The Phantom Tree

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘That’s all right.’ Kate smiled bravely. ‘We only want you to be happy, you know that.’

  Alison bit back the sharp retort she wanted to make. Kate’s generosity infuriated her sometimes. It reminded her of Mary’s naïveté. Both of them had a gentleness about them that she would never share. Nor would she ever have a long-term relationship. She was mature enough to see now that secrets, lies and love didn’t sit well together. There was so much of herself that she held apart. Andre was right; she did it to friends as well as lovers. She made it impossible for people to get close to her.

  The rest of the afternoon dragged whilst she contacted the couple that wanted to book the Tanzania safari and made preliminary enquiries into child-friendly activities. There were a number of lodges that had children’s pools and jungle playgrounds. There were special visits to animal rehabilitation centres, survival classes and lessons in how to track wild animals. She was forced to admit that it sounded rather fun, but her mind kept drifting to Mary’s portrait. Since for the time being it was proving so hard to track Reginald De Morven’s path to the past, she was left with only one tenuous lead and that was Mary. She should have looked at the picture more closely when it had been in Richard’s gallery, but she had been too shocked to take it all in. So, she would go to the National Portrait Gallery on her own, this evening, and stand in a queue if she had to in order to see Mary’s face again and glean what she could from the painting.

  She was the last to leave the office at seven-thirty, grabbing a sandwich from the deli by the Tube station and taking the underground to Leicester Square. She’d never been to the NPG before. Art galleries were another sort of culture that she avoided, at least the ones that represented the life and times she had come from. It felt too weird to walk amongst faces and landscapes she might once have recognised.

  That weirdness hit her forcibly as she reached the second floor and walked slowly through a gallery that was devoted to fashions in Tudor and Stuart collars and ruffs, and from there through the Elizabethan gallery to the early Tudors. The only way she could process it was to look at those painted faces and see them intellectually, not emotionally. These were the people that the present day considered important, or who represented her time: Queen Elizabeth was one, of course, in all her haughty glory. Odd how those paintings of her were so admired now when Alison remembered the queen as a faintly sinister character, who saw all, heard all and was all powerful. She noted with amusement that the fashion for huge ruffs had grown in the later 1500s. That was something she had not realised. People had been far neater with their collars in her time.

  The early Tudor gallery seemed crowded with portraits of King Henry VIII, as dominant in posterity as he had been in life. Alison gazed into those small mean eyes and repressed a shiver. There was no portrait of Mary’s aunt, the famous Jane Seymour, but there was one of her mother Katherine Parr. She looked beautiful in a serene, understated way. There was no glimpse of the fine intellect or shrewd wit she had been said to possess. The paintings seemed to Alison like playing cards, telling her nothing.

  There were two portraits of Anne Boleyn on display. To Alison’s critical gaze they looked nothing like each other. In both, Anne was wearing the famous ‘B’ for Boleyn necklace, but in the first her hair was dark and her features delicate, whilst in the second her hair was golden and she looked considerably older. Both had captured something calculating in the eyes though. Alison shook her head. Both artists were listed as unknown and it was suggested that the paintings were copies of a lost original.

  It was no surprise that the late evening crowds were gathered about the miniature portrait that was framed in the centre of a stand, brightly lit and somehow vulnerable-looking in the open way in which it was displayed. Alison was surprised by a pang of protectiveness for Mary. It felt as though she was at a freak show, where people came to mock and stare. ‘Anne Boleyn’ the board beside it announced. ‘A recently discovered contemporary portrait by an unknown artist.’

  A man moved into her field of vision, detaching himself from the edge of the crowd, his head bent over the catalogue he was reading. It was Adam. Alison wondered why on earth she had not had the sense to realise that, like her, Adam might come along to see the portrait tonight. Then, before she could turn and walk away unseen, he looked up, tossed the catalogue aside as though it had no further interest for him, and started to walk towards her.

