The Redemption of Sir Edward Denham - A Return to Sanditon Novella

Ten

Denham Place, Sanditon

Well, thought Clara, never in her wildest imaginings had she envisaged herself as mistress of Denham Place, even temporarily. Her eyes scrutinised every stone and facet of the gothic monstrosity. She noted the signs of neglect in every glance from peeling paintwork to broken roof tiles scattered on the ground. A shiver danced its way down her spine as she took in the unkempt gardens and the weed-stricken driveway. Never one to be overly enamoured by the sensational writings of Mrs Radcliffe and her ilk; she nevertheless felt sure that this place could easily be considered equal in menace and mystery to the fictitious castle of Udolpho.

"Hmm, shall we see what miseries await us inside?" Her companion and one-time occupant of Denham Place, Esther, spoke sardonically.

Clara rolled her eyes and quirked a grin. "When you mentioned you had been too busy to see to the upkeep of Denham, I will own that you were nothing if not honest."

Esther laughed and led the way into her former home.

They were met in the foyer by a harried-looking housekeeper. "Oh, My Lady! 'Tis good, it is, to see you again. I've seen to the fires in the main rooms and Maisy has the pot on for tea."

"Clara, may I present to you the only thing of worth still remaining at Denham, Mrs Price, our long-suffering housekeeper. Mrs Price, Miss Brereton here shall be residing at Denham Place, along with her daughter, who will join us later, as our very special guest." Esther pierced her housekeeper with a look that emphasised Clara's status as 'special'.

"Good day to you, Mrs Price. I am hoping you and I shall rub along well together. My daughter and I shall be living quietly here at Denham Place." Clara held the housekeeper's gaze, "It is my intention to aid in the restoration of the house and to do so out of the eyes of society." She hoped her message conveyed the reassurance that a quiet, secluded lifestyle was her intent, no matter the gossip that would surely follow.

"Of course, Miss Brereton. You are most welcome." Mrs Price's eyes flicked to Esther's for a moment before returning to Clara's without any trace of judgement or disapproval.

A few minutes later, Esther and Clara were ensconced in the sitting room with a tea tray and a roaring fire. Looking around, Clara saw evidence of neglect, but curiously the sight made her feel more comfortable than the opulence and perfection of Wentworth. The room held a hypnotic warmth that did not emanate from the fire; it was an odd feeling; as if she had been wrapped in a comfortable old blanket. Now she was here, in this strange run-down house, so desperately in need of care and attention, she felt that at last, she had finally come home.

"Edward loved this room," Esther noted the surprise on Clara's face at the mention of her erstwhile stepsibling. Memories of the unhealthy dependency she had felt for him were never far from her mind when in this house. "There was little that Edward loved more than Denham Place, myself included. It took me an age to realise that what we shared was not love but a desire to belong; to somewhere and to someone." She paused. With everything that had passed between them and the rivalry they had once so bitterly shared, it was strange that, with the exception of her husband, Clara should be the one person with whom she felt most comfortable talking to.

"Edward and I endured a turbulent childhood. Edward was the apple of his mother's eye and was atrociously spoilt. His mother passed away in childbirth when he was all but eight years old. His father had been a brute and a philanderer and didn't give a fig for the child that was left desolate by his mother's loss. When his father was finally reminded of his responsibilities as heir to the Denham title, his solution was to remarry, and he chose my mother. My mother was recently widowed when she met Edward's father; I was her only child and I, along with her fortune, were warmly welcomed ... for a time, at least. Mother was a flighty creature and lived for society. I was six when I arrived here, and as our parents dazzled and socialised in London, Edward and I had only ourselves for company. By the time we were old enough to realise our closeness was not the usual way of things, it was so much a part of who we had become. Edwards father was a master at manipulation but was heavy-handed and cruel. His son learnt quickly that he could tempt someone more easily with honey than with vinegar.