Free Finding Home by Lauren Westwood Page A

reality.
    â€˜Goodbye,’ I mutter to the girl in the portrait and rush down the stairs.
    I join the two men. ‘Hi, sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just having another quick look around for the viewings—’
    Mr Bowen-Knowles holds up his hand to silence me. ‘So as I was saying, Ian, I’ll assign my most senior agent, Jonathan Park-Spencer, to handle the marketing
and
the viewings.’
    The air goes flat in my lungs. There’s no way that Jonathan could ever do justice to this place. I speak up, but my voice sounds small: ‘I was hoping that… maybe...’
    Mr Kendall’s eyes meet mine for an instant. He turns to my boss. ‘Now that I’ve met Ms Wood, I’d like to continue to deal with her.’
    I wait for the
but unfortunately, my duty is to the estate—
    â€˜She seems very competent and enthusiastic about the house.’
    â€˜Yes, but—’ my boss interjects.
    â€˜Therefore, I’d like her to be the principal contact – at least while you have the exclusive listing.’
    There’s a long moment as Mr Bowen-Knowles looks at me like he’s hoping the earth will swallow me up. I stand up a little straighter trying to look ‘competent and enthusiastic’ until the stand-off ends. Finally, Mr Bowen-Knowles lets out a long sigh, his brow withered like a prune. ‘Of course,’ he says to Mr Kendall. ‘Whatever you like.’
    My heart leaps in my chest. For a second, I imagine that I feel the atmosphere inside the house shift with a tiny flicker of life. ‘Thank you, Mr Kendall.’ I say in my most businesslike manner. ‘I won’t let you down.’
    The three of us leave the house and Mr Kendall locks up. A satisfied warmth creeps across my cheeks as he hands me the set of keys. I’ve succeeded – for now.
    I’ll be coming back again.

- III -
    Letter 3 (Reply to Letter 2?)
    June 2nd (1952)? (hand delivery)
    H
    I am delighted that you are home at last, and I am counting the hours until tonight when I will see you again! The months we’ve been apart have seemed endless. How I long to see your face and feel your fingers on my skin. Because as much as I cherish your letters, when I lay awake alone at night, my mind is full of whispers and doubts. Until you have told your father about us, as you say you will, how can I allow myself to hope?

- 7 -
    Over the next few days I get caught up in a rush of activities around the office. Mr Bowen-Knowles and I seem to have reached an unspoken agreement that my presence is in fact required. I settle into the rhythm of answering phones, typing emails and letters, responding to web enquiries, and springing to life like a puppet whenever prospective clients come in. In the back of the stationery cupboard I find a box of Christmas baubles (in an antique gold colour that looks remarkably like beige) and I use them to trim a little fake tree in the waiting area. The white lights twinkle on and off in my peripheral vision, bringing a tiny bit of cheer to the shortening days.
    Despite all my efforts, I still feel a pang of dread each time my boss emerges from his office. When he looks at me, his nose wrinkles like he’s tasted something foul, and I sense he’s still annoyed that I convinced Mr Kendall to let me take the lead on Rosemont Hall. Not that any more has been said on
that
subject...
    I try smiling, then frowning, then ignoring him like the others do. The latter works best – the second time I don’t look up when he comes out of his office, he comes over to my desk and instructs me to prepare the particulars for Rosemont Hall. I’m thrilled! I stay late three nights in a row wading through the material Mr Kendall provided on the house, plus seeing what else I can find out about Rosemont Hall and the Windham Family. I can’t find much on the slave trader or the gambler, but I have more luck with the modern generation. It’s not