by Liz Berry
“They need to get those curtains cleaned, Joan.”
Clare followed the women, half-listening to their disapproving comments. She found herself sympathizing. There was a general air of dusty grandeur, a neglected beauty, things mouldering away like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. If they didn’t want them they should put them in a museum, she thought, surprised at how upset she felt. The whole place needed to be looked after and loved.
“When do we get to the historic part?” asked Darren, dissatisfied.
Mrs Potts-Dyrham smiled insincerely.“I’m afraid, little man, that the remains of the Abbey are not open to the public. Now, here we are in the West Gallery, which is devoted to the more important paintings—Rembrandt, Canaletto, Turner—and the Family Portraits.
“Here is Sir Edmund, the First Earl, ennobled by Henry VII on Bosworth field. And here the Third Earl, who was with Drake at Gravelines. He wrote sonnets and a book on the benefits of clean water, which he is holding.”
It was clear that Mrs Potts-Dyrham regarded the Aylward family with a breathless awe, which Clare found very irritating. The portraits were interesting though.
“He looks very sexy,” giggled Darren’s mum.
“They all do,” Clare heard Joan mutter to her friend, and surprised, she let her eyes run down the line of portraits. It was true. The family likeness appeared again and again. Dark handsome faces with penetrating, uncomfortable eyes, often a disconcerting, brilliant green. The sensuous mouths suggesting a wild humour.
“Reckless and ruthless,” said the grey man, disapprovingly, surprising them all.
Mrs Potts-Dyrham bridled.“It is true that the Third Earl was considered something of a womanizer, but his son Edmund, the Fourth Earl, was quite different. He was ascetic and a recluse. A Puritan, in fact. There was rioting in the village when he forbad the traditional Maze Dance which used to take place here each year. And the Fifth Earl sat in the Long Parliament. He was a soldier and a politician, and was killed at the Battle of Worcester.”
“He was a Roundhead?” said Clare, surprised. He had a hard poker face, but in the green eyes there was an ironic gleam, and something suspiciously like a quirk in the corner of his mouth.“I thought the Aylwards would have been Cavaliers.”
“There has always been a strange streak of radicalism in the family,” said Mrs Potts-Dyrham, disapprovingly.“Over there, James Arthur, the Revolutionary Earl, who refused the Trust and was drowned.”
“What’s the Trust?” asked Darren.
Mrs Potts-Dyrham became red and flustered.“Why, er, I meant his inheritance, of course. Here is the wonderful portrait of another Rosamond, the Fifth Earl’s wife, by Sir Peter Lely. As you have seen, ever since the Abbey became their home the Aylwards have traditionally married Kenwards. The eldest daughter is often called Rosamond. This is Rosamond the Strong. She protected Ravensmere and the village throughout the Civil War. She rebuilt the Muniment Tower. And she was obliged after the death of her husband to go on running the estate—very successfully by all accounts—until her grandson came of age. There are many legends about her.”
“I don’t see her son’s picture,” said Darren, pushing up his glasses. The … um … Sixth Earl.”
“There is no portrait,” said Mrs Potts-Dyrham, shortly.“He was a black sheep. He also refused the Trust, and was found dead a few months later.”
Clare looked at Rosamond’s portrait. Most of the women in the portraits had been fair haired and beautiful. They looked from strange, tilted eyes, as though they were seeing things that most people could not see, faery women, despite their grand clothes.
But this Rosamond was quite different. Her dark eyes stared from under strongly marked eyebrows with a frightening intelligence. She had a mass of dark hair heaped up under a tiny lace cap, which looked as if it might easily fall off. Her lips lifted in a smile full of mischief. Leaning against her knee affectionately was a handsome boy in a violet silk suit.
Once again Clare had a strong feeling of recognition. Could she have seen the portrait reproduced in a book?
Mrs Potts-Dyrham said, “Notice the beautiful tortoiseshell pussy reclining on her lap. That’s Selene, after the Goddess of the moon. It is said they were never apart. When she died the cat disappeared and was never seen again.”
