The House of Hopes and Dreams

by Trisha Ashley

  About the Book

  When Carey Revell unexpectedly becomes the heir to Mossby, his family’s ancestral home, it’s rather a mixed blessing. The house is large but run-down and comes with a pair of resentful relatives who can’t be asked to leave. Still, newly dumped by his girlfriend and also from his job as a TV interior designer, Carey needs somewhere to lick his wounds. And Mossby would be perfect for a renovation show. He already knows someone who could restore the stained-glass windows in the older part of the house …

  Angel Arrowsmith has spent the last ten years happily working and living with her artist mentor and partner. But suddenly bereaved, she finds herself heartbroken, without a home or a livelihood. Life will never be the same again – until old friend Carey Revell comes to the rescue.

  They move in to Mossby with high hopes. But the house has a secret at its heart: an old legend concerning one of the famous windows. Will all their dreams for happiness be shattered? Or can Carey and Angel find a way to make this house a home?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Fallen Idol

  2. Clipped Wings

  3. Rum Punched

  4. Lost Voices

  5. Cold Front

  6. Spelt Out

  7. Clear as Glass

  8. Sketchy

  9. Alchemy

  10. Designs

  11. Cursed Windows

  12. Caged Beasts

  13. Love at First Sight

  14. The Dust of Ages

  15. Sudden Appearances

  16. Moving

  17. Let the Revells Commence

  18. Dimly Illuminated

  19. The Screaming Skull

  20. Good Will

  21. Spats

  22. Small Creatures

  23. The Vital Spark

  24. Connections

  25. On the Ball

  26. Redirected

  27. Positively Wired

  28. Joy in the Morning

  29. Whitewashed

  30. The Big Wave

  31. Mixed Messages

  32. Fired

  33. Queen of Hearts

  34. The Morning Chorus

  35. Illuminations

  36. Down Time

  37. Treasure Fever

  38. Black Holes

  39. Down and Out

  40. Broken

  41. The Skeleton Key

  42. Written in the Dust

  43. Casting the Bones

  44. In the Light of Day

  Recipes

  About the Author

  Also by Trisha Ashley

  Copyright

  To Jen Fishler

  Pure Gold

  Mossby, 1914

  To whoever finds this journal (presuming they do so before it crumbles into dust), some explanation is due.

  Having recently, unbeknown to my dear son, Joshua, seen an eminent London doctor and had the verdict I suspected confirmed, it seems to me time to set my affairs in order.

  I was in the forefront of women working in the field of stained-glass window making at the turn of the century, including the setting-up of my own workshop here at Mossby during my tragically short marriage. But my achievements in that craft are already well documented, particularly in Miss Cecilia McCrum’s recent excellent and exhaustively researched publication, A Brief History of Women Artists in Glass.

  However, little has been written about my private life and this journal, which I kept at the time of my marriage, will go some considerable way to explaining my reticence until now in this matter.

  Mossby has always held its secrets close, but it will be a relief to me to lay bare the Revell family skeletons at last, even if this book must then be secreted away.

  At eighteen, I do not feel that Joshua is ready for the revelations I am about to make, particularly since his aunt Honoria, who dotes on him, has brought him up to idolize the memory of the father he never knew. But perhaps one day he will discover the secret of its hiding place for himself, in the same way I did …

  1

  Fallen Idol

  Carey

  Late November 2014

  Carey Revell lay on his hospital bed, propped in a semi-recumbent position by an efficient nurse and rendered temporarily speechless by the astonishing information his visitor had just imparted to him.

  Though Mr Wilmslow was a country solicitor of a prosaic turn of mind and not usually given to flights of fancy, it suddenly occurred to him that with his large frame, gentian-blue eyes, thick, red-gold hair and the stubble burnishing his face, his new client resembled nothing so much as a fallen Viking warrior.

  He had the typical Revell looks all right – there was no mistaking his heritage – though on a much larger and more resplendent scale.

  Carey’s left leg, the flesh scarred, misshapen, patched by skin grafts, and also bearing the marks of the pins that had held it immobile in a metal cage while the shattered bones finally knitted, was mercifully hidden by loose tracksuit trousers. The nerves and muscles still twitched and jangled painfully from his earlier physiotherapy session, but the news his unexpected visitor had brought him had for once relegated this dismal symphony of discomfort to the background.

  ‘Do you have any questions? I know it’s a lot to take in at once,’ said Mr Wilmslow, breaking the silence.

  ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ agreed Carey rather numbly, wondering for an instant if he might be still under the influence of heavy painkillers and dreaming all this. His eyes dropped once more to the letter the solicitor had brought him and he read it through for the third time.

  Mossby

  April 2014

  To Carey Revell,

  I will not address you as ‘Dear Carey’ or ‘Dear Nephew’ since we have never met and nor have I ever wished to do so. I will not go into the circumstances that led to your father’s total estrangement from his family at such an early age, but suffice it to say that we were entirely disgusted when he continued to use our revered and respected family name throughout his stage career.

  However, since you are the last of our branch of the Revells, and I suppose retribution for my brother’s sins need not be visited upon his son, I feel it only right that you should inherit Mossby in your turn. I am signing a will to this effect today, my ninety-first birthday. My solicitor, Mr Wilmslow, will give you this letter of explanation after my decease.

