Jump to new as of July 18, 2003
Chapter One ~ Beginning
The whole of the Colliton region mourns this week, following the loss of a much loved and respected community figure. Henry, Lord Norland, passed away quietly yesterday morning at his home surrounded by his family, following a brief battle with cancer.
Born Henry Dashwood in 1943, he was educated at Eton and later Cambridge. He worked as a barrister before he inherited the earldom of Norland and its ancestral seat of Norland Park from his bachelor uncle, the seventeenth earl, in 1967.
Lord Norland was known both at home and abroad for his campaigning work in the field of environmental conservation, and for his efforts to raise public awareness of the plight of the wildlife of the British Isles. He published numerous books on the subject, all of which reached the bestseller list. Tributes have poured in from all over the globe, from prime ministers, presidents, royalty and the general public, as people react with sadness on the death of this remarkable man.
He is survived by his son Lord John Dashwood, from his first marriage to the late Josephine Liston, who has inherited both the earldom and the Norland estate; daughter-in-law Frances Dashwood, nee Ferrars, and grandchild Harry; his present wife, Louisa, Dowager Countess Norland, and his three daughters by her, Ladies Elinor, Marianne and Margaret Dashwood.
The funeral service takes place at Colliton Crematorium this Saturday, followed by interment at the family crypt.
The newspaper was turning slightly yellow now, faded and crinkled, but the print was still legible enough for Elinor to read the story of her father's death. As if she didn't know it all too well already. She smoothed the paper out a little, running her fingertips over the smiling picture of her father which accompanied it. Vital and energetic, Henry Dashwood's handsome face looked out at her, so unlike what he had been at the end, a shell of a man, a shadow of his former self.
Elinor could feel her hands start to clench into fists at the thought of wasted limbs and shuddering gasps for air, and for a moment, just a moment, she had to fight for control. 'Enough, Elinor,' she thought briskly to herself. 'Too late for any of that now, and blubbering won't help.' Picking the paper up once more, she used it to wrap up one more china figurine, grimacing a little as black newsprint rubbed off on her hands.
She placed the bulky package on top of a dozen or so similar ones in the cardboard box in front of her, and then sat back on her heels with a satisfied sigh. Wiping her hands on the faded, ripped pair of jeans she wore, she surveyed the room around her, checking to make sure she had included everything. No, that was it; everything from the drawing room that they could take with them had been accounted for, the life of a whole family wrapped up and stowed away neatly in some boxes and a few battered old suitcases.
No, not the life of a whole family, not really - her father was gone, and John and Frances had never been close to the rest of them; and besides that, there was so much they had to leave behind. Furniture and books, rooms and gardens that held so much of her life that Elinor wasn't sure if she would still have one when they were gone.
Norland Park, the place she had always called home, even when she was many miles away, in school or university. Elinor was sure that she knew every nook and cranny of the eighteenth century sprawl of a house as well as, if not better than, Marianne or Margaret, her sisters; knew every place where a lanky, awkward boned girl could secrete herself with a bag of apples and a book for hours on end. Her home, a place which ran in her veins as surely and as quickly as her own blood.
But it wasn't a home any longer; John, now the new Lord Dashwood, had inherited the entire estate, and he and his wife were determined to make money out of it. They hadn't delayed in telling that to them, either.
'Who lives in a draughty old place like this any more?' Frances had said to them, deliberately ignoring their looks of horror, though Marianne had raged afterwards that she was quite sure that the woman was taking pleasure in their distress. 'Between the bills and the taxes and the amount of staff one requires; oh, it's simply too impossible. Not that we will sell the dear old place of course,' she had added condescendingly, with a saccharine smile that had earned her Marianne's eternal enmity, 'but it would be just too much of a strain on the bank account if we were to live here. I'm sure you understand.'
The fake, tinny little laugh which had accompanied this had made even Elinor, normally so skilled at keeping her temper, grit her teeth and dig her fingers into the armrest of her chair. Marianne had looked fit to kill, and had muttered things under her breath which were decidedly unsuitable for the daughter of an old, respectable English noble family; Louisa, their mother, however, was the daughter of an Italian-American family from New York which, however respectable, did not object to its female members giving vent to the kind of exclamations which had poured out under her breath.
Frances had ignored them.
'I have decided - that is, of course, John and I have decided - that looking forward is the only way to go. So we have gone into partnership with my mother's company, Ferrars International, and have decided to market Norland Park as a health spa and hotel, perfect for the modern stressed executive. Jacuzzi, a health centre, gourmet restaurant, the works,' she had said brightly.
It was at that moment that Elinor had realised that if she hadn't committed murder by then, she never would.
