Will nodded.
‘And what does Clarissa do these days?’
‘Do?’ he smiled.
‘Like a job.’
‘She doesn’t do jobs. She is big on the charity circuit. Formidable, in fact. I think there are various wings of museums and libraries named after her.’
‘That’s why she’ll do anything to avoid scandal,’ Amy muttered under her breath. ‘Who’d want to endanger all this?’
A tall man with grey hair approached them. He was in his sixties, Amy guessed, but you would still classify him as handsome. He gave Will a chummy slap on the back.
‘Amy Carrell,’ said Will. ‘Meet my father, Richard Hamilton.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Amy,’ said Richard, with a genuine smile. Perhaps it was his obvious resemblance to Will, but Amy instantly warmed to him.
‘Amazing house,’ she said.
‘Yes, I have to keep reminding my sister of that; she’s constantly moaning about the roof. I suppose when you’re here all the time, it becomes commonplace. Anyway, you’ll get a chance to have a look around. I think they’ve put you two in the Trafalgar Suite.’
Will glanced at Amy.
‘Oh, we’re not . . .’ he stuttered. ‘Amy’s a friend, not a . . .’
His father started to laugh.
‘It’s the twenty-first century, Will. We’re not that old-fashioned, you know.’
‘Well, we were going to drive back tonight.’
‘To London? Tonight?’ said his father, shaking his head. ‘What on earth for? Your aunt Clarissa will be so disappointed. Come on, drink up,’ he said.
After a while, Amy excused herself, leaving the two men talking. It was nice to see the warmth between Will and his father. She had rather imagined the Hamiltons as a wholly dysfunctional family, clawing at each other for advantage, money and power, but now she could see that she had judged them only on Clarissa’s actions. Yes, it had been wicked and it had had terrible consequences, but it had happened decades ago. Perhaps throughout the intervening years they had enjoyed a normal life, just like Amy’s family: the occasional spat and argument, but nothing they couldn’t overcome. Somehow, though, Amy didn’t think so. It was possible that someone could do what Clarissa had done and learn from it, a shock to the system that would cure you of your selfish ways. But more likely it would only confirm whatever self-image you already had. After all, Clarissa’s deceit had given her all this: the chandeliers, the polished woodwork, the gilt-framed oils and the marble fireplaces. The human mind had a way of justifying its actions to itself. Amy was fairly sure that Clarissa would have taken the success of her scheme to mean that she deserved this life. She somehow doubted whether she had lost many nights’ sleep over it.
She walked slowly around the ground floor of Stapleford, taking in the grandeur – the red drawing room with its crimson velvet drapes and painted ceiling, the library stacked floor to ceiling with leather-bound books – and watching the party guests mingling: the ladies in their fine gowns and the flashing jewels that probably only came out of their safe deposit box one night a year; the gentlemen in their dark suits and their red cheeks; all of them laughing, smiling, seemingly comfortable in this world. Had any of them done things like Clarissa had? Had their fathers or mothers? Was all this smug, easy wealth founded on self-interest and evil? After all, unlike Daniel’s family – one generation of public school and they thought they were the House of Windsor – this was real old money, proper wealth, founded on exploitation and quite possibly corruption. Maybe Clarissa wasn’t alone; perhaps that was what it took to live this way.
Amy was just passing through the vast entrance hall when she saw her, and her heart jumped. She had demonised Clarissa Carlyle over the last few days, imagined her as some sinister Disney version of a wicked queen; even in the society-pages snaps she’d pulled up on the internet, Clarissa seemed to have a slightly evil gleam in her eye. But in the flesh she was nothing like that. She was just an ordinary woman. Or rather, an ordinary woman who had lived her life in extraordinary luxury. She certainly had that poise, that regal air as she walked towards Amy, helped by her long taffeta dress and the diamonds around her neck. Her bone structure was less fine than Georgia’s, but the family resemblance was clear.
Oh God, do I really want to do this? thought Amy, wondering for a moment whether she should just walk past, perhaps leave it until the next day. Or the day after that.
‘Hello. You’re Will’s new friend, I hear,’ said Clarissa, stopping in front of her.
Oh hell.
‘Yes,’ stammered Amy. ‘I suppose I am.’
The old woman held out a hand and Amy took a moment to study her. Georgia had revealed that Clarissa had been a secretary at Vogue in her younger days, and that love of fashion certainly shone through now. Looking at the exquisite beadwork and tailoring of her gown, Amy was certain it must be couture.
‘Clarissa Carlyle. I’m Will’s aunt.’
‘Amy Carrell.’
‘Oh, you’re American?’ said Clarissa. ‘How delightful. I was so glad to hear he had a new – what do you call it these days? – partner, is it? He’s such a lovely boy.’
Amy didn’t think she would achieve much by correcting the old woman, so she just smiled.
‘What are you doing wandering around on your own like this?’ Clarissa asked in her cut-glass accent.