“Ahhhh,” said all the ladies. The grey man coughed irritably. Kevin said, “Who’s the boy?”
“That’s her grandson, James Edmund. We call him the Restoration Earl. Here he is at nineteen, and here again in this splendid portrait by Sir Godfrey Kneller. He was a member of the famous Whig Kit Kat Club, and was one of the few who made a vast fortune out of the South Sea Bubble enterprise.
“He loved Ravensmere, and was very happily married to Clarissa Kenward, who had been his childhood sweetheart. It is said that he died of a broken heart when his wife was killed in the fire of 1724, which destroyed part of the Abbey. Clarissa was famous for her great knowledge of herbal remedies. We are indebted to her for our famous Herb and Physick Garden.”
Clarissa was tall and thin, with a look of Dr McKinnon, Clare thought.
“The Ninth Earl, here in the corner, refused to return to Ravensmere. He ran away with Lady Henrietta Orrery instead. He was killed in a duel only two months later.”
“They didn’t have much luck when they married outside the Kenward family, did they?” commented Joan.
“Very true. It is a strange thing that while in general the Aylwards are exceptionally healthy and long lived, those who have left Ravensmere once they inherit, refusing to accept their responsibilities, die soon afterwards.”
“How weird,” said Darren’s mum, shivering.
They trailed after Mrs Potts-Dyrham through the heavy mahogany door at the end of the Gallery.
“This is Lord Edward’s room, named for the Eighth Earl, Edward Richard, nicknamed The Builder by the family. He rebuilt the House after the fire, which killed his grandmother Clarissa. Henry Hoare was building Stourhead over near Mere at the time and he introduced him to the architect Colen Campbell, who was Deputy Surveyor-General, successor to Sir Christopher Wren.
“Here in his portrait you can see that he has a rolled-up drawing of the North Front in his hand, and on the table is the plan of the new Palladian House, which incorporated the remaining parts of the old Abbey.”
The painting showed a tall man in a plain brown coat and white stock, leaning on a table. His face, thin and bony under a heavy wig, was dominated by his glittering green eyes, sharp, intense, and never missing a trick, thought Clare.
“He was noted for his foresight and political acumen. His letters are full of surprisingly accurate predictions about the future including the industrial revolution. He reorganized the estate and the farming practice.
“Before the work was completed the Earl was thrown from his horse and killed. As you have heard his son died in the same year, and the succession went to his second son, James Edward, whom we call the Travelling Earl.
“Before he accepted the Trust. Before he came into his inheritance he had been a great traveller. He brought back many of Ravensmere’s treasures, which we will see in the Etruscan Gallery.
“It is to him and his son Edmund, the Eleventh Earl, nicknamed The Gardener, that we are indebted for our wonderful landscape park and garden. The very fine joint portrait here of father and son is by Sir Joshua Reynolds.”
An older, elegant man was leaning on a classical pillar in a garden. He had inherited his father’s green eyes, but here they looked amused, almost cynical, with some secret joke. His son stood beside him, dark eyed, alert and wary, unsmiling, dangerous even, carrying a sporting gun. He didn’t look at all the sort of young man to be interested in gardens, Clare thought, and heard her voice from a long distance, saying,“What is that wall behind him, that circular hole like an arch?”
Mrs Potts-Dyrham looked at her sharply.“That is the wall of the China Garden to the west of the House.”
“I’d like to see that,” said Darre
n, rubbing his nose.“Is it made of cups and saucers?”
Mrs Potts-Dyrham tittered.“Oh no, little man. The Travelling Earl admired the Chinese gardens he had seen on his travels so much that when he returned he had one built here. It is simply a walled garden that he called the China Garden. The circular openings are very common in China. They are called Moon Gates, and they are used as we would use an archway, to frame a special view. The so-called Chinoiserie style had become very fashionable in England and many landowners put China houses into their parks.”
“How very interesting,” said Joan’s friend,“We must see that before we go. We love gardens.”
“I’m afraid that the China Garden is not open to the public.” Mrs Potts-Dyrham smiled.
