Perdita gave him a cool look. “I have virtually no memories of my time living in Pembrokeshire and only one vague recollection of the exterior of this house. Nothing so far has been familiar, but thank you, a tour would be appreciated. I’d also like to see where I’ll be living.”
“You’ll be living in all of it, it’s yours.”
“My room then, the place that’s private,” she specified. “All these rooms seem to belong to everyone but me.”
“Of course.”
They looked up as they heard Alistair replace the telephone.
“Jenny says she’ll do her best, but the soonest she realistically thinks she’ll be able to have Mary’s research to you is Monday,” he said.
“A week?” Perdita said. “It’s only Tuesday.”
“When you see the volume of paperwork in the archive, you’ll understand. Mary was a great collector of documents and she also stored many things on behalf of Jerusalem, so it takes a while to access things.”
“Thank you,” she hesitated, then mentally bracing herself, she continued, “I’d also like to finalise the funeral arrangements for Friday and discuss what paperwork will be needed for inheritance tax, probate…”
“The paperwork is my domain,” interrupted Alistair. “I have a team of people dealing with all the necessary documentation. However, we do need to have a proper meeting once Mrs Davidson arrives, so I can explain everything in detail and read the will in its entirety.”
“Wow, always good to have something to look forward too,” muttered Kit. Despite herself, Perdita giggled, then hastily stifled it as she did not wish to appear rude.
“Thank you, Kit,” said his father mildly and Kit laughed. “As for the funeral, Mary did request that, should you or Piper attend, you would consider doing a reading. However, if you’d prefer not to, my daughter Megan will be happy to step in.”
“No, we’ll do it,” replied Perdita. “I take it Mary specified the pieces she would like us to read?” Alistair nodded. “Do you want to go through them now?”
“You should explore the house, then perhaps we can do it later on this afternoon, or tomorrow when Mrs Davidson…”
“You can call her Piper, she won’t mind,” interrupted Perdita.
“Of course, when Piper is here and you’ve had some time to think about everything. You can change your mind about the reading at any point.”
Perdita nodded: another funeral, another reading. She had read a short section of a lesser-known Bible story that was taken from the Apocrypha at her father’s. He had specified it in his own funeral instructions, which he had placed in his will. The passage had been from the History of Susanna, a chapter completely unfamiliar to either twin. Piper had read a short passage from George Orwell’s 1984 which he had often quoted to them when they were growing up. Now she would be doing it again, but this time at the request of a woman who had never spoken to her, who had shunned her in life but embraced her in death. Mary would then be interred in the family vault, mused Perdita, when a sharp pain of realisation went through her.
“Alistair, when we first discussed Mary’s funeral, am I correct in thinking you said Mary was being buried in the family vault?” she asked, her voice becoming constricted.
“Yes, my dear,” replied Alistair.
“My mother…” Perdita began, before her voice faltered. “Is she…? Was she buried there?”
“Your mother is there, as is your grandfather and your maternal great-grandparents. Perhaps Kit could take you there today.”
White-faced, Perdita nodded, trying to absorb this unexpected information. Her father had never mentioned her mother’s grave and, because they had not wanted to upset him, the twins had refrained from questioning him too deeply. The idea that her mother would be buried here had never occurred to her before, but now as the shock of the discovery enveloped her, she felt her anxiety levels rising.
A feeling that life was swamping her and she had no control over events, overwhelmed her. It had happened before when her father had died, but then at least they had been expecting his demise; he had been battling cancer for some months. Mary’s sudden death, the inheritance and now the heartbreaking revelation that her mother’s grave was within touching distance, brought panic fluttering to her chest and she desperately needed to be out of the office. Although it was a large, well-proportioned room, it was beginning to feel claustrophobic.
Kit was watching her intently. “Right, Dad, she’s mine for the rest of the morning,” he said stepping forward and taking her by the arm. “We’ll see you for lunch. Is it on the terrace?”
“Yes,” Alistair murmured, he was watching Perdita’s suddenly chalk-white face with equal concern. “Have fun on your tour, children,” he continued, aiming for a tone of casual nonchalance, but concern rang through his words.
Kit led Perdita from the room but rather than retracing their steps towards the entrance, he continued down the corridor until they came to a side door.
“You look as though you need some air,” he said flinging it open and standing back so Perdita could walk out into a rustic cobbled courtyard.
It had once been part of the old manor and had held the workshops necessary for the running of a great house: still room, bakery, laundry and drying rooms. The barn-like buildings had now all been converted into either cottages or small studios. Perdita took deep breaths of fresh summer air as she stared around the courtyard, calmness returning now she was outside. Statues and carvings abounded and in the centre was an old water pump. Chairs and tables were dotted around but the entire place was empty, as though all the inhabitants had walked away moments before.
“Mary was very keen to help young trades and crafts people, as well as artists,” Kit explained. “She let these at reasonable rates and provided accommodation.”
“Why are they empty?” asked Perdita.
“They’re let for three month blocks. One lot has just finished and we’ve held back letting them again until you and your sister have decided what you want to do with them.”