  *

  They sat on a long wooden bench in front of Mary’s portrait whilst the crowds ebbed and flowed around them. Neither of them spoke but Alison was acutely aware of Adam beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, the restlessness she remembered in him banked down and contained as he studied Mary’s picture. He hadn’t said anything when he had come up to her, simply smiled as though he had known she would be there, despite what she had said earlier, and Alison hadn’t felt like trying to justify herself. So they sat whilst a gaggle of students took photographs on their phones and a father holding a small child in each hand told them the story of Anne Boleyn, and the gallery lights shimmered and Mary smiled her serene smile. Alison felt oddly peaceful and gradually the crowds melted away and quietness enveloped them.

  Adam shifted a little and half turned towards her. ‘It’s an odd portrait in a way,’ he said. ‘I’ve never thought about it before but most smaller paintings focus entirely on the sitter’s face. They seldom contain any additional detail. This one isn’t that much larger than a miniature, yet it has plenty of detail in it. In fact, it looks quite cluttered.’

  ‘It’s probably symbolic, isn’t it?’ Alison said. She was certain Mary had insisted on including the box in the picture as a message for her but the other features were less easy to understand. There was an angel in the top right-hand corner and a lion in the bottom right. On the left there was a wyvern—Alison wondered if that was a match for the ones on the gateposts at Middlecote—and in the top left there was what looked like a stick with flowers growing from it. It was difficult to tell at a distance.

  ‘I think so,’ Adam said. ‘I did look into it briefly when we first found the portrait but I couldn’t tie it into anything specific to Anne Boleyn.’ He glanced at her. ‘I know, you’re going to tell me that’s because this isn’t a portrait of Anne so there’s no reason why it should be relevant to her.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ Alison said.

  Adam laughed. ‘You don’t need to. Okay.’ His voice changed. There was a note of challenge in it now. ‘Here’s what the symbolism means—you tell me if it’s appropriate for Mary Seymour.’

  Anticipation tickled Alison’s spine. ‘Okay.’

  ‘The angel is usually a messenger,’ Adam said. ‘The lion has many interpretations, of course.’ He frowned. ‘This is all a bit simplistic. But it could represent pride or anger or even fortitude.’

  Alison barely heard the second part. Her gaze was fixed on the delicate lines of the angel. A messenger.

  ‘What is it holding?’ she asked. ‘The angel?’

  ‘A candle,’ Adam said. ‘It’s a seraph, bringing light in the darkness.’

  Alison felt a prickle of tears in her throat. She had felt that she was in darkness for a very long time but here, at last, she was sure, was the message she had been waiting for.

  She realised that Adam was looking at her expectantly. He was waiting for her to make some informed comment about Mary Seymour, but there was nothing she could say without giving away the very personal nature of the message she was sure was there for her.

  ‘The lion was a part of the Seymour coat of arms,’ she said. Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps that’s the connection.’

  Adam looked disappointed. ‘I suppose it could be. I was hoping for something rather more exciting.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Alison said. ‘Is that a wyvern?’ she added. ‘There’s your connection to Middlecote.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘They’re common in heraldry, of course, but you don’t often see them in art so tha
t probably is a clue to where the portrait was painted.’

  ‘It’s as though it’s saying, “Mary was here”,’ Alison said.

  ‘Or Anne.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Anne hung around long enough to have a portrait painted,’ Alison said. ‘If she was there at all.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Adam sighed. ‘What about the flowering wand?’

  ‘Oh, that’s what it is!’ Alison said. ‘I thought it was a stick. So it’s a magic wand?’ She thought of Mary, the fey, the seer. How appropriate. ‘What about the flowers?’

  ‘Flowers can symbolise spring,’ Adam said. ‘Was Mary Seymour born in the spring? I can’t remember offhand.’

  ‘No,’ Alison said. ‘It was September.’

  And we were sent away in the depths of a cold winter…

  ‘I suppose it could depend on the flower,’ Adam said. ‘Those look like lilies.’

  ‘I think they’re irises.’ The gallery had emptied completely now. Alison got up and walked towards the painting, squinting to get a better look at the tiny purple blooms in the corner of the picture.

