‘Yes, now I understand that Ella only lived here for a couple of years as a small child, I think my uncle was very generous to her and her family.’
‘Then you do not wish to leave Mossby to her now?’
‘No. It’s not even as if she seemed to care about the place, other than the old wing. So I’d like you to draw up a new will along the same lines as the other, leaving a few bequests to friends and my mother and the remainder, including the Mossby estate, to Angel.’
I nearly dropped my coffee cup. ‘To me?’
‘Yes: why not? I haven’t got any near relatives, apart from Mum, and she’s well off and settled in the USA. You’re my very best friend and if anything happened to me, I know you’d look after Mossby.’
‘Yes, but, Carey—’
‘Have you made a will?’ he broke in.
‘No, of course not! I’ve never had anything much to leave.’
‘Everyone should make a will. It simplifies the proceedings for those left behind,’ Mr Wilmslow said.
‘Come on, Angel, if you made a will, who would you leave your worldly goods to?’ Carey asked, putting me on the spot.
‘A few small bequests to friends and Mum, and the rest to you, of course,’ I admitted.
‘There you are, then. And anyway, my will would only come into effect if I died unmarried and without issue. Even if I was a cat, I’d still have seven lives left.’
‘Seven?’ Mr Wilmslow queried.
‘I had an earlier slight bump on my bike,’ Carey explained.
‘Oh, yes, I believe you did mention it.’
‘Cycling in London seems increasingly dangerous,’ I said, but I hoped Carey would be safe enough here … And then one day he’d marry and fill the house with little Revells.
‘Going back to the will question, I think I’d like to leave some money to Ella and her husband,’ Carey said generously. ‘I may not like her, but my uncle did support her over the years and I feel a certain obligation to carry on.’
They discussed how much and Mr Wilmslow scribbled a few notes.
‘I’ll draw up a new will accordingly and let you know when it’s ready, so you can come in at your convenience.’
Business done, he turned to his hobby and began to discourse with enthusiasm on the history of the Revell family and the constant remodelling of the house.
‘There are many mysteries and stories connected with Mossby,’ he said, getting into his stride. ‘For instance, Cecil Revell, whose portrait hangs in the Long Gallery, briefly found favour with the first Queen Elizabeth. She bestowed on him a magnificent baroque jewelled ornament – always referred to in family documents as the Jewel of Mossby – which was suspended from a chain of huge rubies. He’s wearing it in the painting, but of course these adornments went out of fashion and the Jewel itself vanished, probably during the seventeenth century.’
‘Could they have sold it?’ I asked.
‘Possibly, though it would fetch such a sum that you would think the coffers would have swelled considerably and there was no sign of a sudden influx of wealth. One theory is that the Cavalier Revell, Phillip, had it sent abroad during the Civil War for safekeeping and perhaps to provide for himself should he need to flee the country, as many did once the tide of success turned in the Parliamentarians’ favour. But he died in battle and presumably took the secret with him. His body was never found,’ he added. ‘He was seen to fall wounded, so after a time his death was presumed and his posthumous son, Edmund, inherited in due course.’
‘And handed down the estate to his descendants – ending in you, Carey,’ I said to him.
‘True, though of course the Revell line would have died out at Mossby, had it not been for Joshua Winterbotham,’ said Mr Wilmslow.
‘He was the wealthy factory and ship owner who married the heiress in the middle of the nineteenth century and changed his name to hers, wasn’t he?’ Carey said.
‘Yes. The fortunes of the house had dwindled and all the farmland had been sold off, so materially it was a good match for her.’
‘And he built my workshop, to give employment to local people,’ I said.
‘For some form of cotton manufacture – hosiery, I think,’ he agreed. ‘I have forgotten now and, of course, it fell into disuse after his death. His son was brought up a gentleman and his interests lay elsewhere.’
‘Until he married Jessie Kaye and she set up her stained-glass workshop there,’ I said.
