A Different Reflection Read online

  “Ah!” Justin answered, sounding disappointed that I was not a prospective buyer. “And what exactly is it that you require from me?” he then asked.

  “Well, actually Justin, I wondered if you could put me in touch with him, or take me there to meet him? If anything, the piece may rouse some interest from potential and possible buyers,” I then stated, sounding very sure. There was silence for a few seconds and I sat with my eyes closed and fingers crossed, hoping to hear the words that I needed to hear.

  “Very well Miss Stuart, I will give Mr Grey a call and see what he says. Is this the best number to get you on?” he asked. I punched the air in excitement.

  “Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much, Justin. I look forward to speaking with you soon,” I replied.

  “I will call you as soon as I have been in touch with him,” he then said.

  “Claire!” I called as I hung up. “I think that I may have that story!” I happily announced. She came bouncing across to my desk to find out the details.

  “Brilliant, what is it, can you tell me?” she curiously asked. I sat with her and briefly explained the situation. “Poor old chap, rattling around there; I bet he is really lonely. I do think it will be interesting, though; I bet he has some real tales to tell from working there! So what do you need from me?” she then asked.

  “I need as much information as you can find on Northfield. How old it is, who built it, who has lived there, what happened to previous owners, and any exciting events that have taken place there!”

  In the meantime, I started to do some research of my own on the building itself. From plans, it did look spectacular; as I became engrossed in the information I was gathering, I was taken by surprise when my phone rang. It was Mr Justin Temperley.

  “Katharina, hello there, it’s Justin from Madison Cleaver!” he stated.

  “Yes, hello Justin, I’m hoping that this is good news?” I winced as I crossed my fingers again.

  “Well, it took a bit of persuading, but he is happy to see you. He has insisted though that it must be at two o’clock on Wednesday.”

  “Fantastic. Thank you for your help, Justin. Should a story be printed from the outcome of this meeting with Mr Grey, I will be sure to mention you in the piece,” I replied as I stood with excitement.

  “I should hope so!” he said with sarcasm. “Good luck with him. I will say that he isn’t the most forthcoming of gentlemen!” Justin then finished, before ringing off.

  “Yes!” I happily exclaimed as I walked to get another coffee. I passed Claire’s desk. “Book me out for the afternoon on Wednesday, I have a meeting in place!” I informed her.

  She smiled. “I told you not to worry!” she said confidently as she tapped away on her computer.

  Tuesday was spent researching and doing more researching. The more I looked back at the history of Northfield, the more captivating it became. There were pictures and drawings of the building itself dating back to over two hundred years before, including plans of the house and gardens. Unfortunately there was not very much to find on the people who had lived there or anything that had taken place there. It was fast becoming a fascination; surely there must be something in its long history to uncover? However, it was quickly becoming apparent that we did not know how old this house actually was – definitely a question for George who, after working there, would hopefully have some knowledge of its past. I had a fairly good feeling about this and couldn’t wait for tomorrow. Roll on Wednesday.

  Chapter Two

  When lunchtime on Wednesday arrived, to say that I was relieved was an understatement. Although I had a couple of other leads that I had followed up, they were not intriguing me as much as Northfield and George. I had been given the use of one of the cars from work. The drive out there seemed long, mainly due to the heavy traffic, but the mileage was not high.

  I completely understood what Charles and Helen had meant; just the driveway itself was impressive. As I passed through the tall iron gates that were open and travelled the length of the driveway, the house slowly came into view. It was magnificent; almost a picture book mansion from a film. Yes, a little run-down, but more impressive than I had been expecting! I had an even better feeling about this now; the facade was a good start and the pictures would make an impressive feature page. More questions sprang to mind as I pulled up near the elaborate stairs to the front entrance. I nervously reached for my bag, which held already researched paperwork, my notepad and Dictaphone.

  I stood and looked at the front of the building before climbing the stairs. I rang the old bell and waited patiently. A few seconds later, the door slowly opened and a very charming-looking older gentleman stood there. He looked at me and then smiled.

  “Miss Stuart, I presume?” he said in a very kind manner, as he gestured for me to come in.

  “Why yes. George, I presume? It’s very nice to meet you!” I then replied, as I reached my hand to shake his. He looked at it briefly and took it in his, then proceeded to bend and kiss the back of it delicately.

  “The pleasure is all mine!” he replied. I felt like I had stepped back in time; then, for a moment, I looked around the hallway in which we stood and I stopped breathing.

  Staring at the intricate features of the ornate ceiling, chandeliers, furniture and incredible staircase before me, I quietly whispered to myself, “Oh wow!” Then I was brought back to reality with the loud noise of the door closing, which George had pushed forcefully. I had caught its closure in the large mirror before me and quickly turned to face George.

  “Yes, it is impressive, isn’t it?” he remarked at my state of awe.

  “It’s amazing. I had no idea that places like this still existed. Well, places like this that are still being run as a home, and not as a public attraction!” I replied.

  “Oh goodness no, I do not want to share it with half the population of the country!” he smiled. “Shall we?” He gestured toward an open doorway to his left.

