by Craig Zerf
William’s stately home, Taunton Abbey, was situated a couple of miles outside of the port town of Dover in Kent. His ancient driver had picked Emily up from Dover station and driven her to the residence. Truth be told, she was expecting a huge pile similar to the Foundation headquarters. But William’s place was very different.
A long, marble chip driveway led to a house that wasn’t quite as large as the Foundation but was still magnificent. However, where Pankhurst Manor was all gargoyles and mullions, the Abbey was all light stone and glass. Hundreds of leaded windows reflected the sun and, instead of grotesques, the roof line was decorated with stone filigree, cherubs and angels.
The only jarring point was a huge wolf’s head carved above the main door, its jaws open wide, canines exposed and eyes staring madly ahead. Underneath, in Latin, Vitae Passus Est.
Em assumed that it was the family motto. “Life is Suffering”. She suppressed a shudder. The whole thing was incongruous when compared to the bright and beautiful surrounds.
The car pulled up in front of the sweeping steps that led to the front entrance and the chauffer clambered out, tottered around and opened her door for her. Waiting at the top of the stairs stood William, his tousled hair a mess like he had just left it that way when he got out of bed that morning. But, as usual, the rest of him was immaculate. Olive moleskin trousers, Burman walking boots, a tan Orvis bush shirt and a sleeveless Shoffel shooting gilet in a dark chestnut.
He looked like a walking palette of autumnal shades.
He smiled and Emily felt her heart leap. Then he strode down the stairs towards her and enveloped her in a huge hug. She could feel the heat of his body and it felt almost unbearably hot, as if he had a fever. His rangy muscles felt like steel hawsers as she pressed up against him. And his smell was masculine and comforting at the same time. A heady mixture of grass and ozone and leather and soap.
Then he suddenly pulled back and let his arms drop to his sides.
‘Oh,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry. What do you think of me? Manhandling you like that. I must apologize, it’s just that, well, I was so pleased to see you. Got carried away, don’t you know?’
Emily laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t mind.
Actually, it was nice; I’m also pleased to see you.’
William’s smile returned two fold as his obvious pleasure at her response painted itself across his face.
‘Splendid,’ he retorted. ‘Awfully good. Well, the chaps will take the luggage up to your room. Chef has prepared us a light lunch, then perhaps I could take you on a little tour of the estate?’
Emily was pleased to see that William’s concept of a light lunch was so far off the mark as to be ludicrous. The table literally groaned under the weight of roast pheasant, slabs of home cured ham, stuffing, potatoes and vegetables.
Ravenous as usual she piled her plate high and ate with gusto. William ate in the same fashion, consuming even more than Emily’s Shadowhunter hungry metabolism and she wondered how he managed to stay in such good shape. With that calorific intake, she thought, he should be the size of Lyle. But she decided that discretion would be the better part of valor and deigned to ask him how he stayed so ripped when he ate enough to sustain four normal men.
True to his word, William showed her around the estate after lunch. She immediately fell in love with the place.
Rolling manicured lawns stretched for acres, leading down to the sudden drop of cliffs that overlooked the English Channel. To her right she could see the White Cliffs of Dover; resplendent in the cold English sun as they reflected the light off their unbelievably white surfaces.
Copses of Oaks dotted the landscape and, scattered about the estate were random buildings that seemed to have no purpose other than decoration.
William called them Follies, and they ranged from the Beacon Tower, a fifty five foot high tower, to the Faux castle, a huge façade of a medieval castle that stretched some five hundred feet from end to end, its purpose merely to improve the view from the main ballroom of the manor house.
‘You don’t have any livestock,’ noted Emily as they walked about the estate.
‘How do you mean?’ Asked William.
‘No horses. No sheep, cows. I’d have expected livestock. I mean, I know that it’s not a farm but I thought that all English gentlemen had horses.’
William laughed. ‘Well, not this one. Don’t really like them and they can’t stand me. Must be a family trait,’ he continued. ‘As far as I can remember, the Townsends have never ridden to the hounds or kept livestock or pets of any sort. Not even dogs.’
They wandered back to the house and William walked Emily through most of the formal rooms, withdrawing rooms, ballrooms, dining rooms. Each one more spectacular than the last.
Eventually Em started to experience a sort of luxury-overload. William picked up that she had seen about all that anyone could take in during one visit.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a few phone calls that I have to make before the market closes. Why don’t I show you to the library, you can nose around there for a while and when you’ve had enough, pull one of the bell-cords and a chap will come and show you to your room? We’ll be eating in tonight, so there’s no need to dress but I’m sure that you shall want to avail yourself of the bathroom and such.’
Em smiled her agreement and, a few minutes later, she was alone in a magnificent library. She wandered around, not looking for anything specific, simply looking. She was surprised to find that, as well as many thousands of leather bound musty old tomes, there were hundreds of more contemporary books. Ranging from Hemmingway through to Lee Child.
She picked a few up and thumbed through them. They were all first additions and most had been signed and dedicated.
She picked up a first addition of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
It was dated 1890 and when she opened it she saw that it was dedicated and signed by the great man himself. To my Darling William, it read. Your munificence is overshadowed only by your compassion. Your friend forever, Oscar.
Emily smiled to herself. Obviously William’s great-grandfather had been christened William as well.
Next, an original copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth caught her eye. Man, she said to herself. This must be worth a pretty packet.
Once again it was dedicated by the author. William, remember always; ‘He is mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf’. With love and respect from your namesake, the other William.
Em did a few figures in her head and worked out that all of the male Townsends for the last few hundred years must have all been called William. She raised an eyebrow. Wow, family get togethers must have gotten confusing, she mused.
She meandered down the room and eventually found herself in a low-ceilinged section. Here the books seemed older than all of the others. But despite their obvious age they were well preserved and, unlike many of the other books that she had walked past, seemed so devoid of dust that they must have been fairly regularly used.
She ran her fingers along the shelf, reading the titles out to herself as she did.
The Book of Abramelin the Mage. The Ars Notoria.
Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. ‘The false monarchy of demons,’ translated Emily to herself. She took it down and flicked through it. The English was archaic and difficult to read but the book was basically a compendium from the 16th century, dictating the names of the sixty-nine major demons. Weird, she observed. Wonder why he reads these?
After a moment’s thought, Em came to the conclusion that the books must be collectable as far as William’s business was concerned and, with that minor mystery solved, she found the bell-cord and gave it a yank.
Shortly after that an old retainer arrived and showed her to her room.
Chapter 19
