The House in the Clouds Read online

  The House in the Clouds

  Victoria Connelly

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Victoria Connelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover design by The Brewster Project

  Photos copyright © Depositphotos

  Published by Cuthland Press

  in association with Notting Hill Press.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2021 Victoria Connelly

  To my dear friends Kerrie and Emilie with love

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  High Blue Sky

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Victoria Connelly

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Edward Townsend had known the house his whole life. Having grown up in a neighbouring village in the Sussex Downs, he knew it as Winfield Hall although the locals had another name for it – The House in the Clouds. Looking at its lofty position above the village now, Edward couldn’t think of a more fitting name. How palatial it looked. Compared to the tiny cottages clustered in the village, it must indeed seem like a palace with its splendid Georgian dolls’ house exterior and its large sash windows glinting in the light.

  He’d spent the morning walking around the empty rooms of the hall, noting the crumbling plasterwork, the broken balustrades and the general air of decay, but he’d known that he had what it took to restore it to its former glory. It was a house with good bones, and that’s what counted. Everything else could be replaced or repaired.

  Sitting in his car, Edward glanced down at the catalogue he was holding. The property was to be sold at a public auction which made him anxious. On the one hand, you could get an absolute bargain at auction but, on the other, the price might rocket to way above what you were happy to pay for it. How he wished that he could just put an offer in now and be done with it. Edward didn’t like surprises. He liked to know what he was getting and he was buying this place as an investment because he could see a real future in it.

  Winfield Hall was a property of untapped potential in a beautiful location within commuting distance of London. What was not to love about that? And he planned to divide it into apartments, renting them out while living in one himself. He wasn’t sure for how long. Maybe three to five years, maybe more. He’d have to see how it suited him and his job in the capital.

  His doctor had told him to slow down and to take some time off from his job as a financial adviser, but that was easier said than done. Edward was a workaholic and lived for his job, and yet somewhere inside him was that little boy he’d left behind in the countryside of the downs – the one who’d clambered over stiles and gone swimming in the rivers and the sea. Now, he was lucky if he got a once-a-week dip in his club’s pool. His punishing timetable meant that leisure time was often squeezed into non-existence.

  He rolled his shoulders and cricked his neck, acknowledging that the punishing hours at his desk were taking a toll on him physically and, of course, there was the old problem, he thought, giving his left leg a massage. Just for a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining an alternative lifestyle where he might be able to work from home a couple of days a week and fit some wild swimming into his timetable. Gosh, how he missed that. He still had his wetsuit somewhere, didn’t he? It was such a long time since he’d worn it, but he was pretty sure it was in his car.

  He smiled at the thought of swimming in the wild again, imagining what it would be like to feel the cold, silky river water welcoming him and that incomparable feeling of freedom and relief he felt only when swimming. But he mustn’t get too carried away, he told himself. The house wasn’t his yet.

  He took one last look out of the window at the pale golden facade of Winfield Hall before starting his car for the two-hour drive back into London. He wasn’t looking forward to it and he knew that he would be leaving a little part of him behind in that Sussex village.

  * * *

  Abigail Carey took a big, deep breath of the downland air, revelling in its early autumn purity. It was quite unlike anything she’d ever breathed before and she knew that she had found the one place she wanted to be more than anywhere else, which was a strange feeling for her to have. As a child, Abi had never had a garden beyond a bare courtyard and she wondered where this sudden longing came from now. But, wherever it came from, it was most welcome. She could draw here, she thought, and paint and embroider and … breathe. That’s what she wanted to do more than anything else after years of working so hard. It seemed to her that she hadn’t had a single moment to breathe in years.

  After a spell at art college, Abi had struck out as a freelance designer for a number of companies while working on her own designs in the evenings. It hadn’t been an easy existence and she’d lost count of the number of dreadful flats she’d lived in, sharing with strangers in order to make the rent.

  And then something strange had happened. Her “doodling” as her sister always referred to it had taken off and she suddenly found herself flavour of the month. Then flavour of the year. She’d been able to pay for her own studio and then her own shop. Suddenly, Abigail Carey was running a business and a successful one too. Her prints and linocuts were featured in all the newspapers and glossy magazines and several of her patterns were bought by department stores for quality bed linen, cushions and curtains. What a whirlwind it had been.

