House of Shadows (15 page)

Rather than letting herself into the mill she went along to the studio where all her equipment had been unpacked and set up. The wooden shelves now displayed some of her work – vases, paperweights, bowls. This was the place where she felt closest to Ben although there was no obvious reason why. When she had cleared the workshop a couple of days before she had scoured all the shelves looking for something – photos, notes, anything that her brother might have left there, but had found nothing.

But she did have one clue that Ben had left for her: Lavinia Flyte’s memoir. She needed to do some work to start getting into a routine again, but later, when she had soothed her conscience, she would take out the memoir and see what it had to tell.

Ashdown Park, January 1801

W
hat a horrible place this is! I swear I cannot bear it. It is so cold and lonely. We arrived here three nights past in driving rain to discover that the servants did not expect us and there were no beds made up, no fires and no food. Clara, my maidservant, declares she will take the first coach to the nearest town, but I fear she will be thwarted for no coaches pass by here. There is nothing but grass and sheep and birds twittering in endless chorus. Oh, and there are trees, a great forest of them that press close to the house like prison walls. I swear I shall die here, of boredom, if nothing else.

I became a courtesan because I discovered that I was good at it and because it is a well-paid profession, but at times like this I doubt my own choices. To be at the mercy of the whims of a man like Evershot, to go where he decides and do as he says is melancholy indeed. What other course is open to me though? I suppose I could have stayed a fruit seller or flower girl but I wanted so much more.
Or I wanted so much less; less cold and poverty and drudgery. So I am a paid whore and must do as my protector demands.

The laundry maid here at Ashdown considers herself too fine to speak to me, presumably because she only sells her services as a washerwoman rather than selling her body as I do. But the plain truth, dear reader, is that morals are costly. The price she pays is in blisters and chilblains on her skin from plunging up to her elbows in water, hot and cold. Her hands bleed; her arms are chapped and raw. She rises from her bed at four of the morning in the dark of winter while I sleep between the sheets she launders and wear the gowns she presses. So who is the fool there?

But as usual, I digress. Evershot seems curiously excited to be at Ashdown Park which is odd since it is such a benighted place. Naturally he tells me nothing so I do not know the purpose of our visit but he spends hours in the estate office scouring maps and designs from the earliest time the house was built. I know this because I possess a great degree of curiosity and contrived to pass the window one day and peer inside. Both Evershot and the land agent, a surly fellow called Gross, were leaning over a table strewn with papers and drawings. Evershot was so absorbed that fortunately he did not see me. I have already learned that he takes badly to my enquiring into his business so I keep my mouth shut as best I can. It is not my natural state however.

I have learned a little of the history of the house and of Evershot’s illustrious ancestor, the Earl of Craven. This I have gained through a perusal of the books in the library, which clearly he never reads since some of them are uncut and all are thick with dust. I have also charmed the housekeeper, Mrs Palfrey, against her will since she believes me to be a loose woman. However she is another, like me, who cannot bear to have no one to talk to and so I asked her
politely about the portraits that hang on the stairs and she told me all about the Evershot family. She was very proud to serve them though for the life of me I cannot think why.

Let me see, what do I recall of that history lesson? I know that it was the Earl of Craven who designed this house as a hunting lodge in the seventeenth century. Apparently he was a great soldier and also the lover of the famously tragic Queen of Bohemia – known as the Winter Queen. I cannot say that I have ever heard of her – or of him, for that matter – but I can only imagine that his amatory skills were far superior to those of his descendant. Poor Evershot has been generously endowed by nature but alas has no understanding of how to use his gift to please me, and even less interest in learning. It is all about his pleasure and gratification rather than mine.

But yet again, I stray from the point. The Earl had monstrous huge houses built all over the place for he was excessively rich, but Ashdown was the house the Winter Queen chose because she wanted to live quietly in the country. Craven designed it to suit her taste in every particular. And then she died before it was completed. How melancholy and thoughtless that was. I so dislike unhappy endings! The Earl consecrated the house to her memory instead. He had no children to inherit, so all his wealth and estates went to his sister’s son, John Craven Evershot. Thus the family rose to riches and titles and prominence without doing anything to achieve it other than to have been born under a lucky star.

I must stop now for it is dinner and Evershot demands my presence at table. He goes to the races at Newbury tomorrow with his mama, so I will have even less company than usual. It is deemed inappropriate for me to accompany him because I am too disreputable to be introduced to Lady Evershot. This is a woman whose standards of morality are decidedly lower than my own!
Sometimes I detest the hypocrisy of society. Here am I, condemned for a life of vice because I chose to use the talents I had to better my place in the world, and there is Evershot who benefits from those talents – and believe me, he benefits a very great deal – and no one thinks the worse of him for it.

I
t was late afternoon and Holly was relaxing in an ancient deckchair in the garden. The sun was casting a net of light and shadow across the old brick wall. She had a glass of iced cranberry juice in one hand and a lurking sense of guilt that she was not still in her studio working, but finally the lure of the sun and the book had been too much to resist. She was waiting for her grandparents to arrive with Bonnie. There was a salad in the fridge, some new potatoes on the hob and a delicious cold spinach and blue cheese tart from Fran’s deli to go with it. She felt modestly pleased with what she had achieved that day.

