There will only be a handful of us here tonight—so he has to notice me.
“Edward will be here in time for dinner. He’s driving in from Cedar Hall.”
I nod, recognizing the name of his family home from my mum’s issues of Hello! “What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Nothing special. My grandmother Pidge arranged pizza for us in the garden. Her chefs are off for the night.”
As we zoom down the narrow A433, I think how, to an untrained eye, these country roads might look similar to the roads near our house in West Sussex. But there’s more of a hush here; the leafy trees shading the road seem greener somehow. It’s as if the scenery knows that the people who live in this part of England expect a higher level of privacy.
We drive though unspoiled medieval towns, with stone houses dating back hundreds of years. We cross over a shallow river, which trickles through an impossibly quaint village surrounded by thatched cottages. India points out the oldest tree in England, a two-thousand-year-old oak nestled in the grounds of a small church.
After miles of winding country lanes, we turn off onto a narrow cobbled path where I notice a brown sign. There’s a small house-shaped icon, and the word “Huntshire” painted on it in white letters. We pull up to a back gate. Recognition dawns on a security guard’s face as he waves India through.
It’s a magnificent place. A narrow brook curves around a muddy building made out of wood. The smooth grass runs alongside a circular lake, where a mirror of still water is lined by a copse of trees.
We pass the stables and make a sharp right, turning onto a paved driveway leading to the largest house I’ve ever seen.
I see three sprawling levels of gray stone tethered to the earth in front of us as we pull right up to the front entrance.
I try to remember all the rules I’ve learned as I’ve slowly made my way into India’s circle.
I think of Nana: Don’t look too impressed.
Screw that.
This is by far the most majestic house I’ve ever seen. The word house doesn’t begin to do it justice.
“Nice,” I say casually.
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “It’s home. Well, it’s home until Grandfather dies and Uncle John inherits it and kicks us out.”
Ah, the peculiarities of the English class system.
The huge portico on the north front of the house resembles the entrance to a pantheon rather than a family home. I’m expecting an army of butlers and housekeepers to come outside and take our bags, like on Downton Abbey, but India pops the boot open, and the two of us sling our bags over our arms. She walks up to the front door and saunters in like she owns the place.
“It’s never locked,” she says. “If you make it past the gate, you’re meant to be here.”
The wide, cavernous entrance hall is decorated with gold paneling everywhere, featuring black-and-white checkered marble floors and several thrusting marble pillars flanking each side. The ceiling is breathtaking, with water lilies carved into the plaster and gold skirting the edges. To the left of the entrance hall is a huge, dusty fireplace. There are a dozen or so lavish-looking hall chairs and a substantial number of ancient-looking artifacts. While the house looks like a hotel on the inside, it’s empty and quiet: No servants bustling around. No reception desk. No one but India and me.
There’s an imposing oak staircase leading up to the first-floor picture gallery. Tapestries of various sizes depicting medieval kings and queens line the walls, and Romanesque busts on marble columns stand next to each window.
India trudges up the sweeping staircase and turns left, where large portraits hang proudly. The faded gilt on the frames has the telltale patina of centuries of age—unlike the faux-aged frames my mother is fond of buying. “My ancestors,” she says by way of explanation, gesturing toward canvases as we pass down the hallway. “An assortment of silly Frasers through the years. The first duke, who fought alongside Henry the Fifth in the Battle of Agincourt . . . the fourth duke, who fled to France during the Restoration by posing as a woman under cover of night . . . the ninth duke, who tried to convince the king that American independence would be a fad . . . my great-grandfather, the eleventh duke, who died on the Lusitania a year after inheriting . . . my grandfather, the current duke, who was born in India and still calls Mumbai Bombay.” She makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t know what my family was thinking naming me. Talk about cultural appropriation.”
“Have you ever thought about changing it?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not worth the grief they’ll give me. My parents are old school, to say the least. I’m still surprised my dad took the lesbian thing on the chin.” India came out to them this summer, texting me furious updates for weeks. “But, you know, they roll with the punches. Keep calm and all that.”
“Speaking of, where’s your dad’s portrait?”
“Dad’s the younger son: he doesn’t matter. Uncle John’s portrait will go up after he inherits. He’s panicking over it—claims he doesn’t want the bloody thing and all the pressure that goes with it.”
“Why doesn’t he just give it up?”
“He’d need to go to court, it would be a whole thing. Nobody wants that, not even him. Well, maybe my dad, but he’s the only one.”
“You don’t want your dad to inherit?”
India squints, looking thoughtful. “Then he’d be on the hook for the whole bloody estate. The pressure of financial upkeep, the stress of letting down generations if you fail—it’s a nightmare. It’s much more trouble than it’s worth.”
We walk down another passageway wide enough to drive a truck through, where the floor is covered in an ancient-looking maroon, blue, and gold weave. Dusty gilt-edged mirrors and battered wooden console tables are placed against the sides. The hallway has the musty smell of an old-age home.
As we turn right into yet another endless hallway, I can’t help myself. “Bloody hell, this place is massive.”
India laughs. “There are a hundred and fifty-six rooms. My grandfather rents part of it out for weddings most summer weekends. Brings in good income to keep the place going.” She starts pointing at door after door. “Those are guest quarters . . . more guest quarters . . . that’s a room that hasn’t been used since the 1700s . . . that’s just a loo . . . that’s a staff staircase leading back downstairs.”
We make another right turn and encounter a parallel hallway in the back of the house. “I used to ride my bike down these hallways. Drove my nanny bonkers,” India says. “That’s a drawing room . . . that’s a staff door leading up to the third floor. This staircase goes down to the kitchen, another one mainly for the staff . . . I don’t know what that room is used for, I think it used to be a ballroom . . . my bedroom is just around that corner.”