Mary patted her hand. ‘So am I, child.’ She sighed as she looked out of the window, lost in her thoughts about possible futures. ‘Heaven only knows how much longer this rain will last. Looks like you might be here a week or so rather than a few days!’
*
Wilma departed Ravenscreag Hall violently protesting and vowing to one day have her revenge. Gloria knew they had neither seen nor heard the last of the deceitful young woman.
‘Do you really think she’ll try something foolish?’ Gloria asked Phil later that morning, as they walked along one of the cold passageways of the old house.
‘I have no answer to that, Gloria,’ Phil replied. When Wilma had been at the house, she had dominated her elder brother, making him withdraw into the shell of inhibitive shyness that had protected him as a child. He had only previously emerged from this cocoon when alone with Mary. Now Wilma was gone, however, he had changed; indeed, the whole house had changed. There was an odd air of gaiety within its walls, as though dismissing Wilma from the house had cleansed it of an evil spirit. ‘I could never understand what was going on in my sister’s mind,’ he explained. ‘She was always pretty secretive, and very devious. All the time we were here I kept a close eye on her to make sure she never did anything that might have harmed Mrs Turner.’
Gloria halted in her tracks and stared at Phil. His intimation shocked her. ‘Surely she wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Nana Turner?’
Covered in grease and oil from the generator he had been servicing in the basement, Phil shrugged. ‘I really don’t know what Wilma could be capable of, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. I do know she hates your grandmother, and she hates you.’
‘But why does she hate us so? What have we done to her?’
Phil sighed. ‘It’s not so much anything that either of you have done personally, but rather something that happened over a hundred years ago. Tell me, do you know anything of the local history of this area, and of your family history in particular?’
‘A little.’
‘Well, you remember what I said about James Trevayne being murdered?’
‘Yes, in the woods that once occupied the site of the lake.’
Phil nodded. ‘Well, James’s wife, Victoria, claimed to have witnessed the murder. She said one of the local men, Robert Stewart, killed her husband, and when Robert’s widow brought up their two children alone after his trial and execution, Victoria did nothing to help them. One of those children subsequently died. Apparently, members of Robert Stewart’s family had been living at Ravenscreag as care-takers of sorts, until James and Victoria turned up and evicted them. That’s all I know. I don’t know any more of the facts.’
Gloria was stunned. ‘I never knew any of that.’
‘Then I guess you also don’t know that Robert Stewart was our great-grandfather. For the record, although Wilma continues to hold your entire family responsible for the deaths that occurred all those years ago, I don’t.’
‘That’s gratifying. I mean, we can hardly be held accountable for deeds perpetrated by our forebears!’
‘Precisely! Plus, there’s one very important fact which Wilma seems to have overlooked. Robert Stewart tried to rape James Trevayne’s twelve-year-old daughter. James tried to stop him, and that was when Robert delivered the fatal blow. Victoria saw the entire grisly incident, and if I were in her shoes, I’m sure I too would have brought Robert to justice. However, I would not have neglected Robert’s family. They were no more responsible for his actions than you and your family are for Victoria’s.’
‘Does Nana Turner know of this?’
Phil shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think it was something openly discussed in your family, although in mine the hatred seems to have passed on down the line until it reached Wilma.’
‘So Wilma wanted to rob Nana Turner, hoping to in some way compensate for the misery your family suffered?’
‘I reckon so. The ironic thing is that Robert Stewart’s surviving daughter married into money and looked after her ailing mother, and the family’s been quite well off ever since. Neither my parents, nor Wilma and myself, have suffered in any way!’
‘I’d rather Nana Turner didn’t hear about this, Phil, if she doesn’t already know any of it. It would only cause her more distress, and she doesn’t need that at her time of life.’
They continued along the second floor passageway until they reached the winding staircase that led up to the turret room.
‘Are you sure you want to go up there, Gloria?’ Phil asked nervously.