  “Yes of course, I do not wish to take up too much of your time!” I replied, as I walked into the most stunning day room. It was luxurious in its decor and rich in colour, and had antiques that I am sure many collectors would die for. “I think that I am going to be shocked into silence with every room I should walk into, George!” I remarked as I looked around, noting again another large mirror either side of the fireplace.

  “I forget its splendour sometimes, Miss Stuart. After living here for so long, I think that I take it for granted!” he replied as he again gestured for me to sit.

  “Please, do call me Kat!” I replied as I sat and took out my notebook.

  “Kat? Did your parents not like you very much?” he then asked sincerely. I laughed and shook my head.

  “No, not at all!” I replied, then tried to explain, “It has become a nickname – a shortened version of my name that most people tend to call me.”

  “What is your given name?” he asked.

  “Katharina!” I replied. “It’s a little old-fashioned, I know; I seem to have inherited the shortened version for the ease of my friends!” I explained.

  “Katharina. Such a beautiful name, it should be spoken every day!” he said warmly. “I should prefer to call you by your full name, if that is acceptable?” he asked.

  “Katharina is good. I do actually like my name. My mother had very romantic notions toward names, but that’s another story! Anyway, enough about me!” I quickly ended that explanation as I shook my head. He smiled.

  “So, Katharina. You would like to do an interview with me because...?” he questioned.

  “Ah, well, friends of my fiancé came to look around a couple of weeks ago and mentioned that you lived here alone, and I was intrigued that you didn’t want to leave. I thought it may be a heart-warming story to find out why!” I explained. He looked at me and then stood to pour some tea that was waiting on the table.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Yes, with milk please,” I answered. As he poured, he began.

 
“This house has a long story, Katharina, and I am not sure how much time that you have, but I can certainly start by telling you the history of the house and how it came to be here,” he then replied.

  “Great!” I replied. “It was not easy trying to find any history on the house in the library at all, other than plans or drawings,” I informed him.

  “Hmmm, I believe that is the case!” he then said. “It is a good job that some people are still living, who have all the knowledge up here!” He finished as he tapped the side of his head. I smiled. He took a sip from his tea and then continued:

  “Well, once upon a time… It was the year 1696, during the reign of William III. It was quite an eventful year for this house. It had just been finished in the spring by the original owner, Mr Charles Montagu Montgomery. He made his fortune by inheriting his father’s fortune as a Noble, but then he proceeded to squander it away with gambling and drinking. The house was a statement of his new position, but he had no common sense. By the time the year 1702 had arrived, he was well-known for his debts and Northfield was sold to the highest bidder,” he explained. He took a sip from his tea whilst I scribbled notes.

  “Who was to buy the house from him?” I asked. George smiled.

  “That would have been Mr Howard James Aldersley and his wife Mary Anne. Very nice people, but very unfortunate in circumstance,” he said, slightly dismayed.

  “How so?” I asked curiously. He sat and looked deep into his cup and carried on again.

  “They purchased the house and brought it back to life. By the summer of 1705, Northfield was well respected and many balls for nobility and gentry had been held here. For many years, it thrived. Then, tragedy struck.” He shook his head. “In 1709, poor Mary, who was with child, had complications and died along with her unborn child. It was more pain than Howard could bear, and for a long time he lived here in solitude, trying to cope with his grief. It was only when his wife’s sister Margaret came in 1711 to come to the aid of her brother-in-law that his life started to regain purpose. Margaret stayed here for nearly a year before she managed to get any useful occupation out of Howard. She too had lost her dearest sister and together they became united in living a life without her.” He smiled again, took a sip of his tea and then looked to me. “Am I going too quickly for you?” he asked. I quickly put down my cup and saucer.

  “No, not at all George, I am completely spellbound by your story. Please do carry on!” I replied as I put pencil back to paper. George looked toward the mirror that was opposite him and then looked at me and carried on.

  “Margaret fell in love with Howard, as he did her, and in 1715 they married and once again Northfield became a place of social gatherings. Many happy years continued and when Margaret found that she was with child in 1720, Howard – although nervous – was elated at the possibility of an heir.” He stood to place his teacup on the table.

  “Gosh, I cannot imagine how troubled Howard must have been after losing his first wife to pregnancy. Did she survive?” I asked with hope.

  “Oh yes, she was very well indeed throughout her pregnancy, and the birth by all accounts was not complicated at all,” George said as he stood by the fireplace, then he turned to me. “A son was born – Master James Henry Aldersley, 3rd September 1720, a day of celebration at Northfield. The staff were delighted at the new arrival, and at the good fortune that had found the Aldersleys.” He then walked toward me. “Perhaps, Katharina, I should show you a portrait or two so that you know of whom I speak.”

  “Why yes, I would love to,” I replied as I stood and took my Dictaphone – it was easier to record than write whilst walking. “Do you mind if I record everything you say?” I asked George.