'You are going to turn Norland Park into... into a resort?' she had choked.
'Oh no, dear,' Fanny had responded, leaning over across the coffee table to pat her reassuringly on the arm. 'Not a resort; an exclusive five star get-away. There's quite a difference, you know.'
She pointed out of the far window of the sitting room, out to the copse of fine Japanese beech trees that had been planted by Elinor's great-great-grandfather. 'We're even planning on building a golf course over there; a much better use of space, and so convenient to the house! I can see it in my mind's eye already.'
'What? You're going to tear out the copse? You wouldn't dare!' Marianne had gasped, brown eyes wide with shock and horror. 'Dad would have never, ever let you do such a thing, ever! Those trees have been here for decades - to chop them down would be a sacrilege! Think of the beauty they provide, the shade, the wildlife habitat they provide; if Dad were here, he...'
'Well, he's not, is he?' Frances had interrupted, the set of her jaw and the tightness of her brightly painted lips revealing the irritation which lay behind her careful society exterior. 'And now I think it's time for tea. If you'll excuse me.'
And with that, she was gone in a flurry of cerise pink skirts and a cloud of Chanel No. 5, leaving four suddenly homeless people in her wake.
Marianne had been apoplectic with rage after that, Elinor remembered, running out of the house to the thunder of slamming doors, and spending the rest of the day outside. Margaret, still only eleven, couldn't be of much help to anyone, uncomprehending of what had happened as she was; and Louisa had collapsed in a storm of tears and outraged Italian exclamations.
As ever, it had fallen to Elinor to sort out their collective futures in the days which had followed. Their finances were not in a great state; Louisa hadn't done a days work since she had married in 1977, and Henry Dashwood had worked for free whenever possible, preferring to live off the proceeds of the estate. With the estate's income passed wholly to John, Frances and their son, this meant that, even with what they received under the will, the sisters and their mother were left with very little in their bank account after death duties and funeral fees had been paid.
Enough to afford a small house in Dorset, many miles away from where they lived now, where property prices were lower, and the cost of living less (Elinor had researched this all thoroughly, of course.) A very small house, judging from the brochure; three tiny bedrooms, no central heating, and far from the nearest town. Still, it was quiet, and affordable, and near to some old friends of her mother's; John Jennings and his wife and children, also refugees from the noise and bustle of urban America, who had moved to the little village of Barton nearly fifteen years ago when John had decided to leave the rat race after making his first million or ten.
All in all, Elinor had decided, it was the best option they had; and it hadn't taken long for her to persuade her mother of that. As for the rest of it, though... they had very little left in their bank account after this. £25,000... enough to support them for a while, maybe, but it wouldn't pay the bills for long. She would have to get a job, and find Margaret a school, and Marianne... Oh, what would she do with Marianne? And her mother... and so much to pay for!
The tense headache that these circular thoughts always brought with them pulled Elinor back to the present with a start, back from a world of tiny cottages and money troubles to the present of large, airy rooms and plenty of money, even if they no longer belonged to her.
Elinor turned to taping up the last box, cursing the roll of duct tape which refused to peel off, when a series of loud and violent thumps overhead made her start and look up towards the ceiling. The noise moved away, a little towards her right, before starting to approach once more, descending and becoming steadily louder.
Elinor shook her head in exasperated resignation. Marianne never could come down a flight of stairs quietly, she thought to herself just before the door slammed open, and her sister flew into the room in a flurry of brown curls and long limbs.
'Are you finished yet?' she asked Elinor as she sprawled across one large chintz armchair. 'You've been in here since breakfast!'
Elinor took in the sight of her sister, one smudge of blue paint on the end of her nose, and a large daub of red across the front of her old white t-shirt. She raised an eyebrow. 'And by the looks of you, I would hazard a guess and say that you haven't been doing much packing.'
Marianne shrugged, the good-humoured expression on her face vanishing suddenly. She stared down at the hands in her laps, worrying at a hang-nail. 'Why should I hurry to do anything just because that slimy, horrid, detestable cow...'
'Marianne!' Elinor said sharply, 'that's enough.'
'It's nowhere near enough, and you know it! She's putting us out of our home; I'll never be able to come back to Norland, I'll never be able to sit in the copse and sketch, and I'll never be able to swim in the lake, and I'll never be able to sleep in my own bed in my own room ever again, because tomorrow we're going! And it's not fair, Elinor, it's not!'
And then she was crying, and Elinor crossed over to her sister, putting her arms around her and holding her for a long time.
