The Importance of Love Page 4

  ‘It’s a pity I do not have a rear elevation,’ he was considering, as a knock on the door alerted him that Hoskin had returned to tell him that the servants were ready.

  Getting up from his chair, he went out into the hall to impart his news.

  “I shall require two servants to remain in London to look after this house,” he said. “If anyone would care to volunteer, it would save me a great deal of anxiety.”

  The butler, Bellamy, and his wife the housekeeper, immediately stepped forward.

  “Good, I was hoping you might offer. Now, we leave for Devon in a few days and you must have all your belongings ready to take with you. You will be travelling down to Devon by train and conveyed from the station to the house. Once I have more details, I shall inform you all.”

  They filed out of the hall to resume their duties. The Viscount knew that the next few days would pass very quickly and he intended to set down as many ideas as he could.

  ‘I will do as Grandpapa wished,’ he vowed, as he gazed at the sepia photograph once more. ‘I will make him proud of me, up in Heaven, even if my own father refuses to acknowledge I exist!’

  *

  The Viscount did make one further attempt to visit his father, but to no avail, but he did bump into his grandmother in the foyer at Claridge’s taking afternoon tea and they sat and chatted.

  “I am so sorry that things have become so strained between you and your father,” she sighed. “I have tried to speak with him on several occasions, but he will not listen to me. He simply turns away or walks out of the room.”

  “As long as we are not openly arguing, Grandmama, I can bear his indifference.”

  “It is not indifference, dearest. He might not say a great deal, but he does still have feelings for you. Unfortunately, his stubborn streak will always win.”

  “Grandmama. I feel I should inform you that I intend to travel to Devon at the end of the week.”

  She stiffened in her seat and pursed her lips. Her tone, when she spoke, was measured, but he could not detect any hint of telling emotion in it.

  “You must do as your grandfather desired,” she answered calmly. “He would wish you to rekindle your love of architecture and it is the perfect project for you. It is also a means to an end as I know your father has cut your allowance again.”

  “Yes. I will be frank, Grandmama, if Grandpapa had not left me the money for this house and the allowance, I would be forced to sell South Audley Street and go and live at my Club. A gentleman may always get credit after all.”

  “You will do no such thing!” cried his grandmother. “If matters become so difficult, then you must come to me.”

  “I would not dream of it,” he replied, placing his hand on hers. “Now, let me see you to your carriage. I have some rather pleasant business in Mayfair.”

  After escorting his grandmother to her carriage, the Viscount headed for the garage in the mews behind Berkeley Square to buy himself a motor car.

  He had heard that the new King had been driven in a Daimler and wished to see one for himself.

  In the Westminster Gazette he had seen just what he wanted and, once he had bought it, he followed up their recommendation for an agency that supplied chauffeurs and he called in on their offices in Maddox Street.

  At the agency, the owner had been very pleased to see him and, within half an hour, had engaged a very cheerful fellow by the name of Bennett, who had recently driven the Duke of Edenbridge until the old man died.

  With so much achieved in one afternoon, the Viscount returned home feeling very pleased with himself.

  The motor car was delivered the day before they were due to leave for Devon. Bennett made himself extremely useful, helping with trunks and bags and even went to Paddington station to obtain the train tickets for the other servants.

  “They will have to be ferried from Barnstaple to the house in Bideford as there is no local station,” he told the Viscount. “Shall I make enquiries about a private carriage or two for them?”

  “Of course. They cannot be expected to walk with all their luggage! Thank you so much, Bennett. Is the car ready for the long journey ahead?”

  “It is, my Lord, and I have obtained a travelling map from Stanford’s for the journey. I suggest we stop at the Angel Inn in Salisbury for an overnight stay. We should not attempt the journey in one day.”

  “I had expected as much. They say these new motor cars are capable of travelling more swiftly than horses, but I have my doubts.”

  The house felt very strange and empty with all his furniture covered.

