Read Online Finding Home by Lauren Westwood - Free Book Online Page A

bottom with the date etched in black: 1899. But there’s no name, and doesn’t appear to be a signature by the artist.
    Mr Bowen-Knowles taps his foot impatiently and I have to move on. I follow Mr Kendall through a series of interconnecting rooms – bedrooms, bathrooms, dressing rooms, sitting rooms – on the first and second floors. The rooms all smell of damp, there are bits of flaked-off paint and plaster on the floor, and some of the windows are literally rotting out of their frames. The walls are covered with mildew-spotted wallpaper in garish colours and patterns – and then I realise the thing that’s missing throughout the house. Other than the portrait of the young woman in the pink dress, there is practically no artwork anywhere. There are no smoke-darkened portraits of fated ancestors, views of Venice or caricatures of favourite horses or hunting dogs. The only pictures are a few twee landscape prints in a style fit to grace the front window of a charity shop.
    The next floor up consists of a long corridor of small rooms – the servants’ quarters. The corridor ends abruptly at a white wooden door. I walk towards it, sniffing the air. Instead of the musty damp of the rest of the house, I smell baking.
    â€˜That’s Mrs Bradford’s room,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘There’s a little kitchenette in there.’
    I move closer. Cinnamon, ginger… she must be making biscuits, or maybe scones. My stomach gives an almighty rumble. It seems so sad that an old lady who was a loyal employee and who bakes nice things will have to be turfed out. And if we get the instruction to sell the house, then part of my job will be to make sure it happens.
    â€˜Whatever she’s baking smells delicious.’ I say.
    Mr Kendall stops me going any nearer to the door with a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s not disturb her,’ he says.
    â€˜Oh, of course not.’
    We climb yet another staircase that leads to the top of the house, and a huge attic with an oak-beamed ceiling. The space is partially filled with boxes and old furniture, but just below the huge round window, there’s an area that was obviously once used as an artist’s studio. Two easels are set up near a rack of canvases covered with cobwebs. There’s a wooden box of well-used paint tubes, a dried palate of oils, and a wine glass with a dusty residue in the bottom. I can almost smell the ghostly vapours of turpentine; feel the presence of an unknown artist who might return at any second to resume his work.
    â€˜I understand that the father – Sir George – was an art collector, was he not?’ I run my finger over a stack of old gilded frames, sending up a shimmering shower of dust motes.
    â€˜Yes,’ Mr Kendall confirms. ‘That’s right.’
    â€˜But there doesn’t seem to be much art around – other than the portrait on the stairs.’
    Mr Kendall stares out of the oriel window at the acres of parkland below. ‘I don’t know much about it, but I believe that after the war most of Sir George Windham’s collection was sold off to pay for repairs to the house. A few paintings were kept, including a Rembrandt. But that was destroyed when the East Wing caught fire.’
    â€˜A Rembrandt was destroyed?’ I say. ‘That’s tragic.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Mr Kendall agrees. ‘It is.’
    He seems about to say more, but just then, Mr Bowen-Knowles flashes me another look. I press my lips shut. It’s not just Mr Kendall that I have to win over, but my boss too.
    â€˜So Ian,’ he says in a keen-to-get-down-to-business voice, ‘based on what I see, there’s a lot of potential here – for the right developer and…’ he clears his throat, ‘at the right price.’
    We head back down a secondary servants’ staircase.
    â€˜And what, in your professional opinion, would that be?’ Mr Kendall