The Wolf Border(3)

The main door of the hall is a dense medieval affair, shot through with bolts: siege-proof. On either side sit two stone lions, lichen mottling their manes. It seems wrong to use such an entrance, but there is no other way, no tradesman’s signpost. She pushes the bell and a ferrous donging sounds within. A woman answers: middle-aged, plump inside her navy suit. She is auburn-haired, unadorned by jewellery or cosmetics, with winter-rose skin. Extremely English-looking; from an England seventy years gone. She would suit a rabble of hounds at her feet, Rachel thinks, a shotgun crooked over her elbow – the complete incarnation has probably at some stage existed. The woman introduces herself as Honor Clark, the Earl’s secretary. Rachel shakes her hand.

Really sorry I’m late. The flight was delayed. Snow in Spokane. We were sitting on the runway too long – they had to re-spray the plane. I almost missed the connection. Then the drive up . . . I hope he hasn’t been waiting long.

The apology is irrelevant. He isn’t here.

I don’t know where he is at the moment, Honor Clark tells her. The Land Rover’s gone, which doesn’t bode well, but it does mean he’s on the estate. I’m leaving in an hour. Do you want to come in?

Rachel checks her watch.

Ah. Yes, OK. Thank you.

She follows the woman across the threshold, into a large, temperate reception hall, then down a corridor hung with portraits of stags, Heaton Coopers, and a few tasteful abstracts. She is shown into a vast drawing room containing an elaborate suite of furniture, a Bauhaus chair, glassware cabinets, bookcases, and an immense stone fireplace. The grate is un-laid but the room is warm, free of medieval draughts. The secretary holds her hands up as if fending something away.

Look, I can’t offer you dinner, I’m afraid. Thomas has an event in Windermere tonight so he’s dining out. We don’t have guests this week – the chef’s off.

I’m fine.

As I say, I doubt he’ll be available before he has to go out.

OK. But I did have an appointment. I should probably wait.

The secretary nods and lowers her hands.

You said you didn’t need a hotel so I haven’t booked one.

No. I’m staying with family.

You’re local? I don’t hear an accent.

I’ve been away quite a while.

I see.

Honor Clark ushers her across the room, and Rachel sits on the chaise longue near the empty fire. Lambent Chinese silk, in near-perfect condition. Her trousers are badly creased. The sales tag inside the waistband is irritating her lower back but she has failed during the course of the flight or the drive to tear it out. She has not worn slacks for over a year, not since the Minnesota conference, at which she delivered the keynote speech, drank too much in the hotel bar with Kyle and Oran, argued with the chairman of the IWC, slept with Oran again, and left a day early. Not disgraced exactly, but en route. In the bars and restaurants of Kamiah, which the centre workers frequent at weekends, the dress code for both men and women extends no further than boots and jeans. She hasn’t showered since leaving the centre; any trace of deodorant has gone. She has never been received at this level of society before, in any country. Even beyond the warp of altered time zones and the déjà vu of coming home, the event feels deeply uncanny. Honor Clark moves to the sideboard.

OK. Well. I’ll set you up and then leave you. Would you like a sherry?

Yes, alright.

Sweet or dry?

Dry?

The secretary lifts one of the cut-glass decanters, unstoppers it, and pours out a viscous topaz liquid. The rugs under her heels are intricately woven, plums and teals, each one no doubt worth thousands. Rachel’s cabin in the centre complex has flat-pack cabinets and linoleum floors. There are fading plastic coffee cups with the Chief Joseph logo stamped on them. Her entire cabin would fit, if not into this capacious, silk-wallpapered room, then certainly into the wing. It feels as if a kind of Dickensian experiment is taking place, except there will be no charitable warding, no societal ascent. Her intended role has not yet been defined. A consultant? A named advocate? A class of specialist suddenly called upon in times of extravagant ecological hobbying? A delicate, bell-shaped glass of sherry is placed in her hand. Honor Clark heads for the door.

I’ll come back before I go. Have to make a few phone calls and finish up. If he arrives I’ll send him to you. But, as I say, it’s unlikely. You’ll be alright in the meantime?

Yes. Fine. Thanks.

And the woman is gone, back into the panelled opulence of the manor corridors, back into whichever chamber of the hall she inhabits while arranging the abortive comings and goings of the Earl. The sun shifts from behind a cloud and the drawing room is filled with moist Lakeland light. Rachel sips the sherry, which is crisp and surprisingly enjoyable. Not a trace of dust or mouldering cork. She finishes the drink quickly, then stands and crosses the room.

Beyond the tall windows, the estate extends for miles. It is now the largest private estate in England. Little of the acreage has been sold off. In fact, quite the opposite. Thomas Pennington owns most of the private woodland in the region, farmsteads, mostly empty, all but the common land. On the horizon, the fells roll bluely towards bald peaks. At the bottom of the sloping lawn, at the lake edge, is a wooden reiki structure – one of the Earl’s alternative hobbies, perhaps, certainly safer than flying microlights, which famously almost killed him, and did kill his wife.