  “If you find it at all interesting, then no, I do not mind at all. That is why you are here is it not?” he asked. I smiled and nodded and we walked along through two grand rooms before coming upon a large elongated room, upon which every wall had a portrait of some description. Yet again, though, there were mirrors to be found in every room. As I stopped and looked into one of them, I had to ask:

  “Was one of the previous owners very vain? I find it slightly unnerving to have so many mirrors to catch images of myself!” I asked. George came and stood beside me.

  “Why, what do you see?” he asked, as he stared into the mirror with me.

  “I see you and myself!” I replied. George looked disappointed; he sighed heavily.

  “Hmmm, maybe for now. There is something special to be seen when gazing in a mirror!” George then said as he walked away. I looked at myself and thought his remark was slightly obscure, then turned to catch up with him. I found him muttering to himself as he walked along. Maybe he wasn’t as sane as I had first thought. As he realised that I was beside him, he stopped. “So I think it best that we start at this end of the room, with the first portrait of where it all began,” he happily said. “This strange-looking fellow would be Edward Montgomery, who authorised the building of Northfield before his death in 1690. He never saw Northfield finished, but insisted to his son that he finish it and live here. He was the last of their family. His mother had died some ten years prior,” George confirmed. I looked at the painting.

  “He’s a slightly aggressive-looking person, isn’t he?” I stated as I looked at the person in the portrait.

  “He was, I am told, a very headstrong man. He never backed away from anything he saw fit,” George replied. We moved along; “This would be his son, Charles Montagu Montgomery,” he then said. “Before you say anything, this portrait, I believe, was done a year or two before his addiction to alcohol and gambling. Otherwise we may have had a portrait with him asleep or intoxicated!” George raised his eyebrows and I laughed, moving along with him.

  “This is a beautiful portrait,” I then stated as I stared at the graceful and angelic looking woman in the painting. George sighed and then clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

  “Ah yes, this would be the very lovely Mary Anne Aldersley.” He smiled.

  “She looks no more than twenty-one or two in this painting!” I said.

  “She was twenty years of age and it was the year of her wedding to Howard. How very heavy-hearted it makes me feel to know that only eight years or thereabouts after this portrait, she was to lose her life to something we find is so controllable today,” he said, slightly pained. I touched George’s arm.

  “Yes, it is despairing, but she also had great love in her short life – many of us do not have the opportunity to experience,” I stated with slight regret. If I think of my relationship with John and how much of our lives are focused on our careers, I cannot imagine him being so grief-stricken at my loss for too long a time. George gestured for me to move on.

  “This is Howard James Aldersley, whom I consider to be the ‘main master’ of this house. He turned it around from being complete ruin, even after tragedy,” George happily stated.

  “He looks very gentlemanly and very kind!” I replied.

  “That he was; a very kind and fair man!” George then stated as a matter of fact.

  “You express the sentiment as if you knew him!” I exclaimed to George. He looked at me with surprise and shook his head.

  “Only what I have heard in stories past!” he confirmed. I nodded in agreement. “This is Margaret Elizabeth Aldersley, Howard’s second wife. She was very beautiful, like her sister, but the elder of the two, and Howard’s saviour I believe!” George then said as I stared at her.

  “She is very beautiful, but very petite,” I said with surprise. “Her hands look like that of a small child, unless the artist himself was not too good at perspective!” I queried as I looked at George. He laughed heartily:

  “No, the artist was quite experienced; it was well-documented that she was only a small lady, but had a heart the size of an elephant!” he said as he finished laughing.

  As we walked to the next portrait, of a young boy with dark, long, floppy hair, I smiled. “Don’t tell me – James Henry Alderlsey?” I as
ked, hoping that I was correct.

  “Yes indeed. A very spritely four-year-old boy; he did not really have the patience for sitting for a portrait, but, at the order of his father, was made to do so!” George said, with his arms folded across his chest like a proud father.

  “He does look somewhat resentful at the request. He looks like a typical boy of that age and was desperate to be exploring and playing, I suspect!” I replied.

  “Oh, quite the adventurer, I don’t think that there has ever been a child with as much energy as young James. Stories that have been told lead me to believe he was quite the handful!” George remarked.

  “Well, handful or not – and resentful or not – he still does have a slight angelic look about him, I think,” I smiled at the portrait just as the clock chimed four. “Goodness, George, I’ve already taken up two hours of your time, and I haven’t even asked anything about you!” I said, feeling slightly bad at the fact that I had been so engrossed in the story that he had started telling.

  “It has been quite the trip down memory lane!” he replied in a light-hearted manner. He paused briefly and then, just as I was about to ask him if I could call on him again, he did the asking for me: “I have found your company a refreshing change, Katharina. Maybe you would like to visit again soon?” he asked.

  “I would like that very much George, if you have no reservations about me continuing with your story?” I replied, as we started to walk back toward the day room.

  “Maybe Friday?” he then enquired.

  “Yes, I can fit an appointment in on Friday; I would like that!” I nodded, knowing that my schedule for the rest of the week was pretty free. I had planned on being in the office.

  “Maybe rather than just an appointment, you could stay for dinner? I still have some skills – cooking being one of them!” he suggested. I smiled.