Free Finding Home by Lauren Westwood

fact, I’ve got a list of developers who might be interested in viewing it.’ He grins smugly. ‘And even if we don’t find a buyer, our marketing should at least get Hexagon to up their offer.’
    â€˜Well, that’s good news,’ Mr Kendall says, his voice flat. ‘For the heirs at least.’
    I walk over to one of the tall French windows that looks out onto the back of the house. In the distance, an ornamental lake shimmers in the fading light and a small summerhouse in the style of a Grecian temple glows like a jewel. The gardens are overgrown, but I’m sure they must have been magical in their day. Just like everything else here. Everything that is about to be lost for good.
    I follow my boss and Mr Kendall back into the main hall. Mr Kendall points to a door on the wall opposite. ‘There’s a corridor through there that leads to the East Wing,’ he says. ‘There isn’t much there. It was gutted by the fire.’
    â€˜How did the fire start?’ I ask.
    Mr Kendall shifts on his feet. ‘There was an investigation at the time involving a servant, but nothing was ever proved conclusively.’
    â€˜But it was an accident?’
    â€˜I believe in the end it was an open verdict.’
    â€˜Oh.’ The English literature teacher in me claws her way to the surface. In
Jane Eyre
, the fire at Thornfield was started by the ‘mad woman in the attic’ – the first Mrs Rochester. She ended up being killed in the fire, and Mr Rochester lost his eyesight. And then there’s the sinister house called Manderley in
Rebecca
. The fire there was started by the psychotic housekeeper Mrs Danvers after she learnt how Rebecca really died. And now, it seems that there’s some mystery here involving how nearly half of the house was burned to the ground. I can’t help feeling intrigued. ‘Can we have a look at the East Wing?’ I say.
    Mr Bowen-Knowles steps in front of me as if he’s trying to hide me like a divan under a dust sheet. ‘I think we’ve seen enough for today,’ he says through his teeth. ‘The site clearly has huge development potential that we can start marketing right away. I’d like to thank you once again, Mr Kendall, for thinking of
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
.’
    â€˜Fine.’ Mr Kendall says. He avoids meeting my eyes. ‘Provided your commission arrangements are satisfactory, I think we can consider it settled. You can be sole agents for three months. That’s all I can guarantee you. If you haven’t succeeded in that time, it will either go to Hexagon, or to auction.’
    Three months.
An imaginary clock shaped like Cinderella’s slipper begins to tick inside my head. Three months to find a buyer who will preserve and restore Rosemont Hall. Three months to save it. Can I possibly do it?
    While the two of them continue to discuss the details, I gravitate back up the main staircase until I’m standing before the portrait of the girl in the pink dress. From her vantage point above the vast marble hall, surveying her ruined domain, she looks almost lonely. I wonder if in life she was happy – if she was thinking of someone special when she smiled that secret smile. Did she live at Rosemont Hall; find love here? In her hands she’s clutching something yellowish in colour, indicated with thick brushstrokes. Some kind of paper, or letters maybe? When I first started going out with Simon, he used to leave me copies of Victorian valentine poems on my pillow, and later on, send me funny little texts to let me know he was thinking of me. If we’d been born in a different era, would things between Simon and me have worked out? There’s a sharp pang in my chest as I recall the hurt he caused me; the humiliation. I hope the girl in the pink dress was luckier in love than I was.
    â€˜Amy.’ Mr Bowen-Knowles’s voice jars me back to