by Bryn Donovan
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said, in a low voice. “But I cannot see that it can cause any harm.” She hesitated, for a moment. “If you are curious about who used to live here, I have been told that there is an old trunk, in the attic, that belonged to the family who lived here before the Wycliffs. No one knows why it is there, just that it has always been so. The current duke’s grandfather ordered it not be touched, and it has simply languished there, over the years…”
Abigail felt a stab of pure excitement. Her breath quickened slightly.
“Is it possible that you could take me to the attic, by any chance?” she asked quickly.
Mary-Anne hesitated, as if unsure now, if she should have mentioned it. “You truly want to go to the attic, and look through that old trunk?” She bit her lip. “I do not know, my lady. The duke might get angry with me, if he discovers I told you of it…”
“I will not tell him,” said Abigail, her heart pounding in her chest. “I promise. I will not get you into any trouble, Mary-Anne.” She swallowed a sudden lump, that had formed in her throat. “Please. I should very much like to look through it, and if His Grace discovers it and is angry, I shall wear the blame entirely.”
The maid hesitated, for another moment. And then, to Abigail’s joy, she nodded her head quickly. “I will have to get the spare key,” she said. “It is hanging next to the door, in the kitchen. Mrs. Harris, the housekeeper, keeps the main set on her, at all times.”
Abigail nodded.
“Wait here,” said the girl. “I will return, as soon as I can.” Abruptly, she left the room, without another word.
Abigail stood staring at the door. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably in her chest. What on earth was she doing?
Mary-Anne was right to be wary about taking her up there. She would be trespassing, rifling through objects and items that did not belong to her, without the duke’s permission. If he discovered it, he would more than likely be mad at her. And he would demand to know what had possessed her, to want to rifle through his attic. He would demand to know why.
She was also endangering the maid, who might be dismissed for helping her. That weighed heavily on her conscience, too. But she could counter that risk by telling Mary-Anne to leave as soon as she had directed her to the trunk, and taking the key off her, to return to her later. If the duke questioned her, she would not have to involve the maid at all.
She was trembling now, with nerves, at her audacity. But she knew that she simply could not stop herself from doing this. Something very deep within her, was compelling her to explore that old trunk. To find out who that family had been, who had once lived in this house, before the duke’s family had taken possession of it.
She knew she would probably discover nothing, that the risk she was taking was not worth it. But the lure of it was simply irresistible. It was as if she had been overtaken with need.
Ten minutes passed, ticking by, in an agonisingly slow way. Abigail was almost convinced that the maid had lost her nerve, before the door finally opened, and she was standing there, holding an old brass key in her hand.
“Come now,” whispered the maid quickly. “Mrs. Harris is on errands in the village, and will not notice the key missing, but she will return within the hour. We do not have much time.”
Abigail didn’t have to be told twice. She walked quickly to the door, following the maid through the back corridors of the house, until they encountered a narrow spiralling staircase, that lead to the attic.
Her heart was hammering in her chest now. But as she followed Mary-Anne up the staircase, gripping the old bannister, she knew that there was simply no going back.
Chapter Seven
The key caught in the lock, for a moment. Abigail’s heart was in her mouth as she watched the maid, twisting it. And then, almost with a groan, the old door swung open.
It was dark in the attic, with chains of thick cobwebs, interlacing from the ceiling, as they walked into the room. Abigail’s eyes drifted around. The room was stacked full of old furniture. She stifled a sneeze, as they walked, disturbing layers of dust. It was obvious that no one had been up here to clean in a long time.
Mary-Anne seemed to know where she was heading, though. The maid edged around a wormy chest of drawers, before arriving at an old trunk, tucked into a far corner. The maid glanced back at her, her face filled with trepidation.
“This is it,” she whispered quickly. “The trunk that I was telling you about.”
Abigail nodded, walking towards it, and running a finger along its lid. It was grey, thick with dust. It had obviously not been opened in a very long time. Briefly, she wondered why the duke’s grandfather had even bothered to store it here, and why it had simply been forgotten, left to fester like a decaying mushroom in a forest.
She took a deep breath, turning back to Mary-Anne. “Thank you,” she whispered. “If you give me the key to the door, you can leave now. I will return it to you in ten minutes, after I have looked through the trunk. I will be in my chamber, waiting for you.”
Mary-Anne looked relieved that she didn’t have to linger. “Remember to lock the door properly, after you leave,” she whispered back. “And try to tread lightly. People can hear below, when there are footsteps up here, and they will wonder. No one is supposed to be up here.”
Abigail nodded. “Do not worry. I will be as quick as I can be.”
Mary-Anne nodded too, hesitating for a moment, as if she was now reluctant to leave. But then, with a sigh, she quickly edged her way back through the room, closing the door behind her.
Abigail turned back to the trunk, her heart pounding. This was it, probably her one and only chance to explore its contents. She simply had no idea what she might be looking for, or what she expected to find. But that urgent compulsion was still upon her, and with shaking hands, she grabbed the lid of the trunk, hauling it up.
