by Mira Stables
It seemed that having found a sympathetic audience in whom to confide, Mrs. Armstrong might continue in this strain indefinitely. As she led the way from room to room she pointed out to Katherine the various features that were generally considered worthy of interest, but punctuated her recital with sorrowful references to the ravages that occurred in houses that were too long shut up. Katherine could see for herself that dust lay thick on surfaces that should have gleamed with polish, but nothing could detract from the beautifully proportioned rooms or the magnificent staircase. There was singularly little furniture, but the exquisite plaster mouldings saved the room from looking too bare, even though in some places the plaster was discoloured by damp. Katherine thought she could have spent the whole morning in gazing at the oak panels in the hall and on the staircase itself, which featured a design of flowers, fruit and foliage, so natural, yet so delicate, that it was difficult to believe that it had been carved by human hands. Katherine had never seen anything one half so fine, and her frank admiration gratified her attendant’s heart.
“If you likes carvings, miss, come and see the over-mantel in the library,” that lady invited. “I don’t know much about such matters myself, but it was always greatly admired by the visitors that used to come about the house in the old days. The Dutch school, they said it was.”
The over-mantel was of carved marble and very beautiful, but Katherine preferred the warmth of the staircase to the cold perfection of these classical deities and well-nourished cherubs. The library itself seemed more habitable than the other reception rooms, perhaps because the book filled shelves that lined the walls gave it a lived-in look. But Mrs. Armstrong said that it was never used these days. The master rarely set foot in the house itself unless it was to inspect some new show of damp or decay reported by one of the servants.
“Such as this,” she continued gloomily, leading the way into a small saloon next to the library which Katherine recognised. It was here that the Countess had received her on that memorable first visit. She distinctly remembered the tapestry that almost covered one wall. And it was this tapestry that her guide indicated. “Moth,” she said tragically, and pointed out to Katherine the damage that the grubs had wrought. Katherine exclaimed sympathetically, suggesting that the hanging could probably be repaired by a skilled needlewoman.
“It’s not as though it were silk,” she said thoughtfully, “and I should think you could match the colours of that wool easily enough. It’s only the surface that is damaged. The warp seems sound enough.”
But Mrs. Armstrong only said gloomily that the one servant who had any claim to being a sewing maid was fully occupied with keeping clothing and household linen in decent repair. “Let alone that she’s nearly seventy, and I doubt that her eyes are as good as they were. She’d never be able to set about a job like that. A pity, because the master had a fondness for that particular tapestry. Seems he used to study it when he was a little lad, and try to make out what all the monks were doing.”
As well he might, thought Katherine. It was certainly an unusual bit of work. She did not think it was particularly valuable, but it was probably unique. It might possibly have been worked by some lady of the Priory of long ago, with the help of her maids. The background was recognisably the south front of the house itself, with the courtyard in front of it, and the foreground—and every other available corner—was devoted to representations of monks. There were monks digging in the garden; monks tending the sick; giving out food to the beggars at the gate. There were monks singing in the choir; writing in the library; painting; giving out stores; supervising the preparation of food, in a kitchen with a cavernous hearth. No wonder that a small boy had found it as entertaining as a picture book, and had developed a fondness for it.
Katherine yielded to impulse. She did not know quite what moved her. Perhaps she was already wearying of her rather dawdling life; perhaps she wanted to repay a small kindness shown to her years ago. In any case the work itself appealed to her strongly. “I could mend it for you,” she said slowly. “I would enjoy doing it. And if Mr. Winfield never comes into the house he need know nothing about it until it is finished. But I should have to work on it here.”
Mrs. Armstrong protested at first but was easily won over once she was convinced that Katherine really would enjoy doing the work. The temptation to “have a bit of young life about the place” was a strong one, and she proved fertile in imagination, suggesting that Katherine should ride over in the mornings, as she had done today, work in the library while the light was good—and the master safely occupied out of doors—have a bite of luncheon with her old friend and ride back in the afternoon.