  Do not think I am bequeathing you great wealth, a mansion and a vast estate, for Mossby is a modest country residence, much of it rebuilt in the Arts and Crafts style at the end of the nineteenth century. Besides which, it has not of late received the care and attention it merits, due to the steady decline of my investment income. In fact, I have recently been forced to live on my capital.

  On to your shoulders now falls the burden of finding a way to make Mossby pay its own way, before the remaining money runs out. From what I have discovered, you seem to be a young man of some enterprise.

  Ella Parry, my stepdaughter by my second marriage, has been pressing me to make a will for some time, assuming, I am sure, that it would be in her favour. Due to the rift with your father, she had no idea of your existence, so was sadly disappointed when I told her of my testamentary disposition. However, I have never considered her as my daughter and, since she and her husband have for many years received handsome salaries for acting as my housekeeper and gardener respectively, besides living rent free in the Lodge, she can have no real cause for complaint. I also paid for their daughter, Vicky’s, education.

  I hope you will take a pride in your heritage. You will find the family papers in the secret chamber in th
e Elizabethan wing, which Mr Wilmslow will show you the secret of. I always meant to sort them and write a history of the Revells of Mossby, but never got round to it. Perhaps you will do so.

  Your uncle,

  Francis Revell

  ‘Secret chamber in the Elizabethan wing?’ Carey muttered incredulously, feeling as if he’d strayed into an Enid Blyton mystery. Then he became aware that Mr Wilmslow, who was a slight, be-suited and altogether unremarkable personage to be the bearer of such astounding news, was stuffing papers back into his briefcase as a prelude to departure.

  ‘Among the papers I’ve given you is a copy of the will. Probate should be granted before the New Year, though you can take up residence at Mossby before that, should you wish to … Health permitting, of course,’ he added delicately.

  ‘I’ll be out of here before Christmas and intended staying with a friend while I decided where I wanted to live. I’ve put my old flat on the market because carrying things up four flights of stairs is going to be out of the question for quite a while,’ Carey said. ‘I’ve lost my job, too – I’ve been replaced. You know I presented The Complete Country Cottage TV series?’

  He’d not only presented it, it had been his own idea … and being credited in the new series with ‘From an original concept by Carey Revell’ was not going to be much consolation. He ought to have read the fine print in his contracts more carefully – and so should his agent.

  Mr Wilmslow nodded. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but you may find Mossby just the place to convalesce, while deciding what to do next,’ he suggested, snapping the lock of the briefcase closed with some finality. ‘In the meantime, you have my card, so do contact me if anything occurs to you that you’d like to ask.’

  Carey said uneasily, ‘This stepdaughter he – my uncle – mentions …’

  ‘Ella Parry. Her husband, Clem, is an excellent gardener. Your uncle always thought it worth putting up with Ella Parry’s cross-grained ways because he kept up the grounds almost single-handedly. She was the residuary legatee, by the way. Had you been killed in that accident just before your uncle’s death, she would have inherited all.’

  ‘Right,’ Carey said, thinking Ella Parry didn’t sound the most delightful person to have around the house, especially if she was bearing a grudge. But then, as his uncle’s stepdaughter, it did seem a little harsh that she had been left with nothing.

  When he said so, Mr Wilmslow reassured him.

  ‘Your uncle was more than generous to them in his lifetime, but the situation will become clearer to you when you have taken up your residence at Mossby. It’s in the Parrys’ own interests to make themselves pleasant to you if they wish to continue their employment.’ Then he added, after a moment, ‘By the way, have you made a will of your own?’

  ‘Oddly enough, yes, because after the accident I lost my feeling of invincibility,’ Carey said with a wry smile. ‘I sent a friend out for one of those will forms and a couple of nurses witnessed it.’

  Mr Wilmslow winced: standard template will forms such as were available at newsagents were obviously beyond the pale. ‘Well, those forms are perfectly legal, of course, but you may wish me to draw up a new one in the light of your inheritance.’

  ‘Yes, and in the meantime, I suppose I could add a thingummy, making Ella Parry the residuary legatee to the house, like my uncle did?’

  ‘A codicil? You could do so, of course, though given that Ella is now about sixty and you a young man in your thirties, we would hope you would survive her.’

  ‘You never know what fate has in store for you,’ Carey said darkly, then ran a distracted hand through already dishevelled thick, red-gold hair. ‘It’s all a bit sudden, to be honest. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up.’

  ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to track you down. It was unfortunate that you weren’t in a position to answer any of my communications once I’d found your address.’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ Carey said drily.

  ‘And my attempts to contact you via your TV series also failed. I expect it was lost among the fan mail.’

  ‘They’ve also managed to lose the fan mail itself, now they’ve replaced me,’ Carey said. ‘No direct contact at all since telling me they weren’t offering me a contract for a new series.’

  ‘Dear me, the world of TV seems remarkably ruthless.’ The solicitor’s brown eyes showed mild surprise. ‘Still, once I’d travelled down and talked to the delightful elderly lady in the flat below yours, all became clear. I hear the driver who knocked you off your bicycle didn’t stop and they haven’t found him or her?’