“This place is no good, Dad,” said Darren.“All the interesting places are shut up.”
Clare went on staring at the painting as the others moved on into the Library next door. Behind the figures on the left side there was a lake and a classical Temple on an island reflected in the water.
She had seen the view before. She had seen the Moon Gate before. She knew what she would see if she stepped through the opening in the wall. There would be other Moon Gates—six, no seven of them. And she knew the Temple in the painting too.
Inside it had a high curved roof and marble steps that led down to a pool, where a beautiful statue of Demeter, Earth Mother, was bending, arms outstretched welcoming back her daughter Persephone, Goddess of Spring and Rebirth, who was stepping from the dark of Hades, through a crystal cascade of water ...
Clare felt her stomach clenching in fear. It couldn’t be true. How could she possibly know? She had never been here before.
Chapter 7
The Library was the most beautiful room Clare had ever been in. Not dark with oak and mustiness, but all white and gold, with arched bookshelves decorated with gilded swags of fruit and flowers. It was an immense room, bigger by far than her old public library.
“... built by the Thirteenth Earl to house his great collection of books. The painted ceiling shows the Muses, and the long tables were made on the estate by my great great grandfather, Elihu Kenward.”
Another Kenward, thought Clare resigned.
“Pity there’s such a nasty scratch in the polish there, Joan.”
“Why haven’t we seen the Fourteenth Earl,” said Darren, pushing up his spectacles.
Mrs Potts-Dyrham sighed.“He was a dissolute young man, resident in London. He was not willing to live at Ravensmere, and was killed a month after his accession when his carriage overturned on the turnpike.”
“Not another one!” exclaimed Darren’s mum. “Is there some sort of family curse?”
“Certainly not,” Mrs Potts-Dyrham said, affronted.
“Does the present Earl live here?” asked Joan.
“He lived in London for many years, only visiting us occasionally, but he returned to live here permanently a few years ago. He is in his eighties and has his own apartments overlooking the South Terrace.”
“Will you tell us about the books,” said the grey man with a barely suppressed impatience.
Mrs Potts-Dyrham tightened her lips.“There are approximately thirty thousand books here, as well as many historical documents and maps relating to the House and this part of the country.
“The Aylwards have been great collectors of books of all kinds. The Library has many rare books, some collected by Edmund Edward during his residence in Italy before he became the Thirteenth Earl, and here in this small anteroom is one of the very few chained libraries in the country. It is thought to date back to the earliest days of Raven Abbey.”
Clare saw a heavy oak seat and ledge, like a long old-fashioned school desk, below three shelves of huge books which appeared to be back to front, with chains hanging from their front edges, all linked together by a rod so they could be pulled down and opened, but not taken away.
“The earliest book is an illuminated manuscript, the Liber Somnium Sanctus, Book of the Sacred Dream, made by one of the nuns here in the year 910.”
“I’d like to see that,” Darren said, keenly.
“I would too,” said his father.
Mrs Potts-Dyrham was flustered.“I’m afraid it’s never on display. It is so precious it is always kept under lock and key.”
There were rebellious murmurs of disappointment.
The grey man, surprisingly joined in. He sounded annoyed.“Surely it would be possible to put it on display in the security of a special display case. Even the Crown Jewels are on display.”
Mrs Potts-Dyrham cheeks were bright red.“It’s an illuminated script. It has to be protected from the light.”
“You could speak with the British Museum about the problem,” the grey man said, stubbornly.“I understood I would be able to make an extended study of it today. I am interested in buying it.”
“Buying it!” Mrs Potts-Dyrham’s voice rose in outraged astonishment.
“I represent several well-known libraries in the States and Japan.”
“Mr Aylward would never dispose of the manuscript. It has been at Ravensmere for over a thousand years. It’s absolutely unthinkable . . .”
“I have already been in correspondence with his representative, Mr Fletcher.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know anything about it,” said Mrs Potts-Dyrham, affronted.“I am only a voluntary guide. I suggest you write to Mr Aylward’s solicitors in Bath. They are dealing with most of his business, not Mr Fletcher who is merely his Land Agent. Now, if we can get on ...”
