Mariana

by Susanna Kearsley

  “That man on the horse, behind you,” I said, pointing.

  He turned to look, but the shadow under the oak was empty.

  I shook my head. “He’s gone now. A big man, on a gray horse.”

  “Might have been Geoff,” Iain said slowly. “That’s manor land. Though I don’t know that he has any grays in his stable.”

  “It’s not important,” I told him.

  “Perhaps not.” He smiled. “Well, I’d best leave you in peace. I just came back to get my spade.”

  He retrieved the forgotten tool from its resting place in the corner of the wall and, wishing me a good evening, pulled his cap down over his eyes and strode off towards the road, whistling.

  After a final look round, I went back into the house where, unable to recapture my previous energy, I ignored my earlier resolution and settled myself in the study. After unpacking nearly two boxes of books, I came across a dog-eared copy of Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone, and it was well past midnight when I finally dragged myself upstairs, bathed, and fell asleep exhausted, with the shadow of the poplar tree lying like a guardian across my bed.

  Chapter 3

  It wasn’t difficult to locate Vivien Wells the next afternoon, in the bar of the Red Lion pub. This was the same pub where Tommy and I had stopped to ask directions all those years ago, its Tudor beams and plaster looking slightly cleaner than I remembered beneath a new thatched roof. Inside, the main bar was low-ceilinged and intimate, a little threadbare, perhaps, but comfortable, the old floor covered with a worn carpet that deadened the sound of conversation.

  Apart from a small group of old men clustered around a corner table, I was the only other customer enjoying the pub’s congenial atmosphere at that hour of the day. And of the two people keeping bar, only one was a woman.

  Vivien Wells was tall and healthy-looking, close to my own age, with long honey-colored hair, honest blue eyes, and a quick dimpled smile. I liked her on sight.

  She slid a gin and tonic across the bar to me and leaned her elbows on the scarred wood, tilting her head appraisingly.

  “Iain said you were pretty,” she remarked without malice, and I shifted awkwardly on my stool.

  “He said you were an encyclopedia,” I offered.

  She laughed in genuine amusement. “Praise indeed. And how are you enjoying Greywethers?”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your house,” she elaborated. “That’s its name.”

  “I thought it was called Braeside. That was the name on the deed, surely?”

  “Eddie’s invention, that,” she told me. “The last owner. He thought it sounded grand, despite the obvious fact that we haven’t a brae round here for miles. No, it was just plain Greywethers when I was growing up, and that’s what everyone still calls it.”

  “Greywethers.” I tried the feel of it on my tongue. “It sounds very romantic.”

  “Uninspired, really.” Vivien Wells smiled at me. “It’s just an old name for the stone they used round here for building. Sarsen stone. You know, like the ones at Stonehenge. There used to be hundreds of them littered across the downs, and builders just took what they wanted.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ve had your eye on it some time, Iain tells me?”

  I nodded, wondering how much of my foolish story he had told her. Not much, I wagered, remembering those impassive, flint-gray eyes. Iain Sumner had not impressed me as the gossiping type.

  “I saw it several years ago, and took a fancy to it,” I explained. “Marvelous luck that it came up for sale. And at a price I could afford.” Almost afford, I corrected myself, thinking of my plundered savings.

  “Well,” Vivien picked up a glass and began polishing it with a practiced motion, “there’s not much demand for houses in this area. We’ve only got a few farms and a half-dozen shops—it’s mostly pensioners living here now. I’m afraid you’ll find us deadly dull after London.”

  “London is overrated,” I said, but I was sure Vivien Wells already knew that. “Besides, I need the quiet for my work.”

  “Of course.” She took up another glass and went on polishing. “You’re an artist, aren’t you? Do you paint?”

  “Watercolors,” I replied. “Actually, I’m an illustrator. I paint pictures for books.”

  “Really? Anything I’d know?”

  “Not unless you read children’s books. I did the Llandrah series with Bridget Cooper a few years back.”