‘And that was really serendipity,’ Carey told Mr Wilmslow, ‘because now Angel can work there.’
After the coffee and biscuits we set off for the muniment room, where I tactfully turned my back and studied the samplers on the wall, while Mr Wilmslow revealed to Carey the mechanism that opened the concealed cavity.
‘It’s not a particularly difficult one, as they go. It pivots when pressure is applied to the right place, much like the entrance to the priest-hole in the Great Hall,’ explained Mr Wilmslow. ‘Of course, the existence of that one has been known for many years.’
But by this point, I was not really paying attention, because I was fascinated by the samplers, some of which were long and narrow strips of linen on stretchers, while others were framed and of the alphabet-and-house type.
Behind me there was a sort of click and a sliding noise. Carey said, ‘Come and look at this, Angel! I don’t know why you’re being so tactful, because if I can’t trust you, then I can’t trust anyone.’
I turned and saw that the doors beneath the deep window seat had been opened and the floor inside appeared to have vanished, revealing a sizeable cavity containing an extremely ancient chest.
‘They call those Spanish chests, don’t they?’ Carey asked.
‘I believe so, though this one doesn’t have a locking mechanism, as some do,’ the solicitor agreed. ‘It must have been quite difficult to get it into the space, since it’s a close fit.’
‘It does have those handles at the side, though,’ said Carey. ‘They probably lowered it in with ropes.’
It was dark under there, but Carey had had the forethought to equip himself with a torch. When he lifted the lid back, we saw the chest was stuffed almost full with bundles and rolls of papers, packets and ledgers.
‘Well, you did say that the family had just shoved their papers in there for generations,’ Carey said ruefully.
‘And no one’s ever gone through them properly, so far as I know, so the earlier layers at the bottom could prove most interesting,’ Mr Wilmslow said, his eyes gleaming.
‘You wouldn’t be able to get the chest out unless you emptied it,’ I said. ‘That probably had something to do with it never having been sorted.’
‘I know that at one time your uncle had some idea of writing a family history, because we often discussed it, but it didn’t come to anything,’ the solicitor said. ‘Despite his long life, he was never a well man: rheumatic fever in childhood, affecting his heart, I believe. He was exempted from active war service.’
‘Wouldn’t it be great if the Jewel of Mossby was lying forgotten at the bottom of the chest?’ Carey said, staring absently down into it.
‘I think we’d have to be beyond optimistic to expect that no one else had thought of that,’ I told him. ‘That’s probably why it looks such a jumble in there! I’d give up any idea of treasure hunting: it’s long gone.’
‘At some point I’ll empty it all out and catalogue what’s in there,’ said Carey, ‘but that’s a job that will have to wait. It’ll make an interesting episode in a later series, if the first one is a success.’
‘Of course it will be,’ I told him firmly. ‘Nick will want to film you pretending to see the secret treasure chest for the first time when he hears about it.’
Mr Wilmslow looked at us enquiringly and Carey explained about basing his new TV series on Mossby, to be filmed by Nick and his company.
‘There are so many different aspects of Mossby to draw into the series – like the workshop and the legacy of the origina
l artist who worked there, Jessie Kaye. Angel’s going to write a book about her and the other early stained-glass craftswomen of the Arts and Crafts era,’ Carey said. ‘Her final university dissertation practically turned into one, she was so into it.’
‘And when Carey’s built the strength back up in that leg, he can start taking commissions to restore old cottages, like he did before,’ I said.
‘But until I begin earning money again, the proceeds from the sale of my flat will pay for the urgent expensive repairs and renovations to Mossby: the electrics and plumbing and anything structural.’
‘Dear me, I don’t know what your uncle would have thought about Mossby being filmed and on television! Would that be one of those so-called “fly-on-the-wall” documentaries?’
‘Sort of. Nick and his crew will dash up and film for a day or two every so often, which means some of it has to be staged to look as if it’s happening on camera. And my uncle did want me to find a way of keeping Mossby in the family and knew what I did for a living,’ Carey pointed out.