She rounded up the rest of her party, and indignantly led them off to the Etruscan Gallery.
So Mrs Potts-Dyrham was no friend of Mr Fletcher either, Clare thought. She lingered a moment, watching the grey man examining the chained library with frustrated irritation.
“It really is too bad bringing me all this way on a fool’s errand,” he said, angrily.
“Mr Fletcher actually said that Mr Aylward wanted to sell?”
“He assured me that the greater part of the collection would be coming on the market shortly, including the Liber Somnium Sanctus. I came at once, of course.”
“It’s that important?”
He stared at her.“The Ravensmere collection is a legend. No one has even been allowed to examine it since 1893. And the Liber Somnium Sanctus is unique. Many of the handwritten illuminated books of that time were copies of the Gospels, or the lives of the Saints, but the Liber is quite special—a personal account of a sacred dream or a vision that the nun herself had. Worth a fortune if only I could get my hands on it. The whole of the rare book trade will be in a furore when the word gets out.”
Clare said, brightly,“But, of course, the Earl’s still alive, isn’t he? Funny he doesn’t seem to know about the sale. Are you sure this Mr Fletcher is quite, er, trustworthy? Not trying to sell you something he doesn’t... um... actually own?”
She sauntered away, casually, badly wanting to laugh at the expression of dawning horror on the grey man’s face.
The Etruscan Gallery was stuffed full of Greek goddesses, Roman busts, Chinese vases, Indian Bhuddas, Italian inlaid cabinets, Japanese screens, and display cases full of fascinating things from every period of history, but Clare suddenly felt too exhausted to appreciate them properly.
The rest of the party were looking tired too, she thought, except for Darren, still pursuing Mrs Potts-Dyrham with awkward questions. He had to be dragged, protesting, from an Egyptian mummified cat, as they were all ushered back briskly to the main entrance, and the tour was over, much to Mrs Potts-Dyrham’s obvious relief.
“Light refreshments are available in the Orangery. Down the stairs and through the gateway to the right, madam. Yes, it is signposted. Yes, the Herb and Physick Garden is there as well. And the garden centre. Thank you for your interest. We hope you have enjoyed your visit.”
They all trooped out, most of the party making hastily for the café. The grey man strode angrily down the steps and away towards
the car-park.
“I’ve got an old banger. Give you a lift somewhere?” suggested Kevin.“I’m parked over there under the tree.”
Clare glanced where he was pointing, and stiffened, her heart beginning to pound. Next to Kevin’s old Ford, in the deep shade of an old oak, a dark figure was sitting astride a powerful motor bike. She took an involuntary step backwards.
“No. No thanks. I think I’ll have a look at the Herb Garden,” Clare said.
“Righto. See you at the dig. By the way, you didn’t tell me your name.”
“Clare Meredith,” Clare said reluctantly, her eyes still on the motor bike.
Kevin hurried down the steps. It occurred to her that they might know each other. Spies or vultures? She had no intention of going anywhere near the dig. Who was the motor bike rider? Was it coincidence he was here, or was he following her?
There was a dismayed squeak behind her.
“Clare Meredith! Oh dear! Oh dear! I really didn’t know.” Mrs Potts-Dyrham was wringing her hands.“Clare. What must you be thinking of me? I never guessed you would . . . Why didn’t you speak?”
Clare flushed guiltily.“I’m sorry. I just wanted to have a look round. I didn’t think there would be any harm. I did pay my entrance fee. My mother is...”
But Mrs Potts-Dyrham’s face was beaming and joyful, not accusing. She said, roguishly,“Of course I know who your mother is. We are all so glad that she has come home and that Mr Aylward will be properly looked after now. Poor dear gentleman, so neglected. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Anscomb smuggling out his letter begging her to come, I really don’t know what might have happened. All the same I never really believed she would come back—and bring you too! We’re all absolutely thrilled.
“I can’t tell you what it means to the village. The dear vicar has arranged a thanksgiving service, and the village ladies have been decorating . . .”
