Sybil gasped.
‘If your father was alive today . . .’
‘If my father was alive, he wouldn’t want me to go through this ridiculous charade. Because he married my mother for love, and that’s what makes you happy.’
Sybil’s expression changed as her gaze moved beyond Georgia. She looked bemused and then frowned.
‘What on earth is Mrs Bryant doing here?’ she said quietly.
Georgia turned and saw the housekeeper.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sybil with obvious panic.
‘Mrs Hamilton, I need to speak to Miss Estella as soon as possible.’
‘She was at our table a minute ago,’ said Georgia, trying to locate her. ‘Why do you need her?’
Mrs Bryant looked down, then back at Georgia.
‘A phone call came through to the house. A phone call from Devon. Something terrible has happened, Miss Georgia. The farm, your farm in Devon. I’m afraid it’s burnt down.’
Arthur didn’t look right. As the train pulled into the station in a hiss of steam, Georgia could see the big man standing on the platform, twisting his cap between his huge hands as though he was wringing it out. He saw Estella leaning out of the open window and waved, but there was no smile to accompany it. Georgia’s heart sank. Seeing Arthur Hands without a grin was like seeing roses in winter: ragged and bare. The ruddy-cheeked farmer and his wife had been running Moonraker Farm on behalf of the Hamiltons for as long as Georgia could remember, and to her Arthur was as much a part of the Devon countryside as the rocks or the oaks, and every bit as solid and strong. Yet here he was, his head bowed, his eyes red. Georgia knew in that moment that it was worse than she had imagined.
‘Miss Estella, Miss Georgia,’ said Arthur humbly. ‘Wish I could say it’s good to see you.’
Estella didn’t speak; instead she threw her arms around the big man and squeezed. ‘Oh Arthur, what’s to become of us?’ she whispered. They stood there for a long moment, then Estella broke away and took a deep breath, suddenly brisk and businesslike.
‘Now tell me, how are you and Marjorie?’ she said. ‘Here we are sobbing away when you have lost your home too.’
‘Oh, we’re fine,’ said Arthur, his hands working on his cap again. ‘Good job Marjorie woke up in the middle of the night; all parched she was, s’pose it was the smoke. Well, she elbowed me and I smelt the burning straight off, otherwise . . .’ He shook his huge head. ‘It ripped through those buildings like tinder. We’d never have stood a chance.’
Georgia and her mother exchanged a glance. She knew they were both thinking the same thing: if they hadn’t been away in London, they could have gone up with the farm too.
Estella squared her shoulders and looked up at Arthur.
‘How bad is it?’ she said.
Arthur winced.
‘Bad. I ain’t gonna lie, Miss Estella. It’s bad.’
Georgia felt a swell of anger as she watched her mother trying not to cry. How could he have let it happen? Wasn’t that why the Handses were there – to look after the bloody farm?
‘Does anyone know how it happened?’
‘Not sure, Miss Georgia. We might never know, the fire officer says. He’s been there all morning. They think it might have started in the studio.’
‘But I don’t understand, Arthur,’ said Georgia, unable to hide her anguish any longer. ‘I mean, fires don’t just magically start, do they? Was something left on? A candle, a light, a cigarette or something?’
Arthur looked at her with hurt in his eyes. He hadn’t missed the accusation and Georgia immediately felt bad. After all, Estella was right, the Handses had lost their home too.
‘We never go smoking in your house, Miss Georgia,’ he said. ‘Honest, we didn’t do anything wrong. We on
ly went in to water them plants of yours. Marjorie said some of them was looking a bit droopy.’
He looked at Estella, his face creased.
‘Perhaps it was the electrics. Old wiring and that.’