Another Heartbeat in the House by Kate Beaufoy Read Free Book Online Page A

bothered with coasters, and were criss-crossed with a patina of scratches. The soft pedal on the piano that Aunt Letty had used to play was missing, and when she lifted the lid a tentative chord told Edie that it was badly out of tune. Armchairs sagged and sofas bulged where springs had gone.
    Edie crossed the floor and pulled first the shutters, then the curtains apart, allowing light to filter through a panel of cobwebby lace that lay behind. The garden of the lodge was all hillside, tumbling down to the lake. A limestone terrace lay beyond the French windows, cracked and overgrown and sprouting daisies and groundsel. Some effort had been made to prettify the lawn; a dozen or so shrubs had been randomly stuck in the earth and an attempt made to construct flower beds, but, Edie wondered, who would bother with a formal garden when you had such a gorgeous vista on your doorstep?
    â€˜Onward, Milo!’ she said, allowing the lace to drop back over the window.
    Next on her itinerary were the library and the dining room. Edie drew more curtains, tying them back with frayed silk ropes, and opened windows to dispel the faintly dank smell of disuse. Although it was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky, light bounced off the lake below and tumbled into the house. The carpets – which Edie was sure were as old as the house itself – had been bleached pussy-willow silver.
    Behind the glass doors of the bookcases, a diverse collection had been gathered. Classics rubbed shoulders with more recent publications: Charlotte Brontë stood next to Agatha Christie, Thackeray next to Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Jane Austen next to Dorothy Whipple. The Complete Works of Dickens were bound in morocco leather. A magazine rack contained ancient copies of
Horse & Hound
,
Country Life
and
The Lady
. Jigsaws and board games – the usual ones that were dragged out on rainy days – were stacked in a cupboard. A writing desk was crammed with rubbishy items – old pens, elastic bands, cigarette cards; Edie lit with glee upon a dog whistle.
    â€˜Listen to this, Milo! This means you must be a good dog, and come when you’re bid.’ She blew it, but Milo just stuck his tongue out at her and scarpered into the corridor.
    In the dining room, table, sideboard and chairs were shrouded, lending it a spooky resemblance to a funeral parlour. When Edie pulled away the dust-sheets, the air filled with feathers. Some bird must have found its way inside and perished there.
    The kitchen was the most modern room in the house, although Edie felt tempted to put inverted commas around the word ‘modern’. It was also the warmest. A new stove had been installed since she had last visited, and Mrs Healy had lit it in advance of her arrival. The cupboards were painted buttercup yellow, and had glass panels through which Edie could see mismatched crockery, storage canisters and cookery books.
What Shall we Have for Dinner?
, a
Be-Ro
recipe pamphlet,
Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management
. The date displayed on a calendar on the windowsill was 9 August 1930: no one had been here for over half a decade. She picked it up to read the motto:
Life is like walking through Paradise with peas in your shoes
.
    â€˜Life is like walking through Paradise with peas in your shoes, Milo,’ she said, heading back along the corridor to where she had left her luggage. ‘So aren’t you lucky you don’t wear them? Come on. Let’s find out where we’re sleeping tonight.’
    She carried her bags upstairs. Mrs Healy had made up the room that she and Hilly had shared. How strangely comforting to know that there was something of Hilly here, in the room where she would sleep! It was a pretty room, with wallpaper sprigged in apple green. There were two high beds with rose-patterned counterpanes, and there were roses, too, on the accoutrements on the marble-topped washstand: basin, ewer, soap dish and