Posted on Wednesday, 16 July 2003
Rain drummed down on the windscreen of the car so heavily that even with the wipers switched on, Elinor had to lean forward over the steering wheel of the car in order to see properly. ‘Bloody English weather,’ she grumbled to herself as she stared out at the blurry, murky road ahead of her. The bad weather wasn’t helped by the fact that it was swiftly growing dark, night slowly leeching the light out of the sky.
They had been on the road for a little over an hour now. Their scheduled 11am departure repeatedly delayed by Marianne’s tantrums and Margaret’s disappearing acts, Louisa’s sudden realisation that she wanted to bring her entire collection of shoes with her (which had necessitated an extra two suitcases), and the fact that the removal van which was supposed to arrive at 10am didn’t show up till well after four in the afternoon.
By that stage, Elinor had made substantial inroads into her second packet of painkillers, all thanks to her overwhelming headache.
At half past five, they had all piled into Elinor’s battered old Citroen, John and Frances waving a cheery, saccharine sweet and thoroughly sincere goodbye from the front steps of the mansion. The smile on Frances’ face had been positively triumphant when she had said goodbye to them, air kissing them all in an over-powering cloud of Chanel No. 5 and sticky pink lipstick.
Louisa and Margaret were cramped together in the back, while Marianne took the front passenger seat. Elinor had swung the car around quickly; gravel crunching underneath the wheels of the car as she drove down the tree-lined avenue as fast as she had dared.
She hadn’t looked back.
The others had, though; Margaret peering out through the window, balanced on her mother’s knee, Marianne hanging out through the window for her last glimpse of her beloved Norland, even though Elinor had snapped at her that it was much too dangerous.
Marianne had cried when they had left the grounds of Pemberley, and took the road which led out of Colliton village and off towards the coast. From Hastings to Eastbourne, tears had trickled down her face until her grey eyes were swollen and puffy. Margaret and her mother had simply stared out of the window, watching miles and miles of motorway slip away, and not saying anything.
By the time they reached Worthing, a little after seven that evening, all three were fast asleep, worn out by emotion and the constant motion of the car. Elinor drove on, alone, her only accompaniment the tinny mutter of yesterday’s hits on the radio, and the buzz of her own thoughts.
Driving late at night always made Elinor think more, reflect more deeply, thousands of thoughts that never occurred to her – or that she didn’t want to dwell upon – during the day, floating to the surface of her mind more easily. Late night driving – the subject of a thousand love ballads, of the very kind Elinor loathed the most, and the subject of a thousand clichés. But it was true, she thought. Only here, only now, could she think properly.
She had driven the roads around Colliton a thousand times when her father had died.
These thoughts, thoughts of her father, filled her mind now; and more, so much more.
Thoughts of Norland in the autumn, when all the trees in the estate burst out into dazzling, dizzying shades of red and gold and russet. Marianne had always loved autumn best, Elinor remembered. Even now, grown up as she was, her sister had delighted into jumping into huge piles of autumn leaves, rejoicing in the crisp-crackle and the feel of leaves caught in her hair. Marianne had never looked so wild or so at home as she did in the autumn, red leaves in brown hair, and grey eyes alive with the spark of an artist.
Thoughts of everything which Norland in autumn created. Most of Marianne’s canvases were started then, in those few months, vast acres of white surface coming alive under thick layers of warm, rich toned paint. Her father had loved them, saying that in them he say a tiny little piece of the season caught forever, wild but tamed in his daughter’s imagination.
Thoughts of Norland in winter, when a leaden grey sky hung to the ground, and nothing seemed so nice or so enticing as staying by the fire in a wood panelled drawing room. The Christmas tree that soared to the roof, sparkling with a thousand lights; Elinor would lie back on the thick Axminster carpet, hair fanning out around her as she squinted at the fairy lights until the whole tree seemed to shimmer and glow. Her father lifting her up when she was small, so that she could pin her stocking to the mantel of the great marble fireplace.
Thoughts of Norland in spring, when Margaret was born. Oh so tiny in the carved wooden cradle; Elinor had thought that somebody that small couldn’t possibly exist.
And Norland in summer, when the great house had filled up with guests. Hallways and gardens full of laughter and the sound of running feet; people her father worked with, her mother’s friends and relatives from America, people she hardly knew at all, not even their names - and Edward.
Edward...
Elinor was startled out of her reverie when Marianne rolled over in the seat next to her, snuffling slightly in her sleep. Elinor sighed. It was probably best not to dwell on such things, anyway. Making herself depressed wouldn’t help, not when there was so much to do.
She turned the radio over to a rock station; music she normally hated with a passion, but with just enough rhythm and tempo to keep her awake, and to keep her mind occupied. Her fingers on the steering wheel began to tap along in time to the music, and she drove on.