  The next morning the Viscount saw off his servants on their way to Paddington and said his goodbyes to Bellamy and his wife.

  Climbing into the passenger seat of his new car, he felt a little sad to be leaving the house he had lived in since he had left Cambridge.

  ‘At least I had the opportunity to say farewell to Grandmama,’ he thought, as the car rocketed forwards.

  He held on to his hat as it gathered speed. Bennett was a smooth driver, but the gears on the new motor car seemed a trifle stiff.

  They were soon driving through the West of London on the old coaching road to Exeter. Bennett had planned the journey to the last mile and intended to stop for luncheon at an inn outside Reading and then dinner at the Angel Inn in Salisbury.

  “I have reserved two rooms for us, my Lord, as well as alerting them that we shall be bringing a motor vehicle and will not need stabling for the night.”

  “Excellent, Bennett. It is exhilarating travelling at such speed, is it not?”

  “Oh, I have become used to it, my Lord. The old Duke used to like me to put my foot down on the accelerator to see what we could get out of the old girl. He used to cheer and wave his hat whenever we passed carriages.”

  The Viscount laughed.

  “You must drive carefully – the roads will soon be rougher than in London and we do not want an accident. There is so much to go wrong on these things!”

  “And a lot can ail a horse too, my Lord.”

  The day was warm and fine and the Viscount soon took off his goggles against the wind and fully enjoyed the scenery. The scattered villages of Middlesex soon gave way to the rolling hills of Berkshire.

  The scenery began to flatten as they approached Salisbury Plain in the late afternoon. The Viscount could see for miles around and ordered a stop at Stonehenge so that he could see the stones at close range.

  He thought of Thomas Hardy’s book, Tess of the d’Ubervilles where the heroine had met her doom at the stone circle and, as he stood there with the wind whistling around his ears, he turned to face the West and wondered what lay in store for him.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he would not know a soul apart from the servants and that any newcomer to the town would be viewed with suspicion.

  ‘I shall do my best to be as popular as Grandpapa would have wished, that is all I can do,’ he murmured, as he climbed back into the Daimler.

  *

  They arrived at the Angel Inn around seven o’clock.

  While Bennett unloaded his luggage, the Viscount strolled around the stables.

  He was pleased to notice that his was the only motor vehicle on the premises and took great pride in the fact that their arrival had caused something of a stir.

  He spent a pleasant evening at the inn. Their fare was hearty, if simple, and the portions were large. He slept well in a feather four-poster bed and arose the next morning prepared for an early start.

  Bennett had the motor car ready by half-past eight and they were on the road well before nine.

  “I wonder if the staff have arrived in Barnstaple yet?” shouted the Viscount above the roar of the engine. “I would have thought so, my Lord,” replied Bennett. “Rum old business, there being no station at Bideford, though.”

  “Yes,” grimaced the Viscount as a sheep, startled by the sound of the horn, leapt out of their way. “We cannot expect any of the comforts we enjoyed in London. They do
not even have gas lights!”

  “Goodness!” cried Bennett. “And I thought I had done with the days of candles.”

  “We shall be roughing it for a while, Bennett. You do not mind after such luxury at the Duke’s house?”

  “Not at all, my Lord. I was a stable hand when I was a young fellow and was used to sleeping in a hay loft above the horses.”

  The road through the top of Exmoor was rough and no more than a track for carts. The steep hills they encountered on the road to Barnstaple taxed the Daimler to its limits and the Viscount wondered how carts negotiated them.

  It was getting dark by the time they reached flatter ground and a milestone on a crossroads that told them Bideford was only four miles away.

  ‘I shall be glad of a respite from this boneshaker,’ thought the Viscount, as the road followed alongside the river Torridge. Bennett had to stop once and ask a passing shepherd with his dog where they might find Torr House.

  The man replied with a rich Devon burr that Bennett found quite difficult to follow.

