangs quietly on the back wall.

She showed them to the car park and, as ever, Mr Murdley told her he'd be in touch as if it was something she should wake up each morning to eagerly await. After they'd gone, she hammered on the front door, clanked the bell, ran round to the side door, peered in through the drawing-room French windows. But no one was home. She jogged over to Lord Freddie.

‘You'll never guess what!'

‘Surprise me.'

‘Rembrandt!'

‘But it was I who surprised you – I bought it, girl. Before he was fashionable.'

She had to speak to Lydia. It couldn't wait. It wasn't for the telephone and it wasn't for tomorrow. She glanced at her watch. God! Time had stopped still for her at Clarence's but now it was racing away. She'd have to leave in half an hour to make it back to Hertford in time to collect Will. She paced the gardens. Come on, Lydia, come
on
! She circumnavigated the house, twice. Where
are
you! She went in through the tradesmen's entrance and called through the house. Finally, she sat on one front doorstep, then another, then hovered by the lions. She really had to go. She'd be late. But she couldn't leave. So what could she do?

Xander's mobile was busy. She phoned his office, for the first time. She knew the lady who took the call must be Mrs Gregg.

‘Oh, hullo,' said Stella. ‘Please could I speak to Xander? Fletcher.'

‘He's on a call,' Mrs Gregg said.

Stella could hear his voice, faintly, elsewhere in the office. ‘I know,' she said, ‘I tried his mobile but it's engaged.'

‘If you care to leave a message, I shall ask him to return your call.' There was no cause for Mrs Gregg to deduce who this was.

‘Actually, can you just tell him it's me – it's Stella?'

Mrs Gregg was quiet. So this is what she sounded like, the Stella girl. ‘As I said, Mr Fletcher is on another call, I'm afraid.'

‘Please, Mrs Gregg,' said Stella, and she really was pleading. ‘Xander speaks of you so highly – tells me how he couldn't do his job without you, how frequently you go beyond the call of duty. Please could you just poke him for me – or hiss at him, or write it on a Post-it and slap it on his head?'

Mrs Gregg thought to herself that none of those things befitted a woman of her training or experience. Modern office managers might lark about but not her. Nevertheless she couldn't help smiling.

‘Please?' said Stella. ‘Could you just perhaps alert him that there's a far more urgent call on the line – mouth
Stella
at him?' She paused. ‘It's about the Fortescues,' she said. ‘I'm at Longbridge. It's ever so urgent.'

Mrs Gregg cleared her throat. And then, for the first time in her working life, she snapped her fingers at Xander. He looked up at once, startled.

‘Stella,' Mrs Gregg announced, ‘on line one. At Longbridge. Urgent.'

‘I'll call you back,' said Xander and he quit the call on his mobile and picked up the desk phone. ‘Stella?'

‘I can't talk now – Rembrandt's here and I've just seen Lydia driving up and I have to speak to her right away! It means I'm delayed. For the best possible reasons. But I'm going to be late to collect Will. And I was just wondering – I know it's a tall order. But is it at all possible for you to pick him up? Just bring him back to the office? Just for say, an hour? He'll be good as gold.'

It didn't matter that she was gabbling and what she said made little sense. It didn't matter that he was frantically busy. Suddenly he was far more flattered than he was put out. He was needed. He'd love to help. ‘Where is Will?'

‘Courtyard Arts – it's just before Port Hill. I'll phone them first.'

‘I know where it is. No problem. Stella – are you OK?'

‘Very OK!' she sang out. ‘Everything is going to be just fine!'

* * *

‘Lydia!'

‘Why are you still here?'

‘Lydia!'

‘What is it? What's happened?'

‘Lydia!'

‘For goodness' sake, Miss Hutton. He was an old dog and he'd had a good innings.'

‘No! Not Barnaby – but
dear
Barnaby. But no! Lydia!'

‘Good God girl,
what
? You're bright red.'

‘The Rembrandt!'

‘The
what
?'

‘I was at Clarence's. He has a Rembrandt sketch – on his back wall!'

‘And?'

‘Last year, the Rembrandt self-portrait I'm pretty sure this was a sketch for, made millions at auction.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘This wouldn't reach that – but we are talking enough money to mean you don't have to sell Longbridge! You can sell the Rembrandt instead!'

‘What on earth?'