Shortly after ten, they crossed the border from Hampshire into Dorset, turning inland and onto the great flat heathland of the eastern part of the county. Even in the dark, it was obvious how different, how utterly different it was from everything they had known at Norland. The roads they took became progressively narrower and more winding, as Elinor followed the directions which the estate agent had scribbled down for her on a scrap of paper.
She chewed on her bottom lip nervously until the skin was puffy and sore; they had been told that the house would be isolated, but this? They had left behind the lights of the main road long ago, and she hadn’t seen another house in quite a while. So long, in fact, that she was about to give up and admit that she had got herself lost, when the headlights of the car revealed the piers of a small stone gateway. A small, painted wooden sign saying ‘Barton Cottage’ revealed that they had, at last, arrived.
The small driveway was barely long enough to allow her to pull in; as it was, it was a tight fit, and when Elinor opened her door to hop out, she landed feet first in the flowerbed.
“Oh for the love of all that is...”
The estate agent had said that the garden was ‘compact and easy to manage for those of us with busy life styles.’ What he should have said, however, was that Elinor had seen window boxes larger than this garden. In fact, her pocket-handkerchief was probably larger than the lawn area.
Used as she was to the rolling acres of Norland’s parkland, this was a huge change. Her view was no longer constrained only by the horizon, but rather by a low stone wall only a few feet away.
Oh no, Marianne is going to hate this.
Elinor turned around rapidly on hearing the doors of the car open behind her, her family stumbling out one after the other in various states of sleep. Margaret rubbed one eye with the palm of her hand, a huge yawn escaping her lips. “Are we there yet?” she mumbled, voice tense and strained with tiredness.
“Yes, pet, we are,” Elinor smiled back at her.
“’S good,” Margaret said. “C’n I go to bed now?” Her much loved, much battered teddy bear, Kibbie, was nestled in the crook of her other arm; and Elinor thought that she looked for all the world like the epitome of a Little Girl Lost. Poor Little Rich Kid. She felt something turn over in her stomach, and Elinor wasn’t sure if it was grief or wildly inappropriate laughter.
“I think that sounds like a very good idea,” Louisa said as she joined her two daughters, scrubbing one hand through her thick weight of brown hair. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.” Looking at her, Elinor had to agree – her mother’s face was white with exhaustion. Elinor doubted that it was caused solely by the long car journey. She fished in the pocket of her jeans until she pulled out the key to the front door of the cottage.
“From what the estate agent told me, Margaret’s bedroom, and your bedroom, Mum, are upstairs. Meg’s on the left and Mum’s on the right. Someone has already been in to dress the beds, and...”
But she was talking to thin air, her mother and sister having already vanished into the house. Elinor stood, watching, one foot still crushing a clump of dwarf petunias. The lights switched on upstairs briefly, dormer windows glowing warmly before abruptly going black.
“So this is it?”
Elinor didn’t turn around, just rubbed tiredly at her forehead with one hand, pushing her auburn fringes out of her eyes.
“Unless I got the directions completely and utterly wrong, and there is another uninhabited place called Barton Cottage for which I just happen to possess the keys – well, then, yes. This is it.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic, you know.”
Even without looking at her, in her mind’s eye, Elinor could see her younger sister cross her arms, could see her leaning against the car, could see her cocking one eyebrow.
“Maybe there isn’t.” Elinor sighed tiredly. “Marianne, I...”
“Our bedroom’s on the ground floor, isn’t it?”
“Yes, just off the living room. But Marianne, I think we should...”
Marianne, unheeding, pushed past her, crushing yet more flowers and churning up small divots of grass as she did so. The front door opened once more, and she vanished inside. Even standing outside, Elinor could hear the protesting squeak and groan which the bedsprings made as Marianne flopped down onto it.
“Why is it that people are unable to listen to a single word I say?” she muttered to herself as she opened the boot of the car, and started to haul out suitcases and boxes. They were really too heavy for her to handle by herself, but if she didn’t do it, no one would.
It was well after one in the morning by the time she had everything into the house. Her mother’s and Margaret’s suitcases she left on the landing outside their bedroom, the boxes she stacked neatly in one corner of the living room. She went to leave her suitcase into the room she was to share with Marianne; but the sound of the headboard knocking against the wall as someone turned restlessly on a bed told her that it was probably best not to disturb her.
She stood with her forehead resting against the polished wood of the door for a long minute, before she left the suitcases there.
Then she went into the tiny kitchen, and made herself a mug of tea, clasping the mug firmly with both hands as if the heated china could drive out the chill which seemed to have settled itself into her bones. She leaned against the counter top, and stood looking out the window at the garden until dawn lightened the sky.