“Do you have people waiting for them?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them they can come as planned.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course! These are amazing, Piper is going to love them,” enthused Perdita. “She emailed yesterday to say she’d like to set up her own studio at Marquess House. Maybe she could extend this area and take over part of it.”
“Maybe,” said Kit grinning. “I knew you’d want to continue, but Dad said we had to wait for your approval.”
“Well,” said Perdita with a shadow of a smile, “when we meet him for lunch on the terrace, we can tell him to reopen the studios.”
“What would you like to see first?” asked Kit.
Perdita paused, glancing at Kit askance. Did he even need to ask? Now she knew it was here, her mother’s grave was obviously her first priority.
“The chapel and the family vault,” she said.
“I thought you would but I wanted to check,” he replied. “The chapel is to the west side of the house. We need to go through the knot garden.”
Perdita followed him out of the courtyard and into the beautifully landscaped grounds. Once more she was astounded by the incredible detail and the obvious love and devotion that had been lavished on the property. As they walked, Perdita drank everything in, desperate for knowledge of her mysterious grandmother, when another thought occurred to her.
“Why did your dad mention Mary’s horses?” she asked.
“They were your mother’s. Well, they’re the descendants of the ones your mother rescued or adopted,” he said. “Dad is very fond of animals and loves to ride, he was also good friends with your mother and helped her set up her animal sanctuary, The Louisa Woodville Trust.”
“An animal sanctuary, I had no idea. Can we go there now? Is it on the estate?”
“It’s based out at what you probably remember as Air House, but is now called Home Farm and is run by Brio
ny Llewellyn. She’s the granddaughter of Mary’s best friend, Bethan Lacey, originally Bethan Bridges,” he said. “We can go after you’ve been to the chapel if you like, it’s about a twenty-minute drive.”
Perdita tried to swallow her surprise. “Air House? It’s part of the estate?”
Kit nodded. Perdita turned away. She had not realised the estate was so big, nor had it ever occurred to her that their old home had been within its boundaries. Suddenly, she did not want to see the animal sanctuary or the house where she had lived as a child. It was too overwhelming.
“No, I think I’d like to see the interior of Marquess House after we’ve been to the chapel, then settle in,” she replied, fighting to keep her emotions under control. “My mother must have loved animals.”
“Dad always said Louisa had a way with all animals, even the most badly behaved or stressed would calm down when they were around her.”
“She didn’t follow Granny into academia then?” mused Perdita, whose knowledge of her mother was sketchy as her father would never speak about her.
“Didn’t you know?” Kit sounded apprehensive.
“Know what?”
“Your mother was dyslexic,” he said. “She had no interest in academia at all but she was devoted to her animals, her mother, your father and the two of you. According to Dad, she was one of the kindest, funniest, most thoughtful people you could ever meet.”
Perdita turned away, tears welling in her eyes. It felt wrong to be hearing this information about her mother from a stranger. He knew more about her past than she did and it hurt.
“What are the ruins on the island?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject as the lake came into view. She shaded her eyes as though wishing to see them more clearly, but really wiping away her tears.
“It was a priory,” replied Kit. “Being so far away from London, it survived Henry VIII’s initial dissolution of the monasteries, but was closed in 1543 after some sort of scandal. Either the prioress was pregnant or she hid a noblewoman here and helped her deliver an illegitimate baby, I forget the details. The nuns were banished and the building was left to fall into disrepair. The tower is the last of its kind, though. There’s supposed to be a secret tunnel leading from the house to the island, but we never found it. My brother, sister and I spent most of our summer holidays looking for it when we were young.”
His words, casually uttered and with no malice, were like knives cutting through her. She tried not to react but the force of the jealousy that engulfed her took her by surprise. A stranger with no connection to my grandmother should not be telling me these things, she thought. I should have known about Mum and it should have been me and Piper spending our summers here searching for secret tunnels, having adventures and pestering Mary to tell us scary stories about the nuns on the island, not another family. If anything, the Mackensies should have been our friends, comrades-in-arms against the grown-ups as we built camps and got up to mischief. We should be sharing these memories together; he should not be telling me these things.
Biting her lip in an attempt to stop herself saying something she knew she would regret, she finally managed to snap: “Did you grow up here?”
“Partly,” admitted Kit warily. “My parents have a house in London and our family home is in Andorra but this was where we spent our summers. Dad and Mary were…”
“Yes, your father said they were good friends,” she interrupted coldly.
“Perdita, I’m sorry…” he began.
“It isn’t your fault,” she said, once more cutting him short. “I’d like to see the chapel now.”
She turned and marched away, fighting to control her temper. Kit was not to blame, it was Mary who had caused this and Perdita was determined to discover why.
Chapter Three
“I had always imagined she lived alone and embittered, in a crumbling house which she was too mean to spend any money on,” said Perdita. “That she sent everyone away, had no friends and scared the local children.”
“Really?” said Piper, rolling over to give her sister a concerned look.
