Page 21 of Oz (Finding Home #1)

“Why?” I ask blandly and Silas’s arm tightens. I look up to find him studying the floor with a quirk to his lips.

“Well, I erm–” She hesitates, obviously unsure of calling someone a possible thief.

“Oh, is it because you think we’re going to steal the family silver because he’s hugging me?” I lean forwards. “If it’s anything like the tut in that display case over there, you’ve no need to worry. I’ve seen better imitations on Camden Market.”

“It’s not imitation,” she says crossly, and I nod.

“Yes, it is. So, we won’t be pinching it today. We’ll stick to cuddling and having the tour we’ve paid for.”

“I would never accuse people of that.” She wavers. “It’s because he might knock something over.”

“I don’t think he’s done that since he was five,” I whisper back. “When he developed his spatial awareness. But maybe you want to give this lecture to that lady over there who appears to be carrying a suitcase on her shoulder. After all, it’s only fair.”

She hesitates but then accedes with bad grace and stalks over to the woman.

“Is it imitation?” Silas asks, lively curiosity in his voice.

“Probably,” I say cavalierly and grab his hand to lead him on. “Quick, before the Bride of Dracula comes back and demands you change your underpants in case they knock something over.”

“It’s what’s in my underpants that could cause a problem,” he says wryly, and I laugh far too loudly, if the glares from the other guides are anything to go by.

As if by mutual accord we fall silent and join the group of people who are clustered around a woman wearing the uniform of a guide who has very large hair. Following Silas’s guiding hand, I move to the back of the group.

He leans forward and I shiver as he talks into my ear. “I don’t want her noticing me. I think she knows my mother.”

I nod, and we move with the group into a superb wood-panelled dining room. A ten-seater table is laid with the finest china and glassware, and a large vase of flowers spill their opulent scent into the room.

Silas looks around the room and I’m sure he’s comparing his own house with this richness. His gaze falls on the table and the glasses and silver cutlery that catch the sunlight. “That’s ironic,” he sniffs. “When we were at school I don’t think Alexander even knew how to use a knife and fork.”

I stare admiringly at him. “This date is bringing out an unexpectedly bitchy side to you.” I nudge him. “Carry on. I like it.”

He smirks and then looks up as the guide begins her spiel. “As you may have noticed, the house is built in the shape of an ‘E’. This is because Lord Branton’s ancestors were very canny courtiers and it was a sure way of getting Elizabeth the First to grace your home and favour you.”

“Why isn’t yours like that?” I whisper. “Were your ancestors not canny courtiers?”

“No, we were the complete opposite. If our house had been built in the shape of a yawn, it couldn’t have been any clearer. We were the type to stand at the back and hope nobody noticed us.”

I laugh and cover it with a cough when the guide glances at us. She carries on talking.

“The land came to Lord Branton’s ancestors by his marriage to the daughter of a very well-known landowner,” she carries on. “The men in this family had a knack of marrying very well and having land and houses practically thrown at them.”

I look at Silas and raise an eyebrow but he shakes his head. “Not us. We married badly and had crockery thrown at us.”

I can’t help my laugh this time and the guide glares at me.

We quiet and follow her from one sumptuous room to another.

The house is certainly gorgeous. Everything is well maintained and smells of furniture polish and beeswax.

It seems to bask in the sunshine like a very sleek Siamese cat, while our house is more like an old bulldog.

Very British, but fleabitten and struggling to keep up.

The group drifts into a library and I inhale automatically.

I love the scent of old paper and leather.

This is gorgeous, with tall stained-glass windows and shelves that reach to the ceiling.

The shelves are crammed with leather-bound books.

As the guide begins her chat I edge closer and bend to look at the titles. I wrinkle my nose.

“I think Georgian Birds of England might not be as interesting as it sounds,” I say dolefully, and he grins widely before turning back to the guide.

“This room has over ten thousand books,” she says admiringly. “The works may be collector’s items, but rest assured that this is still a working room. Lord Branton still gets his reading material from here.”

“Does he, bollocks,” Silas whispers. “Not unless they’ve shelved some copies of Penthouse and The Beano .”

“In this very room,” she continues, “Winston Graham wrote one of his famous Poldark novels. He was a guest of the family and composed the work on this very desk.”