They considered this plan in detail and found no fault with it, Katherine saying that she would have to purchase suitable materials for the repair, as she had nothing appropriate in her workbox; and adding that she would not make the long ride if the weather was too unfavourable. She was then invited to partake of tea and cakes in the housekeeper’s room before taking her departure.
Within a week, she had made a little niche for herself in the secluded, busy world of the Priory. Most of the servants knew of her presence, and would enquire politely as to the progress of her task if their duties brought them to the library. Mrs. Armstrong would bring her a cup of coffee or chocolate to refresh her after her ride, and would linger for a moment or two watching how deftly the needle replaced the damaged threads. It was slow work, but Katherine enjoyed it, and after some initial nervousness—for she was, after all, meddling with Mr. Winfield’s property without his permission—her confidence grew steadily as the success of the attempt grew daily more apparent.
Sometimes, to ease the weariness of sitting still for long hours, she would stroll in the big bare rooms, or finger the books on the library shelves. She never encountered Mr. Winfield. There was something a little conspiratorial in the manner in which Mrs. Armstrong would casually inform her of his probably movements, so that she could avoid meeting him in her comings and goings. The main danger lay in the chance that he would visit the stables and enquire why two strange horses were standing there, but Mrs. Armstrong did not take it very seriously. It was unlikely in the first case, since Mr. Winfield’s days were so strictly planned that only emergency would bring him to the stables without warning; and if he did notice the strange horses he would naturally assume that someone had come to look over the house, just as Katherine herself had done on that first occasion. Though the Priory buildings themselves were a crumbling ruin, the house was of some historic and architectural interest, and such visitors were not unknown. The only sufferer was Katherine’s young groom, who was obliged to spend his mornings in yawning boredom so severe that he eventually fell into the way of performing a number of odd jobs about the stables, much to the gratification of the ancient coachman, who still ruled the place as though he had half a dozen grooms and any number of stable hands to carry out his commands. Young Jasper enjoyed the old man’s rambling tales of former glories, and respected his undoubted knowledge of horseflesh; so the pair got on surprisingly well together and Jasper’s boredom was in part alleviated.
As the number of whole and hearty monks depicted in the tapestry increased week by week, Katherine discovered in herself a growing respect for the tapestry’s owner. She could not help finding out a good deal about him from Hilda’s reports of his daily activities. He seemed to do the work of two men, and his versatility was amazing. She knew from her father how each trade within a farm was jealously preserved by its own artisans, but Mr. Winfield seemed to know sufficient about sheep and cattle, pasture and arable, and even fencing and draining to hold the respect and even the surly affection of his employees. Or was it his kindness to the number of elderly retainers, who must surely have been cast upon the Parish if he had not given them employment? Finding even small wages for so many who could do only light work must be a heavy drain on a man who was struggling to restore a neglected estate, and who could probably find five different ways to lay out every penny he posse
ssed.
She ventured to express this opinion to Hilda, who entirely agreed. “Not even as though we had been his own servants,” she pointed out. “Seems as though he inherited us along with neglected acres and mortgages. It’s a sad pity those jewels were never found. Worth a fortune if all the tales were true.”
“What jewels are those?” asked Katherine, threading her needle with a strand of crimson wool.
“Why, it’s an old tale. Missing for fifty or sixty years, they’ve been. I doubt if anybody knows the rights of it now. The Earl of that day—Mr. Winfield’s great grandfather he would be—held by the Stuart cause. Not openly, of course, but he sent money to buy arms, and to support the one he called his rightful Monarch. And when Prince Charles Edward landed in Scotland in ’45, Mr. Winfield allowed his elder son to travel north to join him. The younger boy was in France, and him just new-wed. People reckoned that he was up to his neck in plotting and rebellion, too, but so far as is known he never bore arms in the campaign.”
The narrative ran so smoothly that Katherine guessed it had been oft repeated. Even the rather stilted language sounded strange on Hilda’s homely tongue. But the story was a new view point on the chequered history of the Priory. She settled herself comfortably to listen.