‘Your problems are practically solved – everyone's problems could be solved. Longbridge is saved. Everyone is safe – in the village, in the barns, Clarence, Art, Miss Gilbey. Rembrandt saves the day! I've always loved him –
always
!'

It wouldn't be until later that evening that Lydia would be charmed by all of this. Just then, she felt supremely irritated. She just wanted to get inside, have a Scotch and put her feet up.

‘Lydia! Trust me! I
know
Rembrandt!'

‘He's dead,' she said sharply.

Stella laughed joyously. ‘I mean – my MA thesis. He's my hero!'

‘He's not for sale.'

‘Everything has a price – and the money you could raise at auction would sweep all your financial troubles away. I promise you.'

‘He's
not
for sale, girl.'

Stella did not think before she spoke. ‘Are you mad?'

Lydia was incandescent with rage and couldn't speak.

‘You're broke – so sell Rembrandt! Simple!' Stella couldn't help but look at Lydia as though she was dense. Lydia had to swallow down splutters of fury.

‘Stella Hutton!'

‘But Lydia?'

‘The bloody thing is not for bloody sale. Now for goodness' sake will you just bugger off and leave me alone.'

‘But you said –'

Lydia growled, utterly exasperated. ‘It belongs to Clarence. He always liked it. I gave it to him when he retired. He said he couldn't possibly – retire as well as take it. But I insisted he did both. There.'

‘But it's worth a fortune!'

‘It
belongs
to Clarence.'

‘But you're on the verge of being homeless! You must take it back and sell it – I don't know – give some money to Clarence. Let him choose a different painting or something. He strikes me as being as happy with a new toby jug as with an old Rembrandt. This is your last chance to save Longbridge!'

Lydia looked at Stella, who was wild about the eyes, her hair escaping from her pony-tail like a gorgon, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling fast. And suddenly it hit Lydia. Dear Stella, she thought. She felt her strict and steely exterior, of which she was fiercely proud, bend and soften a little with warmth.

‘Stella – I have money.' Lydia could see that this sentence alone held little meaning for the girl. ‘I wasn't entirely – straight – with you. I
am
selling Longbridge. But
not
because I need the money. I want rid of the place purely and simply because I'm old. And I want to be able to make the decision of where I go next, while I still can.'

This was too much for Stella to take in – the true fact, the honest reason. She sank down to sit next to one of the stone lions, her arm about its back. ‘What do you mean?' She sounded tearful.

Creakily, Lydia sat down too, her knees as neatly together as Stella's were akimbo; the older woman as controlled and steady as the younger woman was in pieces. She tapped Stella's knee. ‘My dear – I am
old
. And frailer by the day. And that's why I don't want to live here any more. It depresses me. I can't turn the handles. I can't bolt the back door. I trip up and down the stone steps. My sight isn't as good as it was. And I feel the cold – dreadfully. The radiators – they're my enemy with their dastardly lukewarmness. I don't like being here on my own. I really don't. I am at a stage in my life when my distant memories are daisy fresh these days – they haunt me, taunt me with vivid times when the house was full and thriving.' Lydia left unsaid the words
with my children
. Her hand was back on Stella's knee. ‘I have made my decision, Stella dear. I don't want to feel cold in the summer. I don't want to take a tumble and not be found until the morning. I do not want to die here. I want to be the first Fortescue who
doesn't
die here.'

‘The bruised eye. Your arm,' said Stella vaguely, ‘the sling.'

Lydia nodded. ‘I have let this rambling old place go – and now you must do the same. Out of the two of us, it is you who needs to sell it for the money, not me. I'm selling it because it's time.' She paused. ‘I am out of love with the place. And that's a very tiring emotion for a woman of my age to deal with.'

Stella looked at Lydia beseechingly. ‘Couldn't Verity come back here – with her funny little tribe? They'd look after you.'

Lydia correctly judged Stella's tone and answered her with the same sensitivity. ‘What – for me to spend my twilight years watching women knit things with alfalfa while men with pony-tails and plaited beards play pan pipes? It would drive me absolutely bonkers.' Lydia shook her head. ‘It's not what they want and it would be as much of a millstone for them as for me. I am old enough to do as I please. One must never sully good memories. One must not allow memories of halcyon times to be overridden by newer ones of bad experiences. One owes it to the people, whether long gone or still here, who formed those memories.'

Stella looked down to see that Lydia's hand rested softly upon her knee. Gently, she put her own hand over Lydia's and let it lie there. It transpired that Lydia was the most modern of all of them.