  “Lawks, they talk strange in these parts!” he exclaimed, shaking his head as the man wandered off.

  But he must have understood at least part of what the shepherd had told him as the road from Eastleigh soon gave way to the outskirts of Bideford.

  “We have to cross the bridge over the Torridge and the house can be seen from there, apparently, my Lord,” said Bennett, as their motor car caused a great stir on the streets of the town.

  A while later, they crossed the bridge and as the road curved round to the right, the house came into view.

  The Viscount sat up in his seat and squinted into the distance.

  Torr House nestled on the side of a hill with a long dusty drive leading up to it. His heart began to beat faster as they drew closer.

  “This is it!” shouted Bennett, changing gear and slowing down by the gates.

  The Viscount looked up the track, but could not see the house as, at that level, it was obscured by trees. He signalled to Bennett to move forward and the car made its bumpy way towards the house.

  At last, as they passed the trees, Torr House sprang into view.

  The Viscount caught his breath as he first set eyes on it. It had a faded beauty of its own, he thought. Although Bennett probably expressed the popular view when he blurted out,

  “Lawks, it’s a bit of a wreck, isn’t it, my Lord?”

  He turned off the engine and immediately a tall man with a sombre face emerged from the front door. Judging by his attire, the Viscount assumed he was Cork, the butler, who had served Madame Le Fevre for many years.

  “Welcome to Torr House,” he said, as his face broke into an unexpected smile. “I cannot tell you how glad I am you have come – and so is everyone in these parts. We all hope that you will rescue the place from wrack and ruin.”

  “It looks like I have arrived just in time,” commented the Viscount, as he noted the peeling paint on the door and the latticed windows with panes missing and covered with brown paper to keep out the elements.

  “This is Bennett, my chauffeur. Would you be kind enough to direct him to a dry place where he can park the Daimler?”

  “That would be the barn, my Lord,” replied Cork, his drawled vowels belying his Devon roots. “It doesn’t have a door but it’s dry enough.”

  With a bemused expression, Bennett unloaded the luggage and then drove the car round to the rear of the house as directed by Cork.

  The Viscount was shown inside and immediately he fell in love with the place.

  The hall was typical Jacobean with a hefty wooden staircase rising up solidly in front of him, while the walls were covered with oak panelling. What he thought was a cupboard door, turned out to be the entrance to the gunroom, while he looked at the large stag’s head high looming over the stairwell.

  “Is there hunting around here?” he asked, as Cork took him upstairs.

  “The best in all of Devon, my Lord. The Exmoor hunt is the largest hereabouts and you’ll find plenty of folk come down from London and Bristol for the sport. We even get some of them industrialists from up North.”

  “Really?” remarked the Viscount, astounded that this part of the country should boast such a thriving social scene.

  “And then there’s the pheasants in a month’s time – rich pickings for gentlemen like you.”

  “I had no idea – ” began the Viscount, as Cork showed him into a large, draughty room with a dusty four-poster bed and heavy oak furniture.

  “This was Madame’s room, but I am certain she would not mind, that is, if you do not object considering – ”

  The words died on Cork’s lips.

  The Viscount nodded. He knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘As long as I do not mind sleeping in my grandfather’s mistress’s bed,’ he said to himself.

  The fireplace was a large stone affair with a carving of a shield in the middle.

  “How old is the house, Cork?”

  “Three hundred years old or thereabouts. One of King James I’s Scottish Lords built it when he was given lands in these parts.”

  The Viscount examined the faded silk curtains at the windows. Once a rich red they had been bleached pink by the years of sunshine. They were threadbare in places, as was the Turkish rug beneath his feet.

  “I’ve aired the bed, my Lord, and I trust it will be comfortable for you.”

  It occurred to the Viscount that it might be damp. He moved over to it and threw back the red paisley quilt and examined the sheets for signs of mould.

  “All appears as it should be, Cork,” he said with relief.