‘The Elizabethan wing is probably going to become part of the Halfhidden ghost trail from Easter, and open to the public, too,’ I said. ‘So that’ll be another source of income.’
‘I’m starting to see you’ve got many irons in the pot, Carey, and I’m sure you’ll infuse new life into the place.’
We went up to the Long Gallery to see the Elizabethan portrait of a slender young man, who looked like an attenuated version of Carey. He was wearing a whopping baroque pearl-centred medallion, jewelled and enamelled. I think it was supposed to be St George and the Dragon, with the pearl forming the body, and it was suspended on a heavy chain of huge square rubies linked with gold.
You could break a wrist, pulling a cracker with that in it.
The artist was mediocre and the portrait flat and uninspired, though the Jewel at least must have stirred his enthusiasm, because he’d lovingly captured every detail of it.
‘It’s extremely ugly and must have weighed a ton,’ I said.
‘Maybe, but having seen it, perhaps I’ll have a rummage about in that chest after all,’ Carey said, staring at it. ‘That monstrosity would pay for all the renovations on its own – and possibly the running costs up to the next century!’
Then he sighed. ‘I expect it was broken up, reset and sold on centuries ago.’
I was sure he was right, but having a quick look wouldn’t hurt.
‘Could it have been hidden in another priest-hole and the secret lost?’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps the Cavalier Revell hid it before he went off to his final battle, but didn’t tell anyone where it was?’
‘That possibility has been thought of,’ Mr Wilmslow admitted. ‘But despite extensive searches, it hasn’t come to light.’
On the way downstairs again we paused to look at the windows and I told him my theory that the design of the Lady Anne window was based on samplers of the time.
‘Now you’ve said it, I can see what you mean,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I expect she would have used motifs and patterns that she was familiar with, even though it does seem an odd fancy.’
‘The so-called curse really isn’t one, is it?’ I suggested. ‘I mean, it doesn’t specify what will happen if the window is removed.’
‘I think that’s left to our imagination,’ Carey said. ‘Something too terrible to contemplate.’
We carried on down to the hall, where like the rest of the old part of the house, Ella had polished the panelling to a high gloss, while ignoring the grime and cobwebs adorning the ceilings and furniture.
This must have made Mr Wilmslow think of her, because he asked, ‘Have you decided what to do about the Parrys’ employment, Carey?’
‘I have: my ideas for Mossby’s future are coming together and I can see that things will have to change. I’m going to suggest to them that they continue to live rent free at the Lodge and I’ll substantially increase Clem’s salary to reflect his hard work. But I don’t need a housekeeper, so Ella’s employment will cease.’
‘That seems a fair and practical solution,’ he approved.
‘She doesn’t seem to have earned her salary and while everyone has told me how she insists on cleaning this wing herself, she hasn’t even done that properly.’
‘Very true. I had noticed. But of course, making her redundant isn’t likely to go down well,’ he said drily.
‘I can’t help that – I have to be practical.’ Carey’s strong jaw set in a way I was familiar with. ‘I’m going to keep the cleaning firm on and I’ll get them to do a thorough spring clean through the whole property.’
‘I suspect Ella won’t like that either, if they’re going to come in here too,’ I said.
‘Then she should have made a better job of it herself. I’ll probably give her first refusal of the position of seasonal tour guide if we open to the public at Easter, though.’
‘If Clem’s salary is substantially increased, then there will be no radical drop in their income, so I think your solution is a very fair one,’ Mr Wilmslow said.
He left soon after that, promising to ring once the new will was drawn up ready for signature, and as soon as his car vanished Carey turned to me.
‘I feel like going for a rummage through that chest in the muniment room, even though I’m sure the Jewel won’t be there. But then, there’s so much I’m dying to look at, explore and work on, that it’s hard to know where to start. I mean, we haven’t even seen the attics yet, so why don’t we—’
‘Why don’t we have lunch and take Fang for a little airing, before we do anything else?’ I interrupted firmly.