“It was an image I persuaded myself out of as we grew up,” she admitted, “but it was the only way I could explain why she abandoned us when Mum died, at the time when we needed her most. What did you think?”
“I thought she was too sad to speak to us at first, but I always expected her to turn up on the doorstep and throw her arms around us. Then, the years passed and I convinced myself she must have had a nervous breakdown and seeing us again could trigger a relapse, so she stayed away.”
“That’s a more realistic explanation,” smiled Perdita, and the twins fell into a thoughtful silence. It was the eve of the funeral and Piper had arrived the previous day. She had been equally as impressed as Perdita when confronted with Marquess House. Now they were lying on the vast, double four-poster bed that had once belonged to their grandmother. It was on the first floor of the house in the largest of the five main suites. The ones on either side of Mary’s had always been known as Perdita’s and Piper’s rooms, something that had made Perdita shudder slightly when Alistair had told her on her first day in her new home.
“Your grandmother always hoped you would be reconciled one day,” Alistair had explained. “You can, of course, choose any room, but the ones on either side of Mary’s have the best views.”
Perdita had considered a tower room but when Kit had shown her around the bedrooms, which were as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house, the windows were barely bigger than arrow slits and the rooms were small; ideal for a guest who was staying for a few nights, but not as a home. When he had thrown open the door to the suite her grandmother had always thought of as Perdita’s, she had bitten back her gasp of surprise. If she could have chosen the décor herself, the room could not have been more to her personal taste. It reminded her of her bedroom in the house where she had grown up and the style in which she had decorated her own flat before it had been sold.
“Mary had them redecorated every year, in case you ever visited,” Kit had said quietly. “There’s this large living room, the bedroom is over there with an en suite and a dressing room, and through there is a small kitchen — Mary wasn’t one for wandering down to the main kitchen at night. The other door leads to a small office and over there is a spare bedroom with its own en suite,” he had said. “Shall I have your bags brought up?”
Perdita had nodded, wandering into the room, relaxing as she gazed upon the pale green and white colour scheme. Standing in the centre of the living room, she had turned a full circle, intrigued by the ancient details of the house that continued across the walls of these rooms too: the carved fireplace, the panelled walls and again, the decorative frieze dancing across the golden wood. Up close, she could see the shapes carved into the wood more clearly. There were flowers, a combination of lilies, daisies and roses; a strange design of what seemed to be three circles joined, but what surprised her most were the mermaids nestled in between the flowers, deeply hidden, so they were not immediately obvious.
“If you don’t like the paintings, they can be changed,” Kit had said, pulling her attention away from the frieze. “There are lots all over the house, as well as in storage. I’ll find the catalogue so you can see what’s available and what you now own.”
There were three paintings on the walls: a pair of swirling abstract watercolours that reminded Perdita of being underwater, swimming through a wave as she searched for treasure; the other was a full-length oil on canvas portrait of a woman. She wore a magnificent golden dress and her cloud of dark hair surrounded her like a storm. Her unusual grey-green eyes stared out across the void of time: knowing, calm and confident. The slight up-tilt of her full lips made her look as though as she had a secret that she was longing to share. Perdita could not help but notice the similarities between herself and this woman in the Jacobean style dress.
“Who is she?” she had asked Kit, who was watching her nervously.
“We’r
e not sure,” he had replied. “Mary found the painting in the attic when she inherited the house and had it restored along with a number of others. The records say it was here when Lettice bought the house. Mary only hung it in here a few years ago. Would you like me to have it moved?”
Perdita had gazed at the woman with the uncanny likeness to herself and had found herself shaking her head. “No, leave it,” she had said. “If it gets too weird, you can move it later.”
Piper had been similarly entranced with her room when she had arrived the previous day. As Perdita’s had followed her preferred style, Piper’s reflected her love of edgy, urban design. The walls were varying shades of grey with misty purple accents, while the furniture was modern and slick. Yet it sat well in the ancient house. The layout was identical to Perdita’s but above Piper’s fireplace was an abstract painting of Marquess House, which on closer inspection, the twins discovered, was by their father James Rivers. Two smaller portraits hung on another wall: one of an unknown red-haired woman in Tudor dress and the other a smiling young man with the flowing locks favoured by the Cavaliers during the Civil War. Neither twin had felt the need to change anything, particularly the painting by their father.
It was Perdita who had asked Alistair for the key to Mary’s room.
“Piper and I would like to spend some time in there,” she had said, taking the key with a trembling hand. “To try and understand.”
Now they lay staring at the oil painting of their mother, Louisa, which hung opposite the foot of Mary’s bed. It had been painted on her twenty-first birthday and captured her vitality, joy and beauty. Her long dark hair, lighter than Perdita’s, cascaded to her shoulders and her grey eyes sparkled. She exuded life.
“Why did Dad never tell us about Mum’s dyslexia?” mused Perdita. “In fact, why didn’t he talk about her? He never even told us where she was buried. At first, yes, he was grieving, but over time, wouldn’t you think he’d have wanted us to know more about her?”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 5