She coughed into her arm, trying to minimise the sound. The dust had invaded her nose, and her mouth. Gingerly, she leaned over the trunk, peering inside.
At first glance, it appeared to be just a lot of old papers, stuffed at random. Abigail leaned over further, rifling through them. Blueprints of the house, from when it had been built, back in the year 1535. It was very old, then. Centuries old, built when James the Eighth had ruled the land.
She flicked through the rest of the papers, but they did not tell her much. They were merely legal documents, from a local solicitor. But as she scanned them, she found out the name of the family that had owned the house. The De Vere’s. Apparently they had built it, and resided here, for many, many years.
So, she thought, her eyes glinting with excitement. The duke and his family have not owned Dudley House for very long. The De Vere family, whoever they were, resided here for much longer. Centuries.
She kept rifling through the papers, her blood zinging, in her veins. She must remain conscious of the time, and not stay up here for longer than she had indicated that she would to Mary-Anne. But the thrill of discovery was slowly overtaking her caution.
She was almost to the bottom of the trunk, when she found the painting. With trembling hands, she unearthed it, blowing dust from it, so that she could gaze on it clearly.
It was a medium-sized painting, in a gilt-edged frame, done in oils, judging by the richness of the paint. A family portrait, of a man and a woman, on either side of a small girl. A girl with long golden hair, done in long sausage curls, secured with green ribbons.
Abigail’s heart lurched. She knew this painting. She had seen it before. She just knew it.
She kept gazing at the people within the frame. The man was dark-haired, with long dark sideburns, and kind blue eyes. The woman was golden-haired, exactly the same shade as the little girl. Her hair was done high, in an old style, with two strands twisting in curls over her shoulders. She wore a gown of dusky pink, with a nipped in waist, and low décolletage, and a creamy lace frilled collar.
Abigail felt tears inexplicably sti
ng her eyes. The woman. Why did she feel as if she had met her before? She stared for a long time at the woman’s face, as if she might suddenly start talking, and reveal who she was.
Her eyes slid back to the little girl. The little girl with long golden ringlets and pale skin, her face still round with baby fat. How old was she? She couldn’t be more than three, Abigail guessed. Older than a toddler, but not by much. She was wearing a green dress, that matched her hair ribbons. In her small hands she held a brown stuffed bear.
A family. A young family. The man and the woman did not look very old, at all. Probably in their late twenties, or early thirties. The girl was obviously their daughter, and much loved, judging by the tender smile on the woman’s face as she gazed at the child. The dark-haired man looked proud of his lovely family. He had his arm around the child, leaning slightly towards her.
The tears were running down Abigail’s face now. Hastily, she wiped them away, with the back of her hand.
* * *
The painting fell from her hands as the tears streamed down her face. A part of her knew she was being ridiculous. Why on earth was she sobbing over an old painting of a family that she had never seen before? Even if it was a touching scene. What had possessed her so strongly, that she was in the grip of this violent emotion?
She sighed deeply, shuddering. She couldn’t sit here weeping over an old painting forever. Carefully, she laid it back in the trunk, casting one last wistful glance at it. She had to be quick now. There wasn’t much left in the trunk at all.
Her hand closed over a small bag, retrieving it. It was black velvet and very old; she could see tiny holes in the material where it had disintegrated over the years. Carefully, she opened it, reaching inside. Her hand closed over something cold and metallic.
Her heart flipped violently in her chest as she pulled the item out, holding it up to see it more clearly.
It was an earring. The exact same earring as her lucky charm that she had possessed since she was a little girl.
Her hand was now shaking so badly that she almost dropped the precious item. It could not be. How could it be? Desperately, her eyes raked over it, noting every last detail – the elaborate design of the earring, the jewels sparkling within it. She turned it around, looking at it from all angles. Yes, it was identical.
It was the other earring to match her own. The other part of the pair.
She sat back heavily, gripping the piece of jewellery tightly in her hand. Her mind was spinning now. She felt like she was going to be sick. The deep compulsion that had led her to rummage up here through this old trunk had been for a reason. Somehow, she had known that she was connected to this place.
The feeling that she knew this house, that she had been here before. Her strong reaction to seeing the ocean, as if it was a familiar, beloved sight. All of the strange things that had been happening to her, that she had not understood, ever since she had gotten into that carriage and come to this place.
She closed her eyes tightly, desperately searching for memory of the time before she had arrived at St. Jude’s. She had never recalled anything – it had always been a blank in her mind. It was as if she had woken up for the very first time, when she had opened her eyes all those years ago in that orphanage to see Mrs. Clark leaning over her.
She had tried often over the years, desperately wishing she could remember the family that had abandoned her, or the home she must once have had. But it had never worked. She had been so young when she had arrived at St. Jude’s, only around four years old. Perhaps there simply were no memories to be recovered.
She shuddered. Nothing definite was coming to her. Only the strong sensations that had possessed her upon seeing that painting. Were the people in the painting related to her in some way?