The light was so bright that Lavinia’s sprawling hand seemed to dance across the bleached page, unreadable, so Holly pushed her sunglasses up on to her head, settled back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking about the memoir rather than reading on.

Lavinia’s grasp of history was probably both vague and
unreliable but Holly was sure now that there must be some truth in the gossip that there had been a romantic connection between the Winter Queen and William Craven, even if they hadn’t actually married. It was curious watching the story unfold through Lavinia’s eyes. Lavinia evidently cared nothing for her protector’s noble heritage, pinning his less-than-noble behaviour down for clear-eyed scrutiny. Holly felt a great deal of sympathy with Lavinia whom she had to keep reminding herself was only eighteen. Lavinia came across as a hard-headed girl but Holly suspected that she was a great deal more vulnerable than she pretended.

There was something else about the diary that fascinated her, however. On her grandmother’s suggestion she had downloaded both a published version of Lavinia’s memoirs and also a book called
The Courtesan’s Pleasure,
which was a racy biography of a number of high-profile women of the demi-monde. In it, Lavinia rubbed shoulders with the likes of Grace Dalrymple and Harriette Wilson. Holly had not had time to read Lavinia’s biography yet and, in a way, although she was eaten up with curiosity she did not want to spoil the memoir by reading a more objective account of Lavinia’s life. It would feel like reading the end of a book first. So she had put that to one side and had instead glanced through the download of the memoir. It had not taken her long to spot that the published version and the one she had found were two very different stories, and she had no idea why that should be unless Lavinia and Clara Rogers had simply decided to sex it up in order to make more money.

A slight breeze ruffled the treetops, setting the silver birch tree shivering and flicking through the pages of the memoir
where it rested on the little metal garden table. It felt as though the story was beckoning her to read on, to discover more. Instead she got up and went back inside the mill, opening the lid of her tablet where it sat on the kitchen table.

She typed in ‘Earl of Craven’ and pressed the search button. Lots of references came up – Wikipedia, various versions of the peerage, a list of paintings of the Earl looking handsome and haughty in black armour.

Holly changed her search terms to add the phrase Elizabeth of Bohemia. This time a motley selection of web pages and blogs appeared. A number of them coyly referred to an association between William and Elizabeth, described as ‘a lifetime’s devotion’. Holly read that Craven had served both Elizabeth and Frederick of Bohemia and had been Master of the Horse at Elizabeth’s court in The Hague. When Elizabeth had returned to England after the Restoration of her nephew Charles II in 1660, she had gone to live in Craven House in Drury Lane in London. Various sources quoted Craven as Elizabeth’s main financial backer during her exile and a courtier who had been dedicated to serving her for over forty years.

None of the reputable sources, however, seemed prepared to suggest that there was anything other than a respectful devotion between the Queen and her cavalier. Holly would need to delve deeper if she wanted to find out if there was any truth in the stories that Craven had been the Queen’s lover or her husband.

The old-fashioned clock on the sitting-room mantel chimed six times. She was about to close the tablet when
one of the images caught her eye. It was a double portrait of Elizabeth and Frederick of Bohemia, facing each other, Elizabeth in deep mourning, Frederick in white. In Frederick’s hand was a crystal mirror.

Holly shivered involuntarily. The mirror in the picture was instantly recognisable as the one in her possession, though it looked less battered, more alive somehow. The wood was smooth and gleamed with rich, deep colour. The diamonds in the frame sparkled. Holly found herself clicking on the image before she consciously thought about it. The painting proved to be in the National Gallery. It was by a Dutch artist and had been painted as a posthumous tribute to the Winter King. Elizabeth was the survivor, left to mourn his memory and continue the struggle alone. A little dog scrambled at Elizabeth’s skirts. In her hand were two roses, one red, the other a withered brown.

Holly had studied symbolism in art as part of her degree. Roses, she seemed to remember, were associated with purity and the red rose in particular with martyrdom. The dog at the Queen’s feet was a symbol of her faithfulness to the memory of her husband, who was presumably also portrayed by the withered rose.

There was a table behind Frederick on which were displayed a collection of objects: a bible, a skull, an hourglass, a compass and a globe. Yet it was the mirror that drew Holly’s attention. She might have expected to see Frederick’s reflection in the glass but instead there was something else … She leaned closer. The image was not a particularly high resolution and so the details were fuzzy but it looked like a crown. It could have been another symbol
of Frederick’s kingship or it could hold a deeper meaning, Holly thought. Espen Shurmer had said that the crystal mirror had been a scrying glass. It promised the world: titles, riches, fame. Yet a mirror also showed pure illusion.

The cold sensation she was starting to know enveloped her again then and she jerked back in her chair and shut down the screen. It felt as though the mirror was calling to her and it was the strangest sensation. The pull of it was strong. She barely noticed getting to her feet or moving across to the top left drawer of the dresser where she had put the black velvet box.

