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“I went on to share the monies received from ticket sales would pay for the tours, and anything left over would be invested in the village. The school or the ambulance service, or no-interest loans to farmers or businesses who might fall on hard times.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
And it didn’t.
It sounded like a great idea.
“Dad doesn’t agree. He was livid. His face got so red, I thought he’d have a stroke. He told me, over his dead body would Duncroft be open ‘to just anybody.’ Regrettably for him, he has no choice. I told him he could absent himself for two Saturdays and Sundays a month from ten to the last tour ending at four, or hide in his room, which would be part of the house not opened to the tour, obviously. Alternatively, he could move out and live somewhere else.”
I stretched out my lips in a non-verbal Eek!
“This isn’t Buckingham Palace, darling,” Ian replied to my expression. “We don’t have an army of staff and host heads of state. Even at Christmas, when Dad’s brothers and sister and my cousins come and stay for a week, only twelve bedrooms are occupied, outside direct family. We have forty-three bedrooms in this house.”
“Yowza.”
“Indeed.”
“So, he lost it,” I deduced.
“He did,” Ian confirmed. “We have three Turners, one Gainsborough, and Persephone was sculpted by fucking Bernini.”
I knew those were Turners and Gainsborough!
And Bernini?
Whoa.
“There’s a magnificent piece by Ansdell in the Hunt Room in the northwest wing. That room’s never used because we no longer hunt, so no one even sees it, for fuck’s sake,” he groused.
I reached out and curled my hand on his knee.
“You don’t have to convince me, honey,” I said soothingly.
It was like I didn’t say anything.
“Houses like this are museums and they should be treated as such. History is fascinating, rich and full of beauty and tragedy. What’s left of that in this house is just beauty. And it should be shared.”
“You won’t get an argument from me.”
He seemed to realize he was no longer stating his case to his father and fully focused on me.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m annoyed.”
“I can tell.”
He watched me closely. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Yes,” I said readily.
Ian grew silent, but he did it still watching me.
“You love this house,” I said quietly. “You want other people to enjoy it. You want it to be useful. I think that’s beautiful.” I gave his knee a squeeze. “He’ll come around.”
“He won’t. He’ll hate it every weekend there are tours. He’ll never change his mind. He’ll bitch and hand me shit about it, and he’ll never forgive me for doing it. But I’m doing it.”
At that, I fell silent.
After another sip and drag, he suggested, “Let’s stop talking about it.”