  Smiling as she thought about it all, her fingers found a large silver locket she wore on a long chain around her neck. She didn’t open it, but it was a comfort to know what was inside: that first doodle of the sunflower that had launched her career. It had seemed like such a simple thing to draw. Everybody loved sunflowers, didn’t they? With their happy round faces and those bright fiery petals, they were a symbol of joy and strength, a winning combination, and it was as she thought about them that she determined that she would grow them at Winfield if she made the winning bid at the auction. There was a walled garden and, as she walked around it now, she promised it sunflowers.

  She felt sure she should have been asking the estate agent questions, but he’d disappeared a few minutes ago to give her some privacy. After all, this was the kind of property one needed to feel. You couldn’t really take it in with an estate agent giving you a potted history and blasting you with useless details like the measurements of rooms. That wasn’t what Abi was interested in at all. She wanted to reach out and touch the place, running her fingers along the plasterwork and listening to the sound her feet made on the bare wooden floorboards. It was important to get to know a property quietly, especially one that had been empty for the last few years. It needed to be respected, its empty rooms entered silently, reverently and not with the constant babble of an estate agent’s voice accompanying you.

  And, oh those rooms! Lofty, light and airy – just like the landscape which the large windows seemed to invite
inside so that the two seemed indistinguishable. Abi was glad that they were empty of furniture because she could fill each room from her own imagination and what plans she had for the place. Of course, Winfield Hall was far too big for her to have all to herself. As much as she’d relish drifting from room to room and filling each with her art, she knew that this was a place to be shared.

  She remembered those long, grim years of rented flats, the dark and dingy rooms, the uninspiring views of rooftops and litter-strewn streets. How her heart had yearned for such a place as this – even a small portion of it. One room or even a small corner would have sufficed as long as it had one of those glorious windows framing the great flank of a down and the wispy clouds in the heavens above. She’d known as soon as she’d seen the house for sale online that she would share it, but not with just anyone. She wanted to share it with fellow artists and creatives – people who would love the place as much as she did. She had so many ideas for the future of the place. Each room had been so full of light and possibilities. Abi smiled, feeling hugely excited at the thought of what the future might hold.

  She took out her sketchbook and started drawing. She drew the grand front of the hall with its beautiful pediment pointing into the blue sky, she drew the walled garden with its swaying grasses and she drew the great bulk of the down behind the house, with its dark saddle of trees and the chalky ribbon of footpath which led into the valley. What a special place this was, she thought, throwing her head back and gazing up into the endless blue of the heavens. It was a landscape of air and space, of sky and solitude, and she knew – because she could feel it in the very fibre of her being – that this was the place she wanted to live forever.

  Chapter Two

  The auction room was horribly crowded. Abi glanced around, wondering how many competitors she had hiding there. A number of properties were to be sold that day, but how many people were there for Winfield Hall, she wondered?

  She’d walked up to the house earlier that morning, leaving her car in a leafy lane by the church and taking the footpath up the chalky track that climbed the hill out of the village and skirted the grounds of the hall, giving her a good view of the property. She’d sat on the grassy slope of the down in the September sunshine for a few minutes, gazing at the house and grounds below her and admiring the soft ambers of autumn in a nearby wood. The morning was diamond-bright with great white clouds scudding across the sky and a cool breeze had reminded her that summer was well and truly over, but that hadn’t mattered because Winfield was beautiful – whatever the season.

  It was, she’d acknowledged, one of those painfully delicious moments in life when things could go either way. She’d looked at her watch, thinking that, in a few hours’ time, she would either be the happiest person on earth or the most miserable. But which way would it go? She almost couldn’t bear the suspense of it all.

  Now, in the stuffy atmosphere of the auction room, she tried to channel the peace she’d felt while gazing at Winfield. Whose home could it possibly be if not hers? Surely there wasn’t anybody in that room who felt as passionately as she did about the place.

  She shook her head. She mustn’t assume she had the monopoly on passion when it came to Winfield. She’d be very surprised if there weren’t at least half a dozen people, maybe even a dozen, who loved the old place. It was the sort of house to inspire such feelings after all. But, all the same, she couldn’t bear to think of anybody else owning it. Sitting on the slope looking at the property that morning, the wind blowing through her long fair hair, she’d had such a strong feeling that she was gazing down at her future home. She could really see herself there. More than that, she could feel herself there. Now, that might be fanciful. Abi would be the first to admit that she had sudden and often wonderful flights of fancy, but this was something more. It was almost as if she’d been granted a glimpse into the future.

  She gave a delicious little shiver as she thought of it again and took a deep breath. It was perhaps a little odd that the very first property she was trying to buy was so grand. But she hadn’t wanted to buy just any old property and so had continued to rent as her business had grown. To be honest, she hadn’t really had time to think about purchasing a house – she’d put everything she’d had into her work and she felt so lucky to be standing here now able to consider such a purchase.