  “Did you? I’ve a six-year-old niece who’s in love with those stories. Well, well.” Vivien raised her eyebrows, impressed. “You don’t mind if I spread that around, do you? It’d put some of the locals at ease. They’ve been worried you might turn out to be one of those modern sculptors. You know, great globs of twisted metal, and things.”

  I shook my head, smiling. “No, I don’t mind.”

  “I don’t imagine they’ll… hang on, would you excuse me a moment?”

  A summons from the lively group at the corner table diverted her, and while she attended to them I downed another mouthful of gin and tonic and wriggled into a slightly more comfortable position on the hard wooden stool.

  I had not slept well the night before. While my body had been exhausted, my ears had remained alert and sensitive to every unfamiliar sound within the lonely house: every creak of the attic stairs beside my bedroom, every drip of the leaking tap in the bath down the hall, every movement of the tree branch sweeping across the slate roof overhead. I had drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, and woke more in need of my morning coffee than usual.

  Nonetheless, I had managed to unpack most of the boxes in my study before finally taking a break and walking the short mile into town.

  The Red Lion shared Exbury’s High Street with a handful of shops and offices, a string of postwar cottages, and a few lovely old homes set back from the road and shielded from prying eyes by low stone walls and wrought-iron fences. The street itself was paved, but on the west side of it the old cobbled walk had been left untouched, lending a distinct charm to the village. There was also, I had noted with some pleasure, an old-fashioned lych-gate, with benches and roof, which I assumed led to the church whose steeple was barely visible above a screen of budding trees.

  I wondered idly how old the church was, and must have spoken the question aloud, because Vivien Wells answered me, resuming her place behind the bar. “It’s Saxon, actually, parts of it, although it wasn’t properly finished until the 1500s.” She cast a friendly eye at my empty glass. “Would you like another?”

  “Maybe just a small one,” I conceded, pushing the glass towards her. “You really are the local historian, then.”

  Vivien smiled. “I take an interest in history,” she said, “and I had a grandmother who loved to talk. Iain said you were looking for information on your house, is that right? Well, I’m afraid I don’t know too much about it, myself. My aunt would probably know more. The Randalls have lived there as long as I can remember, and they weren’t exactly an exciting lot. I’m sure I can find something out for you, though. As a matter of fact…”

  She turned to face her co-worker, who was lounging against the far end of the bar, reading the daily paper and smoking a cigarette.

  “Ned,” she addressed him, “didn’t your father used to do some work up at Greywethers in old Mr. Randall’s time?”

  Ned lifted his eyes from his paper, glanced briefly at me, smiled at Vivien, and called over his shoulder, “Hey, Dad.”

  One of the old men at the corner table raised his head in reply. “What?”

  “Viv wants to talk to you.”

  Ned’s father tottered obligingly over to the bar and was introduced to me as Jerry Walsh, retired plumber. Yes, he told Vivien, he had done a few jobs for old Bill Randall.

  “He wanted the bath done up mo
dern,” he said. “All new pipes and everything. You’ll never need to worry about your pipes, miss,” he added proudly, tapping his chest. “I did a proper job, I did. Not like these young lads today.”

  I chose not to mention the dripping tap, nor the water that ran shockingly brown when one first turned it on.

  “You don’t remember who the Randalls bought the house from, do you, Jerry?” Vivien asked him.

  He frowned. “I’m not sure… they bought it just after the First War, I think. Seems to me it was a military chap had it before. My brother Art might remember… Arthur!” He called another man over from the table.

  Within ten minutes I was surrounded by all seven of them, overwhelming in their friendliness and their eagerness to be helpful. Working backwards, with a great deal of argument, they determined that Eddie Randall had inherited the house from his father, William, in the early 1950s, and that William had bought the house in 1921 from a Captain Somebody, who had reportedly had two very pretty daughters. Beyond that, nobody was exactly sure, and try as they might, they could not remember any interesting episodes in the history of my house.

  “Except for the ghost,” one of the men ventured.

  “Ghost?” I echoed.

