Free Finding Home by Lauren Westwood Page B

too difficult to find Arabella Windham’s recent obituary in the online archives of the local newspaper. Like a typical old lady, she belonged to the local church and the gardening club. It confirms that she was married to Henry Windham, deceased, and that they had no children. I recall Mr Kendall saying that the American heirs are distant relatives.
    Henry Windham’s obit from a decade earlier is harder to find, and even briefer than his wife’s. It mentions only that he spent time at Eton and Oxford, and refers to his wife, Arabella, his father, Sir George, and the estate that he inherited. I’m forced to conclude that he was a typical young man of privilege, living off whatever family fortunes remained without contributing to anyone or anything.
    More interesting, however, is Sir George Windham. I find a short Wikipedia entry on him. He was born in 1900 and attended Eton and Oxford like his father before him and his son after him. He began collecting art in his twenties, and by the time he was thirty, he had amassed a number of valuable paintings. Then, like many idealistic (and wealthy) young Englishmen, in the 1930s he sought adventure by joining the International Brigades to fight the Fascists in the Spanish Civil War. He won a medal for his troubles. During World War II, the house was requisitioned by the RAF, who left it in a miserable state. Topping it all off, a series of bad investments decimated the family fortunes. Sir George died in 1955.
    I study the photographs that are embedded into the article. There’s a small photograph of a young man with a bold, aristocratic nose that I assume is Sir George as a young man. There’s also an architectural drawing of the outside of Rosemont Hall as it must have been when built – its two graceful wings intact and perfectly symmetrical. The final one is a dark, black and white photo of the inside of the great hall, dated 1939. Unlike the house as it is today, in the photo the pale grey walls are covered with paintings. An accompanying caption describes the famous Rosemont Hall art collection, which included several Gainsboroughs, a Caravaggio, and most notably, a Rembrandt called ‘Orientale’. I study the photograph, looking for the girl in the pink dress, but I don’t see her. I wonder how she alone escaped the fate of the others – the auctioneer’s gavel in the late 1940s, or the fire in the East Wing that destroyed the Rembrandt. Once again, I wonder who she was.
    I make a note of all my findings so that I can write up a few pages on the history of the house for the particulars. It’s exciting to play historical detective. I only wish that I had time to do some real research at a library, not just higgledy-piggledy on the internet. But time is not on my side. I glance over at Cinderella’s clock on my desk as the little silver hands move on relentlessly. As I begin writing the particulars, I remember my first sight of Rosemont Hall – its grand silhouette stark and lonely against a grey sky – and I feel a strong sense of responsibility. The house is an important piece of English history that has kept its identity for hundreds of years. It doesn’t take a card-carrying National Trust member to realise that such things are worth preserving.
    While my research is on track, the other aspects of my marketing campaign get off to a bad start. On the morning of the fourth day after the viewing, I hand Mr Bowen-Knowles the draft text I’ve composed – ‘Historic family home in need of TLC’. He frowns down his nose at me, closets himself in his office for two hours, and finally emerges. He slaps the two pages I’ve written about the history of the house and the Windham family down on my desk. They’re entirely struck out in red pen. He’s written instead a heading that says: ‘Outstanding green-belt development opportunity for flexible accommodation and commercial recreation