  She’d dressed smartly for the occasion, swapping her usual denim blouse and floral-patterned skirt for a crisp honey-coloured suit which she hoped she hadn’t wrinkled when sitting in the grass. She’d chosen a sweet blossom-pink blouse and, as ever, was wearing her silver locket with the lucky sunflower doodle, hoping it would work its magic for her. She touched it lightly as the auctioneer stepped up to the podium. It was time to begin.

  Things warmed up with a couple of townhouses, a plot of land with a decrepit bungalow in the middle of it and a thatched cottage that would definitely be a labour of love for somebody. And then came Winfield Hall.

  ‘A special lot this,’ the auctioneer began. ‘First time on the market in ninety years and a real landmark in the area. A twelve-bedroomed Georgian property with many fine original features, it comes with seven acres of land in splendid downland countryside. Now, who’ll start the bidding?’

  He opened the bidding at an eye-watering sum and a hand immediately shot into the air. Abi waited, biding her time, watching the room as the price rose slowly but steadily. She could feel her heart racing and, for a brief moment, was fearful that she might not be able to bid at all – that some strange power might prevent her, and so she raised her hand.

  ‘We have a new bidder in the room,’ the auctioneer announced. How ghastly, Abi thought, as heads turned to seek her out, but at least she was a part of things now.

  As far as she could see, there were four other bidders, one on the telephone, one online and two in the room. Abi had known ahead of time that she could have bid from her place in London, but she’d wanted to be in the auction room itself and had been desperate to visit the hall too so she could imbibe some of its magic beforehand.

  The price continued to rise and she noticed that the bidder on the phone had dropped out. It was getting closer to becoming hers, she thought. She just had to keep going and make sure hers was the last hand in the air when the gavel fell. She’d set a price limit, of course. It seemed ridiculously high to her and she’d seen other similar properties online, fully restored, selling for much less, but she knew that Winfield was special. Its setting made it unique and that would come at a premium, she realised.

  Still, the price rose until another bidder bowed out. How many were left now? Abi quickly glanced around the room. It was just her and one other: a man in a sharp, dark suit with neat sandy hair and a gold watch which caught the light each time his hand rose to bid.

  For a few tense moments, it was just her and him. She bid; he bid. On it went, the price rocketing, scarily close to her limit. She swallowed hard. What would she do if it reached her limit? Could she risk spending more?

  She bid; he bid.

  She mustn’t forget how much it would cost to renovate. It would probably be as much as the sale price and then there were bound to be a few surprises. She’d heard there always were with older properties.

  She bid; he bid.

  Then there’d be the auctioneer’s fee on top of the sales price.

  Abi felt a wave of panic. They were reaching her limit.

  She bid and there was a pause. Then he bid. The limit had been reached and the bid was with him.

  Tentatively, she raised her hand and bid again.

  He raised his and the price shot up.

  Once more, she told herself – just once. She touched her locket. One more lucky bid. She raised her hand. There was a pause. The auctioneer looked at the gentleman. He bid again.

  ‘Are we all done?’ the auctioneer asked, looking at Abi in case she had another bid in her. But she couldn’t do it. She shook her head, slowly realising that it wasn’t meant to be. So much for her
vision of the future. This, she thought, was where flights of fancy got you.

  As the auctioneer’s gavel closed the winning bid like a cruel gunshot, Abi’s heart broke a little. She picked up her bag and got up to leave the room.

  * * *

  Stephen slapped Edward on the back as they left the auction room together.

  ‘Well done, mate!’ he said. ‘I know how much it means to you to get this place.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Edward said. ‘Hey, you know who she is?’ He nodded to the fair-haired woman ahead of them.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My underbidder – over there.’

  Stephen looked at the woman who had paused to pick up a catalogue an elderly gentleman had dropped.

  ‘She’s that artist, I think,’ he said.

  ‘What artist?’

  ‘The one who does the patterns and things.’

  ‘Is she good?’

  ‘Yeah, actually. Bit of a success story,’ Stephen said. ‘Abigail something. Carrick. No, that’s not right. Carey! Does those pretty prints that women like. You know – cushions, curtains, aprons – that kind of thing. Got a chain of shops in London and a big factory somewhere up north.’

  Edward nodded. He wasn’t aware of the world of interior design. When he’d bought his London apartment, he’d hired someone to decorate it for him, writing down two words: sober, minimalist. He’d always had an aversion to feminine florals and anything in a pastel colour.