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At the end of one corridor, Patrick pointed out an ornately carved wooden door.
“That leads through to the east wing, the oldest part of the house, where Cyril had his rooms.”
Above the doorframe he pointed out a sequence of hand-painted hieroglyphic symbols in gold paint. I made out an eye, a set of scales, two feathers, a different kind of eye, a hawk.
“It’s also where you’ll find the library and Austen’s old studio. If Juliette’s painting is at Longhurst, then it is likely somewhere in here.”
He had opened the door just a crack when Harry’s mother came marching around the corner.
“Patrick!” she said crisply, and his hand recoiled as if the brass knob was electrified. “Out of bounds tonight, I’m afraid. I did tell Philip to put a sign up.”
I had thought earlier she was speaking loudly because she was so pleased to see Patrick. It turned out this—around 30 percent louder than an average person—was her normal speaking voice. Perhaps that was necessary when your dining table was ten meters long and your living room was the size of a tennis court.
“Sorry, of course,” Patrick said.
He took my hand and together we beat a swift retreat back along the hall and up the stairs to our bedroom. The whole way I was thinking through what this meant, whether there was any way we might persuade Georgina to make an exception in our case, whether we might ask Harry or Philip to show us around...
“Here we are,” said Patrick. “Hope you like chintz.”
It was not hard to see how the Rose Room had gotten its name. There were roses on the curtains. The dresser was decorated with hand-painted roses. Patrick threw himself down on the rose-covered bedspread and patted it for me to join him.
“You know,” he said, “we do have a little bit of time before...”
I was still standing, on the other side of the room.
“Patrick,” I said softly.
He propped himself up on one elbow. He gave me a smile. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but I think there’s something we need to talk about. Something you need to know about me, if we’re going to be together.”
“Yeah?” he said, still smiling, a little puzzled, trying to read my expression.
Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to do this now? I glanced at myself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I gathered my resolve.
“I don’t really feel like this is the right moment—at someone else’s house, just before a party—but I don’t think there’s ever going to be a right moment. It’s a lot to lay on someone, and you’re probably not going to know what to say, and that’s okay.”
Patrick sat up fully. “Is this about your parents?”
“It is, yes. I’ve never told anyone the whole story, but I want to tell you because I think this thing between us means something. But if I’m wrong, if it’s just a fling for you, that’s okay too, but you’ve got to let me know now.”
Patrick shook his head slightly. We both smiled a little. I felt a rush of tenderness toward him.
“God,” I said. “I really don’t know why I didn’t wait until I’d had a drink before trying to do this...”
Patrick held out a hand to me. I took it. He sat me down next to him on the bed. I took a deep breath and began.
PATRICK, LONGHURST, 1991
As we walked across the lawn, Caroline held on to my arm as if her ankles depended on it, stilettos sinking into the ground with each step.
“Fuck it,” she declared halfway to the tent, slipping off the offending heels and handing them to me. She scooped up the hem of her pale gold dress and walked barefoot the rest of the way.
I had never in my life seen anyone look as beautiful as Caroline did in that moment, her hair tumbling almost to her waist in the golden early evening light. Nor had I ever met anyone who had lived through so much, so young, or with the inner strength to channel all that anger and pain into trying to live the life her mother would have dreamed of for her.
I was a little awed by how much trust Caroline had placed in me, sharing her story. I understood it was a great and precious responsibility I had been given.
I was also a bit mortified, when I thought how much time I had spent moaning on to her about my father.