  ‘No, and just my luck it was the one square inch of Dulwich Village without any CCTV surveillance! I’d had a minor run-in with another car only a few days before and meant to get one of those helmet cameras, but hadn’t got round to it.’

  Mr Wilmslow shook his head and made a sympathetic tutting noise. ‘I hope you’ll make a full recovery.’

  ‘My left leg is never going to look quite the same again, but it was touch and go whether they’d have to amputate it at first, so I’m lucky it’s still there. Or what’s left of it, because I lost a few chunks here and there and they had to do grafts.’

  Mr Wilmslow got up to go. ‘I had better get off to catch my train, unless you have any further questions?’

  ‘Not at the moment, though I’m sure I will, once it’s all sunk in. If the Parrys could continue to keep an eye on the place, then I should be fit to travel up there soon after Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ promised Mr Wilmslow, shrugging his slight frame into an ancient Burberry and winding a dark, wine-coloured woollen scarf around his neck.

  As he left, he nimbly skipped aside to avoid being bowled over in the doorway by the tempestuous entrance of Carey’s friend, Nick Crane.

  ‘Who was that?’ Nick demanded as Mr Wilmslow disappeared, carelessly tossing an armful of mail on to the bed, narrowly missing Carey’s damaged leg. ‘Finally remembered to bring all your letters. Sorry,’ he added, as Carey winced. ‘Leg hurting?’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody hurting! It hasn’t stopped hurting since some nameless bastard decided to swipe me off my bike – and the physiotherapist is a sadist.’

  ‘She’s a very attractive sadist,’ Nick said, with a grin. ‘She can torture me any time she likes, you ungrateful sod! But I’m sure they’re sick of the sight of you now and need to get rid of you so someone else can have your bed.’

  ‘And I want to get out of here too, God knows.’

  The fact that he would be leaving on his own two feet was, he acknowledged, largely due to the fact that his actress mother had flown back from America immediately the news of the accident had reached her and set about charming and bullying the surgeons into renewed attempts to save the mangled and broken thing that was his left leg.

  As if he’d read Carey’s mind, Nick said, ‘Daisy should have had the same trust in the surgeons that your mother had, not dropped you like a hot potato the moment she got the news.’

  ‘She did go to all the trouble of writing to explain she had a phobia of hospitals and illness … and how she’d been meaning to tell me she was moving out of the flat anyway, because she felt our relationship just wasn’t working,’ Carey said, though at the time his girlfriend’s abrupt severance of their relationship had hurt him deeply.

  ‘Lying cow! And I told you she’s already shacked up with your replacement on the series, didn’t I?’

  Carey shrugged. ‘Director’s assistant perks? And everyone’s told me, though I can’t say I care any more. How did you get on at the flat?’

  Nick had been organizing the packing and storage of Carey’s belongings before the sale of the flat was finalized, and Daisy had arranged to meet him there that day to collect a few things she’d left behind and hand over her set of keys.

  Nick, who had flung his lanky frame into the armchair, his Converse-shod feet dangling over the arm, suddenly sat upright. ‘There was something I meant to tell you
the minute I got here and I completely forgot!’ he exclaimed. ‘Daisy’d already been to the flat and she’d left you this note.’

  He pulled a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket and handed it over.

  There was no greeting, or polite wishes for his continued recovery, it simply read:

  I can’t cope with Tiny any more. Circumstances have changed and anyway, he’s become quite impossible. You bought him, so it’s up to you to decide what to do with him.

  It wasn’t signed.

  ‘Terse – and what does Daisy think I can do with a dog till I get out of here?’ commented Carey, looking up with a frown. Daisy had coaxed him into buying the tiny Chihuahua puppy from a friend of hers, though his novelty had worn off even before he’d begun to show his true nature: no male legs were safe from those needle-sharp teeth. He’d also quickly outgrown the designer dog-carrier she’d bought for him, so it looked increasingly likely that his father hadn’t been a Chihuahua at all …

  They’d been sold a pup.

  ‘She’s too self-absorbed to even think of that one,’ Nick said, then rolled up his jeans to exhibit a fresh set of pinpoint marks. ‘Tiny was shut in the kitchen and when I opened the door, the little bastard got me again.’

  Carey stared at him. ‘You mean … she’s dumped him there and gone?’

  ‘Yep. And since I couldn’t leave him there on his own and there was a plastic pet crate in the hall, I shoved him in that and he’s in the car now. I’ve left the windows down a bit, so he should be OK till I get back. What do you want me to do with him?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to find him a good home. You couldn’t keep him till I get out of here, I suppose, Nick?’ Carey added hopefully.

  ‘Apart from not wanting my legs to look like I stick pins in them for fun, I’m out all the time, so it wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘True,’ conceded Carey. ‘Look, if I give you the address of the kennels we used when we went on holiday, could you take him there? It won’t be strange to him and I’ll work something permanent out as soon as I can.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea,’ agreed Nick, looking relieved. ‘They’re letting you out of here soon anyway, so we’ll think of something while you’re staying at mine over Christmas.’