She moves over to show the group some ancient maps and Silas shakes his head. “Every guide in every old house in Cornwall claims that Winston Graham wrote a book there. He must barely have had time to go to the loo.”

I laugh. “Why didn’t he write a book in your house?”

He shrugs. “Probably couldn’t get a minute’s peace there.

Too occupied with finding a chair that wouldn’t collapse when you sat on it, or a mattress that hadn’t been there since the time of William the Conqueror.

He must have been a terrible guest anyway.

Descending on people with his notebook and pen and then writing a book in the study at all hours.

My forebears would have needed the room to look at porn. ”

We drift further and further behind the group until we’re alone, meandering along into one gorgeous room after another. I look up at a picture of a very strange-looking woman.

“She looks a bit bonkers,” I say dubiously.

He looks up. “That’s not even one of his ancestors,” he says disapprovingly. “This whole room was broken down and shipped here when a local family died out. Alexander bought the room lock, stock and barrel.”

“So, this madwoman who looks like a sheep isn’t even his family?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. At least my family portraits are my own family.”

“I wouldn’t be too proud about that,” I say judiciously. “They all seem either congenitally depressed or like they’re on the brink of serial killer fame.”

He laughs and drags me into another room.

“I hate to say it, but it is a gorgeous house,” I say quietly as we linger by a display of armour.

He sniffs. “It’s okay, but it’s like a bloody film set.”

He carries on talking but I’m not listening anymore, struck dumb by a blinding idea.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks curiously. “You look in a daze.”

I shake my head. I’m not getting his hopes up so instead I look at the armour and read the label. “It says this was used by Lord Branton’s ancestor during the Battle of Bosworth.”

Instantly diverted, he looks at the battered armour. “I doubt he did much fighting. He probably wore it to bed if he was anything like his descendant,” he says sourly. “I’ve never met a lazier man.”

I snort with laughter. “Yes, if you look closer his visor is very shiny where it rubbed on the pillow.” I look at the note again. “I take it he was on the winning side?”

“He’d have been on the side that was in power when he got out of bed.”

I look around. “It’s so well organised. And he must be raking it in. There were at least four groups waiting to be shown around and it’s only ten o’clock. If each of them pays a tenner he’ll have made four grand before lunch.”

He looks around. “I’m not keen. I don’t like the way the guides are wearing invisible jack boots. That woman almost had you shot at dawn in the Queen’s Room.”

I think of our guide who had reacted violently when I touched a curtain to marvel at the needlework.

“I thought she was going to rip my bloody hand off,” I sniff. “And holding the sign up that said ‘do not touch’ and making me read it was overkill.” He laughs and I look at him. “I don’t think we want anyone like that, do you?”

He shakes his head. “Fuck, no. Have you ever been to Salisbury Cathedral?”

I blink at the change of subject but nod. “Yes, why?”

He shrugs, looking a bit awkward. “I just thought it was lovely in there. There’s such a feeling of ownership and pride in the people that show you around there that makes it feel accessible and welcoming.”

I nod slowly. “You’re right.” He smiles, and I carry on.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that apart from remembering it as a lovely place, but I think you’re onto something.

It’s because everyone is so warm and interested.

” I think hard. “How about going to the next parish council meeting and the diocese meeting? See if there are any local older people around who worked in the house in the golden days before the war. They’d make fantastic guides.

We could also look at staging a few plays in the grounds during the summer to celebrate that actor-obsessed ancestor of yours.

Let everyone bring a picnic and sit on the grass. It would be amazing.”

He grins at me. “You’re so brilliant,” he says softly.

I flush. “In the spirit of honesty, I have to tell you that I’m really not.”

He looks around quickly and comes to stand in front of me. He raises his hands and cups his palms around my cheekbones. “You’re brilliant and sharp and fierce,” he says quietly. “And you fascinate me, Oz.”

I stand caught by his eyes that are a clear green gold in this light. I open my mouth to say something flip, but something real and raw in his face and voice stays me and instead I cover his hands with my own. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He nods and, lowering his head, he takes my lips in a soft kiss. Our lips rest against each other gently before his tongue slips into my mouth and I melt against him.

Goodness knows what we’d have done then, but we’re saved from having possible intercourse in front of a suit of armour by an incredulous voice.

“Silas?”

Silas stiffens and turns around, and I can almost taste his next word on the air before he says it. “David.”