Gloria nodded. ‘I need to find out whether those bad vibrations I felt as a child are still here. I never felt them anywhere else in the house, only in that room.’
Phil stared at the darkened staircase uneasily. ‘I sense that someone died up there,’ he whispered, clearly unwilling to go on.
Gloria turned to him. ‘So you can feel it too?’
Phil shook his head. ‘No, not now, but when we first came here, Wilma and I explored the house so that we knew where all the rooms were. We went up there, and I felt a sensation of death. It was… I don’t know…’ He shivered at the recollection. ‘It was like the room was haunted. Wilma loved the room, but I hated it. I’ve never been back up there, and five years ago, your grandmother had it locked up. I think she knows what happened up there, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Nana Turner seems to be full of secrets and surprises,’ sighed Gloria. ‘Well, I suppose I shall have to go up alone.’ She held out her hand and Phil selected and removed a particular key from the bunch he carried, handing it to Gloria along with a torch.
‘Please be careful up there!’
Gloria smiled nervously. ‘Don’t worry, Phil. I’ve spent a lot of time up there in the past, and apart from my nightmare, nothing has ever happened!’
When she finally reached the top of the stairs, Gloria stared at the door, shining the torch at the lock as she inserted the key. It seemed that as well as locking the room Nana Turner had disconnected the power to the room, as the two bulbs that had once partially illuminated the narrow winding staircase – one halfway up, one at the top – no longer worked.
The door opened easily, though noisily, and with more than a little trepidation, her heart pounding wildly, Gloria stepped into the room.
The heavy drapes drawn across the windows enshrouded the room in darkness. The torch beam picked out various instantly recognisable objects: the wardrobe; the desk and chair; the large bed – her old teddy, still lying on the pillow where she had left him fourteen years ago.
She smiled, marched over to the windows, throwing open the drapes one by one. She tried not to choke on the spraying dust as sunlight cascaded into the room. It had stopped raining, and in an effort to dispel the musty odour of disuse, Gloria threw open one of the windows, breathing in the wonderfully crisp and clean, rain sodden fresh air.
That was when she felt it: a prickly sensation that crept down the nape of her neck. Her hairs tingled, standing on end.
She was not alone in the room.
Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she turned.
She moved forward slightly, frowned – and then stopped.
On the wall opposite, her image reflected in the full-length mirror, but also reflected in the mirror, her hair blowing in the breeze from the open window, was the ghostly image of another woman looking not unlike herself. Her dress, Victorian in style, billowed gently as she beckoned to Gloria, mouthing silent words, smiling.
Gloria glanced over her shoulder, but there was no ghostly figure behind her. She returned her attention to the mirror, but the image was gone.
Shivering slightly, Gloria closed the window again and left the room. Locking the door, she made her way carefully down the stairs.
Phil was not waiting for her when she reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, but then he probably had a million and one things to do.
Gloria walked down the passage in silence, then down the stairs to the first flo
or landing. She thought of the ghostly image she had seen in the mirror, wondering whether it could have just been her imagination, or whether there really had been a woman who looked like her.
She glanced across at the library door, which was slightly ajar, and made a snap decision. When she entered, the room was empty. It was, as all libraries should be, the most peaceful room in the house.
Unsure what she was looking for, she inspected the spines of each book in turn, pulling several from their shelves before replacing them when they failed to divulge anything of interest.
Then she found them; a book about the history of Sussex and the well known people who had lived there, and right next to it, another about famous people of the Tudor period.
extract from
SUSSEX: A LIVING HISTORY – Neville Hill
The original name for the village of Neville Hill, which lies just north of the A267, midway between Mayfield and Five Ashes, was Ashfield; so named because the original settlement, dating back to 1326, was built up along the west perimeter of two fields owned by the Ashton family. Upon one of these fields in 1405, the then landowner, Sir William Ashton, built Ashton Manor, an impressive Manor House set in extensive grounds and surrounded by a deep moat. When Sir William’s great-granddaughter, Elizabeth, married Richard Neville, the house was renamed Neville Manor. Elizabeth died giving birth to their daughter, Isabella, in 1492, and in 1500, Richard wed Elizabeth’s sister, Margaret, widowed the previous year, and there they brought up Isabella and Margaret’s son, Peter.