It was a tragic tale. The failure of the Jacobite rebellion had ruined the Dorseys. The elder boy had died at Culloden. His brother had fled to France once more, and had eked out a poverty stricken existence with his young wife, dependent largely on the charity of friends.
“But you mentioned lost jewels. Where do they come into the story?” demanded Katherine.
“They belonged to the old Earl—the one that was accused of treasonable practices. They had been his wife’s, part of her dowry and worth a mint. There was a diamond necklace alone that would have bought an estate, and then there were sapphires and other stones that were worth a lot of money.
It seems the old man was given reason to suspect that he stood in danger of arrest; that his estates would be confiscated and he himself imprisoned, if not beheaded. No doubt he had friends in government circles who kept him well informed. Moreover, he was in poor health. He had already suffered one paralytic seizure and his doctors predicted that any shock might bring on another which could prove fatal. Whatever his reasons, he made a will leaving the jewels to his surviving son’s wife. She came of a good Whig family, and there was no evidence against her husband. Perhaps the old man had the idea of saving something from the wreck of his fortunes. If his estates were confiscated, at least the jewels might be saved. In fact, he died before the government moved against him, and although his younger son succeeded to the title he remained abroad. His daughter, The Lady Frances, who became Mr. Winfield’s mother, was born shortly after her grandfather’s death.
When, two years later, her father died, there was no one to oppose the succession of a cousin who had always been loyal to the Hanoverian interest. But when the widowed Countess put in a claim for the jewels they were nowhere to be found. The house was searched time and time again but to no avail. Various theories were put forward. Some thought that the elder brother had taken the diamonds with him when he rode north to join the young prince; others that his brother had taken them to France and disposed of them there. The only solid fact emerging from all this speculation was that they were gone. It was fortunate for the Lady Frances that her mother’s connections were comfortably placed and could afford to support her, and that she was married, in her first season, to a military gentleman of respectable fortune. But it did not alter the fact that the jewels were rightfully hers, and could have made all the difference to her son’s situation if only they could be discovered.
“You say the house has been searched again and again?”
Hilda nodded. “In the early days, yes. I don’t know that the family troubled themselves a great deal after that. The jewels weren’t theirs you see. And neither Lady Frances nor her mother ever lived here, though Lady Frances paid one or two visits during the early years of her marriage. But nothing was ever found.”
“I expect the jewels were sold for the furtherance of the Stuart cause,” said Katherine. “If the old man was in poor health his mind might not have been perfectly clear. He might have forgotten that he had already disposed of them.”
Hilda looked doubtful. “Myself, I wouldn’t think you could forget a thing like that. Not when he showed sense enough to bequeath them to somebody who wasn’t tainted with treason. Sometimes I still hope they’ll turn up. But meanwhile I’d better be about my proper work instead of gossiping here. I’ll miss you sore when you go, and that’s a fact. And it’s nearly finished, isn’t it?”
“Another day or two,” nodded Katherine, leaning back to study the result of her labours. “And just as well. The days are drawing in. My father does not like me being abroad after dusk.”
To speak truth, Mr. Martenhays had little enthusiasm for any aspect of his daughter’s self-imposed task. He had not cared to forbid it, for he could not really see that she could come to any harm. The presence of Hilda Armstrong was a sop to the proprieties, and the Priory’s new owner did not actually live on the premises. Nevertheless, the situation was sufficiently unusual to make him uneasy, and only his sympathy with his daughter’s desire for useful occupation had persuaded him to countenance it. Unlike Hilda, he would be thankful when the task was completed.
Two days later this happy eventuality occurred. The last monk was busy about his task; the last thread was woven into the background. By ones and twos such servants as were about the house slipped in to view the completed tapestry, and to assure the needlewoman that it looked as good as new.