And we did: up the weedy, unused part of the drive behind the house to where an old wrought-iron gate was fastened by a huge chain and a padlock that looked as rusted solid as the rest of it.
‘Bolt-cutter,’ Carey suggested, examining it. ‘These gates and the front ones will look splendid when they’re restored. The wrought-iron work is really fine.’
‘There’s an old stone stile in the wall over there you could replace with a small wicket gate for the visitors to use.’
‘Or put a gate in next to it, for those who can’t climb over stiles?’
Beyond the gate you could just see where the old drive had continued and joined the narrow farm track, which skirted the walls of the estate and headed off downwards. It had been tarmacked, but a Mohican ridge of tufty grass had grown up the middle.
‘So, if you reopened these gates, you could drive up past the farm and come out eventually in the middle of Halfhidden village?’ I said.
‘You could, though I’m not sure it would exactly be a shortcut, because I bet there are two or three gates or cattle grids on the way.’
We could see the roof of Moel Farm above us with a plume of blue-grey smoke winding up into the sky, and suddenly, over the stone wall opposite, the inquisitive heads of two alpacas popped up like furry periscopes.
‘Are those the ones that spit, or is that llamas?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I thought it was camels. But if they can spit, they’d have to be Olympic champions to get you from there, Shrimp,’ he said, laughing.
When I first told Lily of our engagement, she gently pointed out that though Ralph and I seemed to be on the friendliest of terms, his manner to me was not at all lover-like. But of course I did not heed her, for I was dazzled by the sun of Ralph’s splendour and if my wings got singed, it was entirely my own fault.
So it was that soon after Christmas we were married and spent our honeymoon in Paris, one day taking an exceedingly interesting excursion to Chartres, to see the cathedral windows. I wrote reams back to Father and Michael about it: I was quite overcome. Looking back later, I could see that I mentioned the stained glass I saw on my honeymoon with much more frequency than I wrote of my husband. Of course, I adored Ralph, who was gentle and kind, but the feeling of excitement receded fairly quickly and we were soon back to being the companionable friends we had always been. I was happy in Paris,
though I soon saw that Ralph longed to get home to Mossby – and I too began to miss my work and looked forward to viewing my very own workshop.
For the first few days at Mossby, relations with Honoria proved very difficult, until finally I spoke my mind bluntly to her and we came to an understanding that she should continue to make Mossby her home and keep house as she had always done. I had no experience or interest in running a household and, in any case, I had barely unpacked before I was running down to see how the transformation of the old mill into a glass workshop had turned out.
In fact, with its tall windows in the main area, it might have been built for the purpose and the two men Father had sent to set it up said they would be happy to settle in Lancashire, if asked. Since Father seemed from the start to regard it as an offshoot of his own business, I could continue to do work for him, the train making a convenient link between us for the transportation of painted glass for firing and finished panels.
But I was quite sure that I would soon be accepting, and carrying out, commissions of my own.
21
Spats
After lunch Carey handed me a large torch and swept me off down the cellar stairs, which were near the back door.
At the bottom lurked the boiler, ticking quietly to itself in the manner of its kind. A long, whitewashed passage led out of it, off which were a series of cellars furnished with old empty packing cases, broken suitcases and other rubbish. One contained an almost empty wine rack and the last one a strange, stone-topped table like a pagan altar, which Carey thought might have been for cutting up carcasses.
A low wooden door at the end of the passage took us into what was clearly a more ancient part, held up by a series of arches and dimly illuminated by single light bulbs hanging from cables loosely looped across the ceilings.
I was just thinking that it was as well it was dry down there, when in the very last cellar (which we assumed to be next to, or under, the old tower), we found there was a stream in a deep stone channel running right across it.
‘Oh, look – all mod cons,’ I said. ‘Cold and cold running water.’
The House of Hopes and Dreams Page 18
