youâre a musician . . . Are you away overnight often?â
I opened my arms. âLook, itâs my job. Itâs my life. I know I should always be there, butââ
âNo, you shouldnât.â Torcuil looked at me, raising his eyebrows. âYou do what you do. If you were to give it up for Isabel . . . You would never forgive her. And she would never forgive herself.â
I looked down. I was so lucky to have my brother, always in my corner. Weird, though: we were talking about these family matters in front of Clara and it didnât seem wrong.
âAnyway,â I continued. âThis is an especially difficult time for my work. Iâm on trial with the Scottish National Orchestra. There are two possibilities here: I stop the trialââ
âOr I work out.â Clara finished the sentence for me.
âNo pressure, then.â Torcuil attempted a joke.
âItâs a lot to take on,â I said.
âBut she is the one for us,â my brother intervened, again looking at me. My arms came out in goose bumps. What does he know? Like so often with Torcuil, the workings of his mind were a mystery. I could only trust. And I did. I did trust him.
âI think I am,â Clara said with a smile. She was still calm, unfazed.
âI havenât told you everything. Bell . . . Isabel is not here at the moment. Sheâs at the hospital. She . . .â I couldnât say it aloud. I couldnât.
She tried to kill herself.
For a moment, there was silence around the table, and I could almost feel Torcuil and Margherita holding their breath.
âI know,â Clara said in a soft voice.
âI suppose there is no point in asking you how you know.â I was trying to keep my voice steady, but I couldnât help my distress creeping in. I cleared my throat.
âItâs a small village . . .â
âSo you are aware of what we are dealing with?â
âYes.â
I took a breath. âIf you want it, the job is yours. What do you say?â
âI say, yes. If Isabel wants me . . .â
âWeâll persuade her,â said Torcuil, but he was tormenting a tea towel in a way that told me he was not that confident.
I looked around at everyone. âWell, thatâs the easy part done.â I felt a lump in my throat. Please let me persuade her , I prayed silently. Please convince Bell to let Clara into her life. But I knew it didnât work like that â ultimately, Bell would make her own decision. It would be up to her to accept Clara or not.
To try to walk on the road to recovery, or stand still and suffer.
All the help in the world was there, if she accepted it.
My Bell. My Bell and her battle.
âYou wouldnât give me a guided tour of this beautiful place?â Clara asked, and with that, the tension burst like a bubble.
We walked through room after room, each of them spotless, with the most beautiful furniture pieces. Dotted here and there were signs from the National Trust, explaining the history and use of each room. It was strange, to see these spaces we used to live in as children cordoned off and shown to the public. I remembered playing hide-and-seek here with my siblings, reading books on the antique sofas, stepping without thinking on the precious mosaicked floor of the music room, keeping our clothes in the intricately carved wardrobes, sitting for dinner in the light of precious chandeliers. It was all normal, for us. Just the way life was.
âLook, thereâs even a treasure hunt you can do. For children,â Torcuil said, handing Clara a piece of paper. âMargheritaâs son â heâs four now â must have done it a hundred times!â
âLet me see. Find the beast of the north . . . Oh, up there!â She pointed to the big framed painting of a polar bear. âMy children would have loved this too, when they were little.â
âYou have children?â