Her blood went suddenly cold. Was the golden-haired girl in it herself? And were the man and the woman her parents?
Desperately, she scrambled back through the trunk, retrieving the painting. Quickly, she turned it over, searching for anything that might tell her who these people had been. Any small clue that could shed light on their identities.
The sitters were not listed, but in the bottom right hand corner, in black ink, was scrawled the artist’s name, and a year: Peter Stanley, 1796.
She gasped. 1796 was the year that she had arrived at St. Jude’s. It was the year that she had been abandoned. Had she sat for this painting with her mother and father in the weeks or months before it had happened?
Her mind was whirring with confusion. None of it made sense. If she was the golden-haired little girl in the painting, she had obviously been well-loved. She had come from a good family, a wealthy family, she was not the child of paupers. What could have happened for such a family to abandon their precious child?
Her hands gripped the painting tighter. She must be wrong. She must be. It wasn’t possible. She was a penniless orphan, discovered hundreds of miles from here, in London. She could not possibly be the daughter of these people, and have once lived in this house, in Cornwall. And that was even assuming that these people had once resided in this house. She had nothing to tell her so, she did not even know who they were.
She was so engrossed in her ruminations that she did not hear the footsteps coming up the narrow stairs toward the attic. Her first indication that there was something amiss was when she heard the door handle twisting.
She stood up quickly, her heart thumping painfully. Panicked, she felt her mouth go dry. What was she going to do?
That was when she realized she hadn’t even put the items back in the trunk. The painting and the earring were still lying on the floor.
Desperately, she grabbed them, stuffing them back in the trunk and closing the lid firmly. She could hear heavy footsteps approaching, now. She straightened, smoothing down the skirt of her gown with shaking hands. There was simply nothing she could do now, but stand here and admit to this. She had been caught out, well and truly.
The person approached, still in shadow, so she could not see the face. But, with a sinking heart, she was forced to admit that she recognized the tall, powerfully built physique of the man.
He stepped into the light, gazing at her steadily with his ink black eyes.
“Lady Clara,” he said slowly. “Why are you in my attic?”
James kept staring at her, so utterly astonished at her being up here in the attic, that he couldn’t think of another thing to say.
She looked frightened – he could see her hands trembling as she gripped them together in front of her. Her blue eyes were huge, swimming with tears. She was also so pale that she resembled a ghost. He could see the tracks of dried tears on her face.
He had arrived back from his ride with Percy and Lady Abigail prematurely. The beautiful morning had turned; dark grey clouds had suddenly filled the sky, and then it had started bucketing down. They had fled back to the house, dripping wet. Once he had dried and changed, he had been compelled to seek Lady Clara out. He just wanted to be near her once again.
It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.
But she had not been in the drawing room with the others, nor had she been in her bedchamber. He had knocked on the door himself, waiting many minutes for a response, before slowly opening the door. The room had been deserted. He had searched for her in every other possible room in the house: the library, the conservatory, the parlour…simply everywhere. She had not been in any of them.
He had started to grow concerned then. Had she wandered off for a walk by herself, and gotten stuck out in this wild weather? He had been about to exit the house to search for her, when he had heard movement above him, from the attic, and he knew that someone was up there. Every single thing could be heard below from that room. He had learned that the hard way as a child, when he had tried to hide in there when his grandfather had been angry with him once. The old man had hauled him out by his ear, hissing that the room was out of bounds, and that he must never play in there.
He hadn’t minded all t
hat much. The attic was creepy, filled with old furniture and cobwebs. As a child, he was sure it was haunted.
He hadn’t really expected to find her up here, but he had decided to investigate all the same. He should be thorough before he conducted an outside search in such weather, after all. He had been surprised to find the door unlocked. And even more surprised to discover her in here.
“Your Grace,” she stammered, twisting her hands together. “I was not expecting you…”
“Evidently not,” he said, frowning. “I ask again…why are you in here, Lady Clara?”
She smiled faintly. “I was just exploring,” she said in a small voice. “I was rather bored in my bedchamber, and thought that it might be fun to see some more of your lovely home…”
“Exploring?” His frown deepened. “I find it singular, that you would think an attic worthy of your attention. The library, perhaps, or some other rooms, but the attic…?”
She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “I know, it is odd. I do not know what possessed me…”
He took a deep breath. “Lady Clara, I do not understand, in the least, what you are doing here.” He paused, his eyes raking over her. “And I get the distinct impression that you are not being truthful with me. You look scared, as if you have been caught in the act of doing something.” His eyes narrowed. “I do not take kindly to being lied to, and I do not take kindly to my guests rummaging through my possessions without my consent.”
She didn’t answer. She simply kept gazing at him, her hands trembling.
“I am sorry,” she said eventually, hanging her head. “I do not wish to cause offense. I simply did not think it through properly…”
He shifted from foot to foot. He truly didn’t know what to do next. He had never been confronted by such a situation before. And while she looked guilty, in some way, he could not fathom what she might have been doing up here for her to appear so. Perhaps it was just the fact that she had been discovered here without permission.