  ‘Ah, well that makes all the difference.’ Adam was beside her. ‘Iris, the goddess, is sent to rouse people from sleep—or death. Her spring flowers symbolise hope.’

  Alison’s eyes met Mary’s painted gaze. Hope. She could feel it opening like a flower inside her after too many long, barren years. It was terrifying, exhilarating.

  ‘Look in the box,’ Mary’s sideways glance seemed to say. ‘Follow the trail I have left for you. Find your son…’

  Adam’s hand was on her arm, drawing her back to the real world. ‘We have to go,’ he said. ‘They want to close up.’

  They went out into the evening. It was cold and there was a hint of snow on the air. It seemed to make the crowds excited; the streets were packed with Christmas shoppers going home and people on their way to and from office parties.

  ‘Are you going to the Tube?’ Adam asked, stepping closer to Alison as a group of laughing revellers barged into them. He smelled of crisp night air and faintly of aftershave, very delicious.

  Alison cleared her throat. ‘I get the bus,’ she said. ‘Adam—’ she touched his arm ‘—thanks for this evening. I realise I haven’t really given you much to go on.’

  ‘No,’ Adam said. He smiled suddenly. ‘Not as much as you might have done.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alison was startled.

  ‘Only that you know more than you’re saying,’ Adam said. ‘It’s okay.’ For a moment she was sure the back of his hand brushed her cheek but in the melee she thought she must have imagined it. ‘I guess you’ll tell me in your own good time if you want me to know. Whatever this is about, it seems very important to you.’

  ‘It is.’ Alison blinked back unexpected tears, shaken by his generosity. She knew she didn’t deserve it. Somehow the time they had spent together in the gallery had spun a fragile peace between them.

  Adam covered her hand with his where it rested on his sleeve. Alison was so surprised she let hers stay there beneath the warm touch of his.

  ‘If you’re still interested in seeing the box and its contents,’ he said, ‘I should be able to talk to someone tomorrow who could help.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Alison said. ‘I don’t really understand why you’re being so nice to me.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Adam said dryly.

  They were so close that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and the hard, exciting line of his cheek. Her gaze moved to his mouth and she saw a muscle tighten in his jaw.

  He drew her closer to him purposefully, holding her still, his eyes, full of questions, searching her face. She put a hand against his chest to steady herself. Suddenly she felt dizzy.

  ‘Adam,’ she said.

  The crowds swirled about them but Alison barely noticed. Adam took her face in his hands and kissed her. She felt stunned. The night, the people, faded away completely. She was aware of nothing but him, the cold air, the taste of him, and the sense of recognition. She felt as though she had been a long, long way away without even realising it, but that suddenly she had come home.

  Adam let her go. ‘Damn,’ he said forcefully.

  Alison gave a shaky giggle. ‘I’ve had better responses to a kiss,’ she said.

  Adam ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’ He stopped. ‘I knew I was going to do that,’ he said explosively, ‘and yet I still did it.’

  ‘You knew more than I did, then,’ Alison said. ‘You don’t even like me.’

  The blaze of heat in Adam’s eyes died down. A rueful smile lifted the corner of his mouth. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘You believe that?’

  Alison felt her stomach twist and tumble. ‘There’s a reason why an ex is called that,’ she said quickly. ‘It implies that something is over.’

  Adam did not reply. He was watching her with that steady, perceptive dark gaze and she felt vulnerable beneath it. She remembered that sensation from when she had been with him ten years before. It was one on the many reasons she had split up with him, because it felt as though he demanded honesty from her and she could not give it.

  But that had been a long time ago.

  ‘If you’re still up for discussing history,’ she said, ‘the sixteenth century rather than ours, let’s meet somewhere neutral once you’ve got the box.’

  ‘Somewhere neutral?’ Adam rubbed his chin. ‘How about the Travellers Club? I stay there sometimes when I’m in London and we could meet for coffee and it would all be very respectable.’

