‘Really?’ I sit back a little in my chair. ‘That doesn’t sound like Marcus.’
‘Well, there are two schools of thought,’ Grace says carefully. ‘The more charitable of these is that when a collector becomes obsessed with something, they simply must have it, even if it means denying it to the public.’
‘I didn’t really get the impression that he was that keen a collector, more that he just wanted to fill his library,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘But to outbid the Parsonage seems … not very gentlemanly.’
‘Precisely,’ Grace says.
‘So, what’s the other reason that he might be buying up all this stuff?’ I ask.
‘Tax fraud.’ Grace laughs, but there is little mirth in it. ‘Personally, I think it has more to do with obsession, to be honest; he’s got that look about him. You know what I mean? A bit fanatic.’
I burst out laughing and shake my head.
‘There is something a little offbeat about him,’ I say. ‘But fanatical? I don’t get that vibe at all.’
‘Well, I expect you are right and I’m just being a cow.’ Grace shifts uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Look, just do me one favour, will you? Don’t tell him about these finds. Not until you’ve completed your research and established the provenance, OK?’
‘You know, it had never occurred to me to tell anyone, apart from Ma and you, I don’t know why. But I promise not to talk about it to anyone else yet.’
Mab noses her muzzle under my hand, whimpering and pacing back towards the door, a clear instruction that I should be moving on now, thank you very much.
‘Well, be ready,’ Grace says, smiling now. ‘Everything you’ve found so far is enough to change your life completely – there could be a book, an exhibition, a documentary – you might end up famous!’
‘I don’t know about famous,’ I say. ‘More than anything I just want to show the world what we’ve found, because isn’t it wonderful? And isn’t it miraculous that there are still treasures to be found, still stories waiting to be told. Knowing that feeds my hope.’
‘You’re right,’ Grace says. ‘These two women’s voices were cut off too soon, and you will be able to make them heard again. That is a kind of magic.’
1659
Praise God! Praise God, for at last he has given me light in all this darkness and I see an end to my suffering. I am not allowed to go to Ponden, no matter how I might try. John does not know the true father of Catherine, but he suspects it might be one of the Ponden men, and has told me that the day I return to the hall will be the day he beats every last tooth from my head and I believe him. Even so, I would go back if I thought there was need, but there is not. Whenever she is able, Betty sends word with her brother, Timothy, to tell me she will meet me at Ponden Kirk, and whenever I am able, Cathy and I meet her there. She tells me what little news there is, and it is often the same. Mistress Casson hovers ever closer to her death and little John Casson grows but weakly, and in fear of his father, and there was no word of Robert until this day.
I went into the village to buy flour and saw the Ponden wagon bound for the clothier. I stopped dead in the street and stared at it, with Catherine’s arms around my neck, and I knew not why. For I have seen it a dozen times or more in the last months and never given it a thought. But it was as if my heart could feel him near. So I went, almost as if in a trance, to the door of the merchant, and peered within. And there he was. My Robert.
This last long year had changed him much. Not the fair boy I last kissed, but a man, tall and broad and strong, stood there. A good coat on his back and sturdy shoes. A man who looked like a match for Casson.
My Robert, my Robert. And I knew that he must feel me, as I felt him. So I waited outside, though Catherine grew heavy, and at any moment John might stalk down the hill to search for me.
And sure enough, as he exited, holding his hat in his hands, Robert’s eyes met mine at once. And I saw it there, burning as bright as the sun that never sets. I saw his love for me, and oh, how I thank thee God for bringing my Robert back. We did not speak; we could not, with all about to witness. But as he climbed back onto the wagon, his eyes never left me, nor Catherine. His gaze fixed hard upon us until the wagon rolled over the hill and he was gone.
Such joy, all at once. Such hope.
For what does a false marriage to a false man like John Bolton matter when a true marriage like Robert’s and mine exists in the world? God brought him back to me for a reason, and in doing so has brought me back to God. I stole into the church and knelt and prayed for as long as Catherine slept, and as I left, searched out more paper and more ink, knowing that the story I began so long ago, as an ignorant servant girl, is far from over yet.
Agnes Heaton
PART SIX
Though earth and moon were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
Emily Brontë
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
There’s an uncanny silence blanketing Castle Ellis like new snow as I step out of the car. No wind, no birdsong, and even the crunch of my feet on the gravel seems muted. The great fountain hasn’t run for a long time, but if it had, I get the distinct impression that the water would have flowed soundlessly today.
Marcus’s car is not in the driveway, and that suits me. As unsettling as I find this strange, disjointed building, I feel a profound need to have his library, his archives, all to myself, to lose myself in an ocean of thought.
Unlocking the door, I push against it and walk through the glass corridor into the main house. That feeling I always have in Cathy’s room, the feeling of eyes upon me, is strong, and I feel my steps slow and my movements become more mannered and self-conscious in response.
I’m surprised to see that Marcus has left all the lights on, and the heating, too, so the floor is warm under my feet as I slip off my boots. My socked feet make no sound on the tiles as I pad towards the library.