In 1520, Isabella married a farmer’s son, James Trevayne, but Samuel Wylams, a man widely claimed to be her lover, murdered her. In his grief, James became close with a woman known to the superstitious, mistrustful villagers as The Witch Ria, and the same villagers burnt Neville Manor to the ground with James, Ria and their child still inside.
Peter, who had taken his stepfather’s name, died in 1542 at the Battle of Solway Moss. He bequeathed the Neville lands to the same villagers who killed his stepsister’s husband and family.
Built on the site of the original Neville Manor in the early 1600s, using much of the remaining stonework, Snowfield House remains standing to this day, a Grade II listed building.
In 1875, in memory of the Neville family, the village was renamed Neville Hill.
extract from
important figures OF THE TUDOR AGE – Isabella Neville and her family
Isabella Neville married James Trevayne in 1520. Already an accomplished storyteller, it was while married to James that Isabella wrote king of saints and realm of dark knights, the two books that finally saw publication centuries later.
Her family were wealthy landowners, whom she scandalised when she chose to marry the poor farmer’s son. Her father forgave her though, when James proved to know so much about getting the most from their land.
A further scandal concerns her more than platonic relationship with her cousin, Peter Neville, who seems to have allied himself with the Stuarts of Scotland following her death. However, since this rumour appears to originate from her spurned lover, Samuel Wylams, it is perhaps best disbelieved.
Samuel Wylams seems to have had a supernatural hold over Isabella, and when her husband and cousin rescued her from his clutches, he retaliated by not only spreading rumours about Peter, but also by robbing Isabella of her life – a crime for which he later paid with his own life.
James Trevayne, consumed with guilt and remorse, sought the comforting arms of a stranger to the village, a woman named Ria Snowfield. She became his mistress, and then his second wife, but most of the villagers remained loyal to Isabella’s memory. They branded Ria a witch, and while the couple slept one night, burnt Neville Manor to the ground, thus ending the evil influence they believed Ria held over the village.
According to local folklore, Peter Neville briefly returned to the ancestral family home following its destruction, removing some of its surviving stonework, which he used in the construction of his new house in Scotland, and which remained unfinished following his death at the Battle of Solway Moss.
Gloria was astounded: it had not occurred to her that Isabella’s family gave their name to Neville Hill, nor that her own house stood on the spot where Neville Manor had burned to the ground.
Illustrated with portraits of events and people of the time, the book, Important Figures of the Tudor Age, depicted Peter Neville on his way to do battle at Solway Moss, and in a painting of Neville Manor sat James Trevayne, smiling alongside his first wife.
‘So that’s what Isabella looked like,’ muttered Gloria to herself. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind now: the murdered woman from her dreams could be nobody but Isabella!
Both books described almost identical events, to each other, and to events from The Master of the Scrolls.
Peter/Philip died in battle; James/John was burned alive with his witch wife, Ria; Samuel/Vilam was executed for the murder of Isabella/Isobel.
It also documented the fact that James and Peter stuck together in their claim that Samuel Wylams killed Isabella. Samuel’s execution was due to this claim, even with no evidence, and it therefore seemed quite logical, unless James and Peter had lied – perhaps to protect each other – that Samuel was the killer.
With a weary sigh, Gloria closed both books. There was no way she could ever hope to discover the truth of events surrounding Isabella’s death, unless she could go back to that moment in time.
