A Good Heart is Hard to Find

by Trisha Ashley

  We exited into the garden, then sneaked back into Dante’s tower and carried on where we left off.

  After a bit Dante said: ‘Marry me?’

  I pulled away and looked at him. He looked back, tall, dark and gloomy.

  ‘Marry you? I was thinking more of applying for the post of madwoman in the attic,’ I blurted.

  His straight brows drew together in a frown, then his face cleared: ‘Mr Rochester? You’d like to maim me a bit and set my house on fire?’

  ‘Not really: though I always felt more akin with the wife than with Jane, I consider burning the house down to be taking revenge a little far,’ I assured him. ‘But I can’t marry you.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked simply.

  ‘I’m way too old – much older than you.’

  ‘Physically maybe a few years, but mentally you’re still adolescent.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Is that your sole objection?’

  ‘No – I mean, when it comes down to it, I’m not sure I could live with someone all the time. I’m not domesticated, and I’m used to being alone a lot, and there’re my strange nocturnal writing and night-hike habits.’

  ‘This house is big enough for both of us to be alone whenever we need to be. You can even be my madwoman in the attic if you really want to – as long as you agree to marry me first. And I can live with your habits, though I might accompany you on the hikes.’

  I stared at him. ‘I think we’re too alike.’

  ‘We’re two sides of the same coin and need to be together, Cass,’ he said.

  ‘Think about it, Dante,’ I tried to hold him off a bit. ‘You’d want children, and I’m probably way past it.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d want to risk it anyway. I’d rather have you.’

  It came to me that he was right: that although I still felt that great yearning for a child, what I desperately wanted, and now couldn’t imagine ever losing, was Dante himself.

  ‘Be my Dark Lady?’ he said enticingly.

  ‘I don’t think Shakespeare got much further than adoring her from afar in his sonnets, did he?’

  ‘Then I’ve outdone the Bard already.’

  ‘You are a very unusual man,’ I said staring at him.

  ‘Because I read poetry? And is that a point in my favour, or against me?’

  ‘For, definitely for,’ I said.

  ‘Good, I don’t think you’d really be happy cooped up in my attic.’

  Reader, I married him: but only after he added the clinching lure of a late honeymoon tour finishing up in Mexico to coincide with that popular festival, The Day of the Dead.

  That did it: I knew he was the man for me.

  Not that I’d had any doubts once I’d accepted that we are the same kind of animal under the skin, and so understand each other’s demons. I helped him to finish his manuscript before we left for the trip, and it began to be serialized in the newspaper while we were away, the proceeds going to Paul’s widow and family.

  Meanwhile my book is nearing completion, Mexico proving to be a rich source of inspiration both to me and to Dante, who has written a series of brilliant articles about the culture and political state of the country, which seems to be turning into another book. I’ve thought up a great title for it: ‘Death: Enemy or Friend? Four Months in Mexico.

  From being convinced that I could never live with someone permanently, I now find I cannot bear to be apart from him for very long: the fear that there is something bad out there waiting to spring will never, I suppose, entirely go away.

  And pictures of Elvis still make me shudder.

  While we were away Pa went past the point of no return and was committed, and since then Ma seems to have taken on a new lease of life in the Highlands with Francis and Robbie.

  It’s autumn now, but as things die, new life is flourishing forth.

  Eddie and Rosetta are in the lodge, awaiting their baby’s arrival.

  Francis and Robbie, too, are expecting the surprise advent of a little Annapurna or Kathmandu, we are not sure yet which …

  And as for me, far from being obsessed with motherhood I entirely forgot about it until it suddenly dawned on me that either I’ve started an early menopause or a late baby. But I’m not mentioning either possibility to Dante until we are back home in Kedge Hall.

  We will take what comes, because whatever happens we will always have each other.

  Oh, and a lot of wonderful Mexican Day of the Dead souvenirs.

  Epilogue

  Famous Last Words

  Dante, who loved well because he hated,

  Hated wickedness that hinders loving.

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Back home in the late autumn, when dead leaves lay like forgotten memories on the bed of the duck pond, and dead wives lay dormant awaiting the Eternal Spring, I realized how much I have learned in only a few short months.

  I’ve learned that in the cycle of life sometimes you have to go back to go forwards. That some are born evil, but some have evil thrust upon them; that understanding is the path to forgiveness; and that it’s never too late to get laid, but a younger lover probably increases your chance of pregnancy.

  And finally, and most importantly, as Dr Amulet Bone discovered in my latest novel: a good heart is hard to find.

  The brilliantly funny and sharp new novel by Trisha Ashley is coming soon:

  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 rundown 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?

  Out in hardback and ebook in March 2018

  Read on for a first chapter …

  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 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 idolise 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 …

  Chapter 1: Fallen Idol

  Carey

  Late November 2014

  Carey Revell lay on his hospital bed, propped in a semi-recumbent position by an efficien
t 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 Carey’s 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, though – there was no mistaking his heritage – just 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 merited, due to the steady decline of my investment income. In fact, I have recently been forced to live on my capital.

  Onto 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 the 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 and 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’m putting 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 Parry’s 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: will forms 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 dryly.

  ‘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 o
ne 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 winced. ‘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, and vanished.

  ‘Who was that?’ Nick demanded, 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.’