The first thing I notice is that the door to the games room stands open, and that the giant screen flickers white light across the floor. There are so many switches that I press at least ten before the flickering screen turns to black, and the room falls into wintery shadow. Being in the room where I lost my son makes me shudder, and I have to resist the urge to retreat. There really is no sign of a secret door in the wall and I can’t decide if having something so hidden, within such a childlike room, is charming or slightly creepy.
Curiosity overrides reticence and I reach for the model, and the hidden door clicks open, revealing the lobby behind. As I walk into the small space, lights splutter on overhead, and I tense for a moment, before I realise they are motion activated. It’s cold in here, and there’s a feeling of an entrance somewhere above that is open to the elements, but it is alluring, the old spiral staircase, perfect for swordfights and rescuing maidens.
Slowly, my hand tracing the curve of the wall, I begin to climb the stairs that swirl all the way up to the turret. There is a vacant doorway where the first floor would once have been. Peering down, I see a drop of several feet, the bottom of the turret overgrown with ferns and grasses, creeping up the walls. When I look up, I see something I didn’t expect.
Marcus told me there were no floors in the turret any more and, sure enough, the second and third floors are completely gone, but high up there’s what looks like relatively new boarding across what would be the top floor. So there is a room up there, after all. But why would he keep that a secret?
Somewhere above me the sound of a door slamming echoes down the spiral and I start, almost slipping into the empty space beyond the doorway, grabbing for the stone and pulling myself to safety. Footsteps are approaching.
Panicking, I scuttle back down the steps as lightly as I am able in my socked feet, pressing the door shut behind me as I skid across the playroom floor to the library door, reaching it just as Marcus emerges from the games room.
‘Trudy?
’ He smiles as he sees me half in and half out of the library. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘I just arrived,’ I say, trying to smile away the vague sense of unease that the sight of Marcus in his own home has inspired. ‘You made me jump! Your car wasn’t out front so I thought that you’d already left for Scotland.’
‘Ah, no. I took it round the back to unload some firewood. Sorry I scared you.’
‘Not at all. I love it here.’ I glance into the library longingly.
‘Come and have a cup of tea with me? I have half an hour to kill before I leave for the border.’ He holds out a hand to me, and uncertain of what else I can possibly do, I take it, letting him lead me away from the books and to his kitchen.
‘So, how are things?’ Marcus pours me a perfect cup of clear Earl Grey as we sit at his polished counter.
‘Things are … Well, you know.’ I shrug and smile, squirming a little under his mild gaze, trying to square this man with the version Grace talked about. ‘And you?’
Marcus sighs, staring into his mug.
‘Honestly? I am so busy most of the time that I don’t notice how solitary my life is. And then I have a day like yesterday, a whole day with nothing to do, and it hits me kind of hard, rattling around in this great big folly. What’s it all for if there isn’t anyone there to love you and care for you, hey?’
His grey eyes are heavy with sadness and I feel his loneliness sharply.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, reaching my hand out across the black onyx counter. ‘But you know, you must be one of Yorkshire’s most eligible bachelors, with your amazing job and incredible house.’
He smiles and takes my fingers in his, pressing them lightly. ‘I wish I’d met you in another life, Trudy.’
‘I … oh.’ I withdraw my hand, unable to meet his gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ Marcus says. ‘I never meant to actually say that out loud.’
‘Look, maybe I should go …’
‘No, don’t.’ He stands up as I do. ‘Don’t go. This house – at least, this library – feels as if it was meant for you, so please don’t go. More than anything I want and value a friend in my life. So please don’t go; in any case, I have to get going now, so it would be foolish of you to leave on my account.’
‘If you’re sure?’ I say.
‘Of course I am sure,’ he replies.
For one excruciating moment I don’t know what to do and so I hug him, and he hugs me back, and I feel sorry, because he is kind and lonely, and I can’t bear to make him feel even more sad.
‘I’ll see you in a few days,’ he says, smiling.
I stand in the hallway after he has closed the door. He’s been nothing but sweet and understanding, and yet there is a kind of disquiet left in his wake, a deep unsettling. Shaking the feeling away, I turn on my heel and head for the library. At least you always know where you are with books.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Alone in the library I switch on all the lights and stand under the towering shelves of books, gazing upwards at the mosaic of spines, each one a doorway to somewhere else in time.
The box with the fragment of pamphlet that I discovered on my last visit is still on the table. It’s my first port of call as I check it once again, just in case I missed something, but there is nothing new.
If there are more traces of Agnes to be found amongst this vast array of books and papers, they will be impossible to find without sifting through every book and record, one by one, and that could take months.
There’s no system to how this collection is displayed at all; the books were just put on the shelves in the order they came out of the boxes that Marcus had stored them in. If that’s the way they went in, I have to assume they are displayed roughly in the order in which they were acquired.