As she rose, dizziness suddenly swamped Gloria. She rocked back and forth, the room around her spinning uncontrollably, whirling like a vertiginous madhouse at a funfair. Her eyes felt as though they were blistering, her vision blurred as tears streamed down her cheeks; a burning sensation swept across her body; agonising spasms scorched across her flesh, akin to a physical manifestation of red hot pins and needles. Her attempts to scream produced only a deafening silence from her throat amid the roaring, which seemed to emanate not from around her but rather from within.
Phil chose that particular moment to open the library door. ‘Gloria!’ he cried as he rushed into the room, just in time to catch her as her knees crumpled beneath her leaden weight. ‘Gloria!’ he shouted again. ‘Gloria, are you all right?’
Gloria opened her eyes, gasping for breath, and for the briefest moment saw not Phil bent over her, but a dim and distant ethereal figure from the past; an unrecognisable yet oddly familiar face; a handsome man with dark hair, dressed in the manner of a time long since passed.
‘Peter?’ she whispered hoarsely, struggling to get her vocal chords to work. The image receded back into the past. ‘Oh, Phil, it’s you. Thank God!’ Gloria threw her arms around his neck, holding on a little more tightly than was necessary. Fear clearly etched her pain-wracked, tear-stained face.
Phil’s hushed voice reassured her. ‘It’s all right, Gloria, you only fainted. There’s no need to worry. I expect you’ve been over-working yourself.’
As she rose unsteadily to her feet with Phil’s assistance, Gloria shook her head solemnly, drying her eyes. ‘No, I didn’t faint. Something was happening to me. I’m not sure what happened, but just for a moment...’ A bemused expression passed across her face, and then she shook her head as vehemently as her aching neck would allow. She could almost hear her bones creaking as they realigned themselves. ‘Just for a moment it was almost as though it wasn’t you standing there!’
Phil laughed in a manner totally lacking in spite. ‘Now I know you’ve been overdoing it!’
Gloria smiled. If Phil noticed the accompanying wince he did not let on, for which Gloria was grateful. The entire bizarre experience had lasted only seconds, and although the excruciating burning pains that had danced across her entire body were abating, she could still feel their presence. It was not something she could readily explain to herself, much less anyone else, so she was glad Phil asked no probing questions other than general concern that she was all right. ‘I think perhaps I ought to go to my room to rest.’
‘I’ll help y
ou up the stairs, if you’d like,’ Phil said, taking her arm gently yet firmly.
Gloria’s wan smile momentarily faltered. There was something a little too brusquely indecent regarding the speed of his offer to assist her. She glanced at him curiously, amused yet surprised to see a vaguely familiar glaze to Phil’s eyes. Oh yes, there’s no doubt about it: the poor guy is definitely smitten!
‘That’s really not necessary,’ she said gently, not wanting to hurt his feelings by letting him know she had rumbled him, and at the same time, not wanting to give him the impression that she was interested.
Because I’m not interested… am I?
How could she be interested in him when she had Allan? Besides which, she had known Phil only a few days.
Long enough!
The sudden voice inside her mind was not hers, and startled her momentarily. ‘I can manage, thank you!’ she said firmly.
Phil released her arms, and Gloria promptly collapsed. ‘Oh can you?’ he muttered as he caught her arm to steady her once more.
Was that a note of triumph in his voice? Did triumph sparkle in his eyes? Gloria did not object to his assistance this time, and even complied when he picked her up and told her to put her arms around his neck.
Gloria was so close to him now that she could smell his strong, but not unattractive, natural odour. Her mind reacted and her body instinctively began to respond to primeval urges that she knew were not right, yet which felt right! She gazed into his dark eyes, which at first glance appeared black, but under closer scrutiny were revealed to be an indeterminate shade of blue; the hue of a clear, cloudless, midnight sky. She could see his love for her, and her own longing reflected back in the deep opal pools.
Oh God, I’m going to kiss him!
Gloria struggled to hold back, wanting to be faithful to Allan, but it was an impossible task: inexplicably she yearned more for Phil. She surrendered to the giddy feelings as he set her down upon the library table.
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