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A Georgian Heaven (standard:non fiction, 3531 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Dec 08 2008Views/Reads: 1515/905Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
WARNING! There is abusive language in this story. My defense is simply that this is a factual account. The foul language was spoken by an impish young man, whom gave me joy. This story is for Grace Wellers, whose beauty has never left me.
 



The secretary was correct; having passed the lightning struck oak tree I
couldn't miss the entrance. I steer my Triumph Herald under the 
impressive stone arch, between the rustic iron gates secured back with 
chains, tyres crunching over the pebble driveway. I'm immediately 
struck by the vibrancy of the beautifully manicured gardens and beyond, 
the imposing grandeur of a Georgian country mansion.  Mindful of the 
posted 5 mph speed limit under the word ‘children' I creep onward 
around the curve, passing a fountain on which a fat tabby is cleaning 
its face until the magnificence of the building is seen close up. 
Stained glass windows reflect the early morning sunshine, edged in what 
I can only describe as stone embroidery. I drive my car to a white sign 
‘Visitors' and climb out. The forecast is bright sunshine; I'll leave 
the hood folded down. It leaks like a sieve anyway. I collect up my 
bulky kit bag from the rear seat, throwing it over my shoulder, and 
climb the mosaic stone steps to the porch and enter apprehensively 
between two large oak doors fastened back by a brass hook. 

The lobby's interior is exquisitely decorated, elegance as only money
can do, with a plush deep wine-red carpet.  Strong but elaborate 
furniture marks the feel, dominated as it is by a large round black 
mahogany table, topped with a white sculptured bust.  I continue across 
the lobby, entering into the Main Hall. A large spit-roasting fireplace 
flickers with gas lit imitation logs.  The high vault ceiling, carved 
in a frieze of the heavens, constellations and moons in all their 
artistic glory, offers a palatial feel, yet there's a feel of cosiness. 


The card-mounted notice sitting on a well-varnished fruitwood table
instructs visitors to sign the guest book and ring the bell for 
attention. Both of which I do, and wait. Also on the table, pamphlets 
on mental health care, child abuse, and envelopes for those wishing to 
leave donations. 

From deep within the building, I hear the tip-tap sound of a woman
approaching. Her entrance is strong and positive. 

“You must be Kelly, welcome to Red House. I'm Helen Roberts.” 

Ms. Roberts, dark hair tied back tightly, primly dressed in a two-piece
tweed outfit, a ruffle of cream chiffon blossoming from a jacket on 
which a beautifully ornate Victorian style broach completes the 
perfection. She peers over dark rimmed spectacles precariously balanced 
on the end of her nose, holding out her hand toward me. I accept its 
lifelessness into mine. 

“Yes, thank you for allowing me to come, Ms. Roberts.” 

“Not at all, thank you for your offer. The children are looking forward
to meeting you. Have you signed the guest book?” 

“I have ma'am.” 

“Very good.  Okay - let me take up to meet Grace, she's our longest
serving care worker. This way.” 

We ascend the ornate curved staircase side by side. Valuable pieces of
artwork hang on the walls within easy reach. At the top, we turn left 
along a dimly lit corridor of closed doors, then right into another 
huge room. It's empty, but magnificent. 

“Two hundred years ago this was the ballroom. This is the only
architecture of its kind in the country, though several exist in 
Germany. ” 

She halts briefly, allowing me a moment to take it the beauty of the
plasterwork. 

“Whenever the weather is not suitable for our children to play outside
we play games in here.” 

This surprises me because the ballroom has three gorgeous crystal
chandeliers hanging low from the oval centre of the Rococo style 
ceiling showing the Four Elements. 

We continue across the room passing through Rosewood doors that lead to


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