  Vivien smiled. “I’d clean forgotten,” she said.

  “She’s not been seen for years,” Jerry Walsh assured me.

  “Ay, it must be a good thirty years now,” his brother put in. “The Green Lady, wasn’t it?” The other men nodded, and he went on. “I never saw her myself, but plenty of folks did. Just a young woman, in a green dress. Used to appear in the garden at dusk.”

  “I saw her once,” the man who had first spoken piped up. “Fair scared the life out of me. She just stood there, looking right through me with those sad eyes…”

  “Wasn’t a harmful ghost,” Jerry Walsh cut in, with a reproving glance at the little man. “She didn’t do anyone no harm. Just stood in the garden, sometimes.”

  So even the ghosts of Greywethers were boring, I thought to myself. No clanking of chains, no mournful howls at midnight…

  “Not like the ghosts up at the Hall, eh, lads?” Arthur Walsh’s grin displayed a row of nicotine-blackened teeth. “Now, there’s a lively lot of characters for you. I’ve never actually seen any of them, mind, but they say that—”

  “Enough,” Vivien broke in, her tone good-natured. “You’ll be giving the girl nightmares.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” I smiled. “I love a good ghost story. Where is the Hall?”

  One of the men jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Crofton Hall,” he said. “The old manor house just the other side of the church. Have you not been up there?”

  I confessed that I had not yet ventured any farther than the offices of my estate agents, just opposite the Red Lion on the High Street. Several eyebrows rose amid a chorus of disbelieving exclamations.

  “Well, you must see the Hall…”

  “…written up in three guidebooks, it was…”

  “…sure that young Geoff would be happy to give you a tour. Most of the house is open to the public, anyway. He just keeps the north wing for his private use.”

  I yielded to the protests. “I must take a tour, then, when I’ve finished settling in.”

  Mollified, the men settled back and launched into a lively conversation on the topic of moving house, which I found highly entertaining in spite of the fact that I could barely get a word in edgeways.

  At ten minutes to four, all seven of them rose as one body, politely wished me good day, and filed out the door. Vivien Wells met my questioning look with a smile.

  “Teatime,” she explained. “Time for them to get the latest installment of gossip from their wives. Though today I think it’ll be the men that do most of the talking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’ll be talking about you.” She grinned. “You’ve a lot to learn about village life, you know. It’s impossible to sneeze here without your neighbors popping in to say ‘Bless you.’”

  “I’m sure I’ll adjust.”

  She nodded. “I’ve no doubt. Actually, you seem to have made quite a hit with that lot today. Just you watch—tomorrow you’ll have a string of visitors up to the house, with plates of cakes and potted geraniums, come to see how you’re getting on.”

  “I’ll dust off the silver tea service,” I promised. “As a matter of fact, I could use visitors tomorrow. I’m planning to shift some of the furniture in the sitting room around, and I could do with an extra pair of hands.”

  Vivien laughed. “Do you need help, really?” she asked me. “Because I’m sure Iain would be happy to lend a hand.”

  “Heavens, no,” I said, raising a hand in protest. “I was only joking.” A sudden thought struck me. “What does Iain Sumner do, anyway? Is he a gardener?”

  “Farmer,” she corrected me. “He keeps sheep. Has a small apple orchard as well, but that’s mostly a hobby.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Of course, he does have green fingers,” she went on. “He put a lot of time into helping Geoff get the gardens up at the Hall in order, before they opened to the public. Geoff’s father had let the place run down a bit, and the grounds were an awful mess. There’s a full-time gardener up there now, to take care of things. Lovely rose garden they have—you really must see it in the summer.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” I said. “After all, we are neighbors, aren’t we? My house backs right onto the manor lands, from what I’ve been told.”

