The Red Dragonfly

Never settle for the safe option. Spread your wings and fly

Elizabeth inhaled the clean scent of freshly waxed wood as she climbed the oak staircase that rose majestically from the Italian marble tiles of the entrance hall to the long gallery on the first floor.

In the gallery, she paused at one of the mullion windows. The bright morning sun showered her in flecks of light reflected from a crystal chandelier.

She gazed for a moment at the lake, where a cob and pen with their cygnets drifted languorously through water that mirrored the blue sky above.

Moving on, Elizabeth smiled at the portraits of a long-dead Lord Longhorn and his favourite horse, Tempest, as she crossed the landing and into the magnificent library, where she ran her fingers lightly over a reading table checking for dust. Everything had to be perfect. A nearby grandfather clock chimed, warning that the first of her visitors would be arriving soon.

It was Easter Bank Holiday weekend and not long after the gates were opened, Beaumont Hall thronged with tourists. Elizabeth spent a busy morning pointing out some of the rarer books in the library and narrating the history of portraits that hung on the landing and in the long gallery, occasionally supplementing the dry facts with some rather more entertaining embellishments of her own.

She also fought a constant battle against sticky fingers besmirching the pristine glass that fronted the bookcases or mottling the polish on furniture.

Bored children were the usual culprits but some of the adults, who should have known better, were unable to resist tactile temptation. At one o’clock, Marjory came to relieve her, and Elizabeth collected her lunchbox from the staff kitchen and headed outside to get some fresh air and sunshine.

She strolled down the avenue of bay trees and stone statues, past the fountain towards the ornamental fishpond, beyond which stood the copper-domed pavilion. There were fewer people here, and she sat down on a bench to eat her tinned salmon and cucumber sandwiches.

The rabble of ducks who frequented the pond – not refined enough to grace the lake at the front of the house with the swans – swam closer, hoping for bread. “Not yet,” Elizabeth told them. Beaumont Hall had been built in the 18th century by a nobleman whose considerable wealth had permitted him to indulge his flamboyant taste and desire for unchecked extravagance.

The grounds were considered some of the finest in the country. But his descendants had found its upkeep increasingly burdensome and, more recently, impossible, which had resulted in the house and gardens being opened to the public in order to earn their keep.

The current Lady Longhorn had, by all accounts, been very reluctant to allow “the hoi polloi” to sully her magnificent doorstep, but her husband had been more pragmatic. Elizabeth had met Lady Longhorn only once – at the induction for volunteer tour guides – where she had welcomed the new recruits with as much enthusiasm as she would have shown to a bluebottle in her Bollinger.

It was an unusually mild Easter, particularly as it had fallen early that year. The warm weather would be good for takings. There were plenty of people picnicking on the grass among the daffodils and tulips, and there was to be an Easter Egg hunt that afternoon in the orchard. “May I join you?”

The woman who had spoken looked to be about the same age as Elizabeth, somewhere in her early seventies. She was upright and elegant, dressed in a scarlet velvet duster coat. Elizabeth moved her lunchbox.

“Of course.”

They sat watching the ducks flap and squabble, ruffling the water’s surface and rippling the reflection of the pavilion. Their silence was companionable and lasted for several minutes before the woman spoke again. “It’s so peaceful here.” Elizabeth smiled. “Except for the ducks.”

Spotting her badge, the woman asked, “Do you work at the house?”

“I volunteer here – one day a week and most weekends. It was

something new to occupy me after my husband died,” Elizabeth replied. “It’s a real pleasure to spend time surrounded by such beauty. I get to explore the grounds and marvel at all the treasures in the house…”

“Without having to clean them!” the woman added, laughing.

Just then, a red dragonfly landed on the hem of Elizabeth’s dress. It paused, motionless for a moment, before taking flight once more, its iridescent wings glinting in the sunlight.

The woman touched Elizabeth’s arm lightly. Elizabeth turned to face her and was held in the steady gaze of her remarkable sea-green eyes.

“Dragonflies are very lucky, you know. Some people believe that they represent our loved ones who have died. They visit to check up on us.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Well, my husband’s favourite waistcoat was made of scarlet silk, so you could well be right.”

“A man after my own heart!” the woman replied, stroking the soft nap of her coat. “What was his profession?”

“Ernest was an entertainer. He sang and played the piano. He travelled the world playing in some of the best hotels and nightclubs – and some of the worst, in the beginning,” she added with a wry smile. “And I went with him. It was thrilling, exhausting and sometimes a little scary – particularly when we had no idea where the next penny was coming from, but I wouldn’t have changed it for anything.” “It sounds like a wonderful life.” “It was,” replied Elizabeth wistfully. “But it wasn’t exactly what my parents had hoped for me after I graduated from Cambridge. They would have much preferred it if I had married my first boyfriend – a fellow graduate with good prospects.”

The woman leaned back on the bench and, closing her eyes, lifted her face to the sun. “But Ernest made you happy?” “Always.”

“Well then, you made the right decision.”

Elizabeth checked her watch. “I must get back. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day here. If you visit the house, you’ll find me in the library.”

The woman shook her head. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll be coming inside. I came with a friend who wanted to see the house, but I’ve been before and as the weather’s so glorious I decided to wait for her here.”

Elizabeth stood up and threw her crusts to the ducks. “It was lovely to meet you,” she told her lunchbreak companion. “I’m Elizabeth, by the way.”

The woman smiled. “Likewise. I’m Imelda.”

As the grandfather clock in the long gallery chimed four, Elizabeth ushered the last of the visitors towards the staircase. Her feet ached and she was looking forward to a chilled glass of white wine in her garden when she got home.

She collected her things from her locker in the staff cloakroom and made her way out through the entrance hall, her footsteps echoing on the polished floor.

Outside, the swans had climbed out of the lake and were dozing in a huddle on the lawn. Elizabeth walked around the side of the house to where her car was parked and came across the senior tour guide, Malcolm, who was talking to a red-faced man in mustard-coloured cord trousers, a check shirt and a silk cravat.

“Ah, Elizabeth – allow me to introduce you to Lord Longhorn. This is Elizabeth Conway, one of our new tour guides.”

Elizabeth smiled politely and shook the hand that was offered.

In the safety of her car, she allowed herself a few moments to regain her composure before starting the engine.

As she drove slowly down the long gravel drive, she glanced in the mirror at the splendid house she was leaving behind. And to think – she could have been its mistress. He hadn’t recognised her, thank goodness. After all, it had been over 50 years since he had courted her at Cambridge, proposed marriage and presented her with his grandmother’s diamond engagement ring.

But instead of choosing wealth and a life of security and conformity, she had chosen excitement and uncertainty.

She had chosen Ernest. It had been the right decision.