Read Online Finding Home by Lauren Westwood - Free Book Online

visited the house. And they aren’t planning to. They’re very keen to sell as quickly as possible.’
    â€˜Then you’ve come to the right place,’ my boss chimes in.
    I shake my head, astounded. Why wouldn’t the heirs even want to see the house that they’d inherited? To be handed Rosemont Hall on a silver platter would be a dream come true for someone like me – and a lot of other people, I’m sure.
    We continue on our tour. The flotsam and jetsam of decades of married life is visible everywhere: dusty books and old magazines, vases filled with dead flowers, worn sofas, and time-darkened photographs. I feel a pang of nostalgia for the life I thought I had with Simon, and sad that I no longer have anyone to amass this kind of history with. But more than that, I’m angry – on behalf of the deceased owners whose heirs won’t even come and see the house where they lived.
    There are also a few gems scattered among the clutter: some lovely antique tables; a collection of Sevres china and glassware in an ornate floor-to-ceiling cabinet; gilded mirrors in all shapes and sizes. But something seems to be missing and I can’t put my finger on it.
    â€˜Do the heirs want anything,’ my boss asks, or ‘would you like us to just get a removal van to clean out all this
junk
.’
    The word echoes around the room. Mr Kendall raises his eyebrows.
    â€˜The Windham’s
belongings
will need to stay here for now,’ he says. ‘There’s an elderly housekeeper – Mrs Maryanne Bradford – who was devoted to the house and nursed Mrs Windham through her last illness. In the last year before Mrs Windham died, she was staying in one of the rooms on the third floor. Some of the things here may be hers.’
    â€˜Fine,’ Mr Bowen-Knowles says. ‘A developer won’t care if there’s a little clutter.’
    â€˜What’s going to happen to her?’ I say.
    Both men look at me.
    â€˜Mrs Bradford. Where will she go when the house is sold?’
    â€˜She’ll need to move out, of course,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘There’s no reason for her to stay.’
    â€˜Oh. What a shame.’ I feel pang of sadness for the old woman. I read somewhere that having to move house is a major cause of stress and premature death in the elderly.
    â€˜Her sister has a cottage in the village,’ Mr Kendall assures me. ‘She won’t have any trouble relocating.’
    My boss’s forehead cracks into a frown. He moves in front of me like a rook threatening a pawn. ‘Let’s see the rest of the house, shall we?’
    Mr Kendall leads the way up the grand staircase. I feel like Scarlett O’Hara as I trail my hand over the cool marble banister. At the top landing where the staircase divides, I stop. In the centre of the wall is an exquisite, life-sized oil painting of a young woman of about seventeen or eighteen. The background is a blend of murky blacks and greys, and her form emerges like an apparition. Her dark blonde hair is elaborately swept up and tied with ribbons, a few curls cascading around her neck. The bodice of her dress is pale-pink silk with a hint of lace at the neckline. The fabric sweeps out from her waist in shadowy folds, catching the light, and fading back into the blackness. But the most striking thing is the woman herself. Her eyes are bold and arresting, painted the delicate blue colour of forget-me-nots. Her features are soft, with high cheekbones and a delicately shaped nose. Her bow-shaped mouth is drawn up in a half-smile, like she has a secret.
    â€˜What a lovely woman,’ I say, as Mr Kendall pauses next to me. ‘Who is she, do you know?’
    â€˜No.’ Mr Kendall pauses briefly. ‘Though I’ve often wondered.’
    I stare closer at the painting. It’s set in a heavily gilded frame that protrudes from the wall a good six inches. There’s a brass plaque at the