  “So it does. You’ll like Geoff. He’s a genuine aristocrat—his family came over with the Conqueror—but he’s very down-to-earth, and great fun. Come to think of it, he may be able to tell you something about Greywethers. He did a lot of rooting about in the local history books when he was writing up the guidebook for Crofton Hall.” She turned to pour herself a cup of coffee from the venomous-looking pot that sat brewing on the back of the bar. “Unfortunately, he’s on holiday at the moment, in France, but when he comes back, I’ll be sure to introduce you. In the meantime,” she added, stirring her coffee, “I’ll see what I can find out on my own from my aunt and the local grapevine.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that. How much do I owe you for the drinks?”

  “Not a farthing.” She waved my money aside with a shake of her honey-blond head. “They’re on the house. My way of saying welcome to Exbury, if you like.”

  “But surely… I mean, it’s very nice of you, but…” I glanced towards the end of the bar, where Ned was still slumped over his paper, and Vivien followed my gaze with understanding.

  “Oh, Ned’s not the kind to tell tales to the boss,” she assured me. “Even if he were, he wouldn’t gain much by it, since I happen to be the boss.”

  I stammered a quick apology and flushed a brilliant crimson. Vivien graciously ignored my embarrassment.

  “Is your telephone connected yet? Good. What’s the number?”

  I told her, and she copied it down. “Right,” she said. “I’ll give you a ring if I find out anything of interest. Here.” She passed me a box of matches. “My number’s on the back, if you need anything. Or you can just drop by, any time you get bored with unpacking. I always have time for a chat in the afternoon.” She looked me straight in the eye and smiled her quick, frank smile.

  “I’m glad you’ve come to live here,” she said simply.

  I smiled back, feeling strangely warm inside.

  “So am I,” I told her.

  ***

  I was still smiling as I walked home, enjoying the fresh, vibrant feel of the late-April breezes and the wonderful silence of the untraveled road. My house stood waiting to welcome me home, looking already a little less neglected to my biased eyes.

  “Hullo, Greywethers,” I greeted it, as I came up the drive.

/>   At least I had learned the proper name for my house. And that I had a ghost. What had the men at the Red Lion called her? The Green Lady. Somewhere in the garden.

  The question was, I asked myself, just where had the garden been? There certainly wasn’t any trace of one now, at least not at the front of the house. Curious, I walked round to the back yard and had a look.

  Not the dovecote, I decided. That garden was new. By the kitchen, perhaps, alongside the drive? The ground there certainly looked more level, but…

  No. Not there. I turned my attention to the other side of the yard. There, I thought with certainty. One could even see the faint rises in the ground where the flower beds had been built up by loving hands. I crossed the yard and stood on the spot in triumph.

  The sun had sunk lower in the sky, and the breeze that skimmed over me was decidedly chill. Hunching farther into my sweater, I hugged myself for warmth, turning to face the distant line of trees.

  The man on the gray horse was there, under the sheltering oak, watching me.

  I raised my chin defiantly, and could have sworn that he smiled, although he was too far away for me to see his features clearly, let alone judge his expression. After a long moment, he wheeled his horse around and headed back in the direction of Crofton Hall, his dark outline swallowed by the shadows of the ancient trees.

  The Green Lady forgotten, I went inside the house, taking particular care to bolt the kitchen door behind me.

  Chapter 4

  By noon the following day, I found myself wishing that I’d taken my own flippant advice and polished up the tea service. In fact, I was wishing that I’d had the foresight to actually purchase a tea service in the first place. As it was, I had to make do with my old chipped brown teapot and an assortment of china cups that didn’t quite match their saucers, to serve my guests.

  And there certainly had been guests. The first arrivals, at nine o’clock, had been Mr. Ridley, the house agent, and his wife, who were evidently early risers as they brought with them a plate of homemade Bath buns, still warm from the oven. Close on their heels had come Jerry Walsh and his amiable wife, Eva, with two jars of Eva’s black-currant jelly; then Arthur and Marie Walsh bearing a plate of chocolate biscuits. Several others came and departed in a kind of blur, including a soft-voiced, elderly lady named Mrs. Hutherson, who brought me two dozen buttery fruit scones and her best wishes. Everyone was very nice, very friendly, and very well informed.