  ‘Fine,’ Alison said briskly. ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Adam said.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Alison said. ‘I’ve already got your card.’ Her bus was pulling in. She drew away from Adam and pushed her way through the press of people about the stop. When she had grabbed a seat and looked out, he had gone.

  Chapter 15

  Mary, 1566

  Darrell came to me on the night I had been out with Will. He came in my dreams, calling to me. Perhaps it was because I could barely sleep with excitement and my mind was like an open door and so he slipped through.

  ‘Cat…’

  For the first time in my life, I did not want to speak to him. My love for Will felt so huge and new that there was no room for other emotions and I wanted to drown myself in it. Yet at the same time I felt an old loyalty to Darrell. I could not simply ignore or dismiss him. He had been a part of my life, a part of me, for so long, and if that life now felt past and gone I at least owed it to him to explain.

  There was a sense of animation about Darrell, too and a thread of pleasure and hope that was bright and excited.

  ‘Cat. I must tell you…’ The words came through like a pulse of light, but then, as though he was sensing my reluctance and withdrawal, wariness crept in. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Will Fenner is home.’

  ‘I know.’ He sounded flat all of a sudden, the life drained away. I could feel his thoughts mingling with mine. His were dark and shadowed in a way I could not understand whilst mine were so airy and free with love.

  ‘Cat…’ he called my name again, and I knew he had read me. I felt it then, a blaze of fury and hatred, before he closed his emotions down.

  ‘You love him. You are in love with Will Fenner.’

  It was a blank accusation that left me feeling as much anger as I had sensed in him.

  ‘Why should I not be?’ I shot back.

  Such a welter of emotion came through to me then. There was pity and regret, and beneath it a love and hopelessness that shot me through with grief. I understood then. I had loved Darrell but I had not been in love with him the way I felt towards Will. But he… He had loved me wholly and entirely and had thought that I loved him.

  ‘Darrell…’

  I did not know what to say, but he saved me the trouble. I got no response only a sense of loss and sorrow like faded blossom falling at the end of spring, and then he was
gone.

  At first I was upset. I tried to reach out to him again but met silence. Then I felt guilty. This was hateful, so instead I allowed myself to feel a righteous indignation. Who was Darrell to pour scorn on my love for Will? How dare he give me no right of reply? My angry thoughts seemed to do nothing but echo through my mind. I told myself that it did not matter, I did not need Darrell, my future was here at Middlecote and he was gone with my past. Yet still it hurt for all I tried to forget it.

  I fell into a different sort of sleep after a while and began to dream. It started with Alison disappearing like a wraith into the thin rain of a Marlborough winter. Then I saw a bird, a peregrine falcon, flying free from a woman’s hand, circling high against the piled-up grey clouds of an oncoming storm. The bird was calling but the notes were lost in the buffeting of the wind and then I too was up high, looking down on Alison’s upturned face as she tried to trace the falcon’s path. Her long blonde hair blew out like a ragged banner and her face was a pale blur and she looked so small and alone.

  The scene changed then and Alison was standing in front of a ruined hall. It was not a castle with pennants flying, as I had prophesied for her that night at Wolf Hall, but a manor clad in ivy, thick and close. She reached up a hand towards the engraved stone above the empty doorway. Her desolation was palpable. I could feel her emotions as though they were my own. She was too late.

  I woke shuddering to see that it was morning, grey and dull, with the same biting wind as in my dream. I felt out of humour, my head heavy and my eyes tired. The intoxication of the night before, both of my body and my senses, had gone. It felt as though it had been no more than a shred of imagination. Those images from my past, of Darrell and Alison, had both visited me in their different ways and left me lonely. I dressed hastily, eager to banish their shadows in the warmth of Will’s company.

  He was not there. Eleanor said he had gone to Newbury to buy a horse, but though I waited on tenterhooks all through the day, he did not return. The hours dragged. It seemed astonishing to me that everything at Middlecote seemed to go exactly the same when I could not have felt more different. Lady Fenner had us at our embroidery although the weather brightened into a very fine day. She seemed as fretful as I felt. Only, Eleanor sewed away as placidly as ever.