It was instinct that led me to that first box, instinct perhaps driven by something more, but, either way, it worked, so let the Heaton in me decide where to look next. Walking up to the first landing, I reach out with my left hand and, looking away from the books, run my fingers along the spines, looking for something, anything that will reach out in return. When my fingers uncover the heart-shaped dip that characterises an Ottoman binding, I pull out a dirty-red leather-bound book.
When I open the title page, I gasp in recognition. The volume is entitled The Man of Mode: or Sir Fopling Flutter. A comedy, and it was one of the books listed in the Ponden Library sale catalogue, dated 1735; I remember the title because it was so incongruous and silly. Holding my breath, I open it to its title page, and, sure enough, there is something I thought I would never set eyes on.
A Ponden Library bookplate. Black and white, block printed, a roughly hewn image of the house and the name Heaton inscribed below it.
This is one of the lost Ponden books, the books that were stolen from under our noses, and it’s here, right here.
My heart picks up speed as I carefully turn the pages, looking for a sign of Emily or Agnes – and find nothing.
Wait! If the books were unpacked together then there is a chance that there are more Ponden books here, that some of them may have stayed together after they vanished from the house. There might be more languishing in this collection.
The rest of the world fades out of focus as I concentrate on the task in hand. One by one I take every book to the left and the right of The Man of Mode off of the shelf. Although it was only a few days since I was looking at the sale catalogue, I can remember very few of the actual titles, so I check every one and, sure enough, every third or fourth book is a Ponden Hall book, complete with bookplate.
The Art of Love by Ovid, dated 1647.
A New System of Modern Geography: OR, A Geographical, Historical and Commercial grammar, AND Present State of the Several Kingdoms of the World by William Guthrie, dated 1792.
The Arts of Logik and Rhetorick, partly taken from Bouhours, with new Reflections, &c. by John Oldmixon, 1728.
Collecting as many as I can comfortably carry, I take them down to the long reading table and lay them, face out, in long rows, repeating the task again and again, minutes turning into hours.
When I am done, I count two hundred and thirty-seven books. Not the entire library by any means, but a large chunk of it. Many of these books would have been on the shelves at Ponden when Agnes was teaching herself to read and write, and all were there until the day that Emily’s Robert Heaton died.
The only two books that I can remember from the list that aren’t here, though, are the First Folio and The Birds of America. It would have been quite a thrill to discover several millions of pounds worth of priceless books lying forgotten amongst this collection.
It’s wrong, 100 and twenty years later, to feel so angry at seeing our stolen books here, uncared for and unrecognised, and yet I do. I can’t believe that Marcus knew he had these in his library; if he had, he would have told me. And yet … It seems like an impossible coincidence. That little thread of unease tightens in my chest once again, but no, I push it away. Right now, Marcus isn’t here. It’s just me and my books.
Slipping on my gloves, I sit down before the great pile of books and I begin to look between every page. As the light dips down beneath the hills, and the clock ticks on the wall, I move from one book to the next, knowing that Agnes would have turned the pages of these books, that Emily would have chosen them and taken them to sit in front of the fire in Cathy’s bedroom with, pouring over every drop of knowledge she could glean. And I imagine those two women, who lived hundreds of years apart, yet who trod the same boards, touching the same pages, standing over my shoulder, watching me as I work, waiting a little impatiently.
Then, in the fraction of a second that passes before I pick it up, I know that I have found what I’m looking for: a very old book, its leather cover blackened by age and neglect. When I open it, despite my care, the title page flutters out onto the desk, a black-and-white woodcut print that proclaims the title, Britain’s Remembrancer, along a great unfurling banner, beneath whic
h ships sail on a stormy sea; and above, battles wage and cherubs fight, all presided over by representations of Truth and Justice. Beneath that the author, one George Wither, and the date, 1628.
With precise care I insert the title page back where it belongs, with half an idea of searching out a bookbinder to preserve it, before I remind myself that these books don’t belong to the Heatons any more, which stings a little, I have to say. A little further examination of this philosophical and political book that seems to muse on the state of pre-Civil War Britain, and it’s easy to see why the binding is coming apart so easily. It’s not just because it’s very old; it’s because someone has cut away the endpapers, inserted something within, and glued it back with a larger piece of paper from another book altogether. My cotton-gloved fingers feel along the ridge in the paper, much thicker than it should be, and gently press down on the brittle glue, hoping that, perhaps, newer papers might just come away without me having to try and unstick it. No such luck.
Weighing the book in my hand, I agonise over what to do. If it still belonged to the Heatons I’d take a scalpel to these imposter endpapers, carefully separating them from the boards without hesitation. Old books are often rebound, and it’s not so much the binding that matters, as the history that each incarnation provides. But this is not my book and I have no way of knowing if what’s concealed under there has anything to do with Emily or Agnes. The only way to know is to look. And to look without asking Marcus’s permission is wrong. Except … except he has no idea what is in his library. I could just take a peak and put it back and he would never know I’d looked.
One, two, three taps of my pen on the table top – and then I put it in my bag.
1659
The Girl at the Window Page 24