The remark, repeated for the third time, moved Katherine to wonder just when the tapestry actually had been new. Pretty soon after the dissolution of the monasteries, she suspected, when first the Priory had come into lay ownership, and while the occupations that filled the lives of the monastic orders were still familiar to everyone. She wondered if there was any reference to it in the voluminous histories of the family that filled a whole section of the library shelves. Once or twice she had peeped into them during her idle moments. Several were simply journals kept by the lady of the house, inconsequential and varied, containing useful recipes for the preserving of game, cheek by jowl with the news that a neighbour had been safely delivered of a son; confessing ruefully that the writer had been sadly dipped at loo the previous night, or reporting with triumph the success of a new method of cooking a tough fowl. Others, kept by the lord of the establishment or one of his minions, followed a more prosaic pattern, reporting the success of various crops, the behaviour of the tenants, and even affairs of national importance where they affected the running of the Priory. Alterations and repairs were carefully recorded, and Katherine had smiled over a bitter complaint that it was becoming impossible to maintain the south lawn in its immaculate state, because of a dispute with regard to a right of way, which the village folk were defending with vigour and determination. Perhaps among these uninhibited outpourings there might be some reference to the ‘Priory’ tapestry. One of the journals that had been kept by a woman, she decided, and there was one dated about the middle of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, or even earlier. The difficulty was that the journals did not form a complete record. But she had nearly an hour to spare before the simple luncheon that Hilda had begged her to share for the last time. She might as well dip into one of two of them.
The early volumes were on the very top shelf, which meant employing the library steps. They were also thickly coated with dust, since the shortage of labour made it impossible to keep the shelves in good order. Katherine picked out one or two at random, turning the pages briskly, resisting the temptation to read on and on as she sought for a reference to the tapestry. There was nothing. She put back an account of a banquet served to half the countryside in celebration of the defeat of the Armada, and decided that there was just time to dip into the next volume. It followed in chronological order and was written
in the same spidery hand, but although the first few pages turned easily enough, she had trouble with the middle section. Not to be defeated she carried it down the steps and laid it on the table. The pages appeared to be stuck together. Only the first few and the last few turned separately. A sudden thought occurred to her. She picked up the volume and shook it. Something within the sealed pages moved. She was sure of it. With infinite care she slid a finger nail under the corner of the first sealed page, thanking Providence that damp had softened the glue, and gently peeled it back. The paper was thick, almost parchment-like which simplified the task, especially as only the edges of the pages had been stuck down. The middle had been cut away to form a cavity some eight inches square. In it lay several small packages wrapped in soft yellowish paper. She did not touch them but went to call Hilda, as certain as a girl could be that she had discovered Mr. Winfield’s missing jewels.
Chapter Five
Jasper was sent home to Hays Park with the horses and a note for Papa, requesting that the light chaise should be sent to the Priory to collect his errant daughter. She did not feel that she could tell Papa the extent of her suspicions about the mysterious parcels. At present it was all surmise. She said only that she had made a discovery that must be communicated to Mr. Winfield, and that in consequence she might be a little late in returning home.
She then gave some thought to the problem of unfolding her story. This was tricky to say the least of it, since she would have to begin by explaining her presence in the house. Hilda was all for telling the whole story, beginning with the mending of the tapestry and leading up to the discovery of what she, too, was convinced were the missing jewels. Mr. Winfield would be absolutely delighted on all counts, and full of gratitude to his benefactress. Katherine was not so sure. No doubt Mr. Winfield would be very pleased if the parcels did indeed contain the missing jewels. He might be less pleased to discover that he had been entertaining an angel unawares. Seen in retrospect, with the prospect of being obliged to explain her conduct looming ever nearer, she felt that her behaviour had been meddlesome and officious. Mr. Winfield would be well within his rights to resent her interference, however well-intentioned, and to feel that her daily visits had been an unwarrantable intrusion. If that were his reaction, he would find it quite intolerable to be put under a further obligation because she had been instrumental in the recovery of the jewels. She discovered in herself a strong distaste for the whole business, and devoutly wished herself well out of it. A half-hearted suggestion that she should allow Hilda to claim the distinction of making the discovery was indignantly rejected.