  “Dinner will be served at eight, my Lord. I hope that suits you?”

  “It does, thank you.”

  “We have some fine local lamb and vegetables from the garden for tonight’s meal. It is overgrown, but we manage to get by on what remains to be cropped. It used to be a beautiful place when Madame was alive, but it has become overgrown and neglected since she passed away.”

  “I intend to breathe new life into every part of this building,” the Viscount announced looking up at the ceiling with its obvious signs of damp.

  A large crack ran along the width of the room and the wooden chandelier contained burned-down stumps of candles.

  “That is good news, indeed, my Lord. Now, when you are ready, shall I send Hoskin up to attend to you?”

  “I would like that very much, thank you.”

  “When would you like to view the house, my Lord? Either myself or Mrs. Cork will show you around.”

  “I think before dinner. Then I will look around again in the morning.”

  “You are a draughtsman, are you, my Lord? We saw the drawing board being carried in and thought you might be an artist until we saw the size of it.”

  “I am an architect, or at least, I was. I intend to make this house magnificent again for all of Society to flock to.”

  “Madame would have liked that,” smiled Cork enigmatically.

  He bowed and left the room. The Viscount’s luggage was brought in and left for Hoskin to unpack.

  As soon as he had finished, he drew the Viscount a bath with hot water in cans brought up by the maids who had arrived ahead of them.

  “I hope your Lordship does not mind having to bathe in such an ancient vessel,” remarked Hoskin, as the last of the hot water was poured into the huge enamel bath.

  “I shall install modern bathrooms with running water as soon as possible. I shall investigate installing both heating and hot water. Tomorrow, I shall invite the builders to call. Have you a list of the local tradesmen for me as I requested?”

  “Oh, yes, my Lord. Cork has been most helpful. He says that now word is out that you are to remodel the house, there will be no stopping them from calling on the off-chance of work.”

  “That is indeed good news.”

  The Viscount eased his body into the hot water and as he soaped his aching muscles his thick hair fell forward and soon became damp with
suds.

  Stretching out his long arms, he lay back in the water and closed his eyes.

  ‘Already I can see what this house could be,’ he told himself, ‘and it shall rise from the ashes.’

  Much later, after a delicious dinner, he retired early intending to sleep, but found it impossible.

  He tossed and turned in the bed, which, although comfortable, was a strange one nevertheless. He resolved to bring his own bed from London, as he did not fancy sleeping on a mattress that had once borne his grandfather and his mistress.

  As the house grew quiet, the room became chilly and he found himself still wide awake. Eventually, he climbed out of bed and put on his warm dressing gown.

  Pacing the room, he became enthused with thoughts of how he might plan the house. He picked up his sketch book in which he had made a few drawings and looked at them again with the benefit of having now seen the house for himself.

  ‘The orangery will not work there,’ he muttered, striking it out on the sketch. ‘And it might yet be possible to add another floor here.’

  Before he knew it, he had picked up his pencil and was busy redrawing the plan. He worked on and on through the night and did not notice the passing of time.

  When Hoskin came in early the next morning with a tray, he was shocked to see his Master up and busy.

  “My Lord. You look as if you haven’t been to sleep.”

  “Indeed, I have not,” replied the Viscount, wearily rubbing his face with one strong hand. “I could not sleep in that bed and once my mind began to form plans and designs for this place, I found I was too restless for slumber. And so, I got up and began to work.

  “Hoskin, will you have my work things set up in the library for me after breakfast? I cannot work here indefinitely and will need a place to go where I will not be disturbed by maids.”

  “Of course, my Lord,” replied Hoskin, handing him a cup of tea.

  Later, after breakfast was over, the Viscount hurried eagerly into the library to begin work.

  ‘It is a good deal shabbier than I had first thought. This is going to tax my ingenuity,’ he murmured, as he sharpened his pencil and took out a fresh sheet of paper, feeling once more that familiar thrill of tackling a new design.