Page 15 of Oz
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “What is that?”
Silas grins and pats the dog affectionately, pulling gently on his ears and leaning down to drop a gentle kiss on the giant’s nose. The dog looks even more mournful, if that’s possible.
“He’s an Italian Spinone,” he says grinning up at me. “I know he’s big, but he’s a total sweetheart. He’s really gentle.”
I put my fingers out and the dog noses them before giving another sigh which is strong enough to be labelled a breeze. “What’s his name?”
“Chewwy.”
I look down at the dog’s furry face, big bones, and depressed demeanour. “Oh my God. It’s Chewbacca.”
He laughs. “When he yawns he even makes the same noise.”
“That’s amazing.” He smiles at me and he looks rumpled and handsome. Our eyes meet and seem to catch.
“Where do you want the public to go?” I ask quickly, and he looks startled. I pause before ploughing on. “What I mean is, in an ideal world, where would you like the public to be able to go because we both know they’ll wander all over the bloody house regardless?”
He smiles. “I think the Great Hall. There’s a staircase that runs from there to the East Wing of the house. We can close that wing off from the rest of the house. The King’s Bedroom is up there.”
“Won’t he mind?” I ask faintly.
He grins widely. “Henry the Eighth. He’s so dead, he won’t give a toss.”
He startles a laugh out of me and I look up to find him staring at me. “What?”
He shakes himself like a dog. “Nothing. Come on and I’ll show you.”
We move through the Great Hall which is no less impressive this morning with the sun pouring through the leaded windows and bathing the room in light.
“I’ll show you the collections when we’ve done the house,” he throws over his shoulder.
“The only person I’ve met so far with a collection was an ex who had all his baby teeth in a box,” I muse. “Tell me yours is more interesting and a bit less creepy.”
He laughs. “I’m sorry. I can’t. There’s a collection of letters from one of my female ancestors who was a mistress of Charles the Second.” He looks back at me. “But unfortunately, not the type of mistress who did well financially. With our luck I wouldn’t be surprised if she had to pay him. Other than that we have the Elizabethan Earl of Ashworth who was a huge fan of the theatre.” He shrugs. “Either the theatre or the players, I’m not sure. Either way, he was a sponsor of a company of actors and there are letters from Elizabeth the First about the plays he put on for her when she came to stay. It’s not teeth, but I suppose you could jazz that up.”
“Jazz them up? Are you envisioning streamers and confetti?”
He laughs as we skirt a lady who is pushing a Hoover around in a rather dispirited manner. Silas grins at her and immediately her face brightens and she smiles back at him.
I try not to look at his bright face and pretty eyes and look up at the portraits hanging on the walls instead. “God, your family were a grim lot,” I say without thinking and swallow in horror, but he just laughs. It seems like laughter floats around him like pollen round a flower.
“Yes. You should have met some of them. My grandfather would have chided Vlad the Impaler for being too good natured, and my father never met a smile he couldn’t turn upside down. Milo’s restoring a lot of the old portraits. I don’t know whether to be thankful that I can see their faces again or horrified.”
I laugh and follow him up the staircase tailed by the dogs. “Before I forget,” he says over his shoulder. “There will be a party at the end of the summer. It’s an annual event. A marquee goes up and we serve food and provide a band. It was always looked on as a chance for my father to sneer at the hoi polloi while taking their money to fund his hobbies. It’s the house manager’s job to organise it. I’ll get Milo to give you the details.”
I stare at him before shaking my head. “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” I say faintly.
“Okay, Scarlett O’Hara.”
I grin. “Please don’t carry me up the stairs.”
“I’ll try not to. It might put my back out,” he says solemnly.
We come out into a small room with a half wall that has intricately carved openings. “Musician’s Gallery,” I say automatically and move to look through them and down onto the hall below.
He comes to stand next to me. “Musicians and children,” he says. “Henry and I spent many happy times up here spying on the adults without having to make polite conversation with any of them.”
“I don’t think my family and I ever had polite conversation,” I muse. “Who’s Henry?”