Would she see the future if she gazed into that pale glass? Would she see Ben’s face and know that he was alive? Could the mirror give her the reassurance she craved from the moment she woke to the time each night when she put out the light? For a second the temptation was so strong that she stretched out a hand towards the box, intending to open it and look into the depths of the blue-white glass.

There was the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside and the sound of voices, doors slamming, then Bonnie burst into the kitchen, barking and waving her tail so vigorously it was in danger of knocking over the furniture. Holly shoved the box back into the dresser and pushed the drawer closed. She vowed to take the mirror and lock it away in the safe in her workshop, out of temptation’s way.

‘Darling!’ Hester followed the dog in, her arms full of flowers. ‘A house warming present,’ she said, kissing Holly. ‘Your grandfather has the wine.’

They ate outside at the old iron table set in the corner of the garden where the evening sun warmed the old bricks of
the wall and the pink climbing rose scented the air. Holly had been worried that it would be difficult for her grandparents to come to the mill, the last place that Ben had been before he disappeared, but they seemed to find comfort in its lichened walls and cottage garden.

‘I always loved the old place,’ Hester said, inhaling the scent of the flowers with her eyes closed. ‘It’s always felt a friendly presence to me, not inimical at all.’

It was the closest they had come to anything that might cast a shadow over the mood and after the meal Hester took Bonnie for a walk in the woods whilst her grandfather helped Holly with the washing up.

‘Have you had any time to pursue Ben’s research yet?’ John asked. ‘I know it’s only been a few days but you seemed quite keen.’

‘I am,’ Holly said. ‘It seems as though this historical stuff mattered to him so I’d like to see what I can find out. Unfortunately I don’t have many clues—’ She stacked the faded china plates carefully in the rack, ‘but I think it was something that involved the First Earl of Craven and Ashdown Park.’

‘Do you think it was some sort of genealogical connection?’ John asked.

Holly shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. You traced the family tree a while back, didn’t you, so you would already know if there was one.’

‘True,’ John said, ‘although I only followed the direct male line. There could be any number of routes back to the seventeenth century.’ He paused, the drying cloth in one hand, the plate in the other dripping on the tiled floor.
‘Since the Earl didn’t have any legitimate children it would probably be some sort of irregular descent and they are sometimes more difficult to find.’

‘Straight down the wrong side of the blanket.’ Holly smiled. ‘That sounds possible, I suppose. Did the Earl have any illegitimate children?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ John said. ‘I’m no expert on that period of history, though. I’d have to look into it.’ He noticed the plate in his hand and started to rub it vigorously. ‘I’ll send you the family tree anyway if you’re interested.’

‘Thanks,’ Holly said. ‘That would be great.’ She hesitated. For some reason she was reluctant to tell her grandfather about the Knights of the Rosy Cross and the legends of the scrying mirror and the pearl. Perhaps it was because he was so uncompromisingly the academic and with the Sistrin she was dealing with myth and magic. She didn’t want John to destroy the stories with cold fact and logic. The link to Ben felt too important to her for it to be summarily dismissed.

John was watching her, though, and his gaze was shrewd and thoughtful, reading far more into Holly’s silence than she had said. She wondered if he was going to ask her if there was something more troubling her, but in the end he simply said:

‘If you need my help with anything else, just ask.’

‘Thanks, Granddad,’ Holly said again. ‘Actually there is something else you could tell me.’ She rinsed the glasses under the tap and put them carefully aside. ‘I’ve got a guide book to the estate, the one the council wrote and produced.’ She saw John wince and laughed. ‘Okay, so it’s not Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall,
but it gives the facts about the history of Ashdown.’

‘Hmm,’ John said, eyes twinkling. ‘Does it include the story about the so-called marriage of the Earl of Craven and the Winter Queen?’

‘It does,’ Holly said.

‘There’s no documentary proof for that,’ John said. ‘Only gossip and hearsay.’

‘I read that when Elizabeth came back to Britain after exile in The Hague, she went to live in William Craven’s house in London,’ Holly said. ‘You can see why there might have been rumours about their relationship.’

John picked up the cloth and absentmindedly polished the plate again. ‘She didn’t stay there long, less than six months, before she moved to Leicester House.’

‘Rather like staying with a friend whilst you find your own place?’ Holly suggested.

John looked startled at the analogy and then he smiled. ‘I suppose so. I think much has been made of their relationship because there is no hard evidence either way. Legend always prefers the more romantic tale.’

‘True,’ Holly said. ‘I just wondered if Ben’s discovery had something to do with Craven and Elizabeth. If they had been married she might have entrusted something to him when she died.’

‘She left him various portraits and papers, I believe,’ John said. ‘I don’t suppose she had a great deal more than that to leave, having been in impoverished exile all those years.’

‘I suppose not,’ Holly sighed. It felt like another dead end.

‘How are you getting on with Lavinia Flyte’s diary?’ John
asked, eyes twinkling. ‘It’s not shocking you too much, I hope.’

‘The handwritten version is a great deal less racy than the published one I downloaded,’ Holly said, smiling. ‘I don’t know if mine is just a first draft, but they certainly spiced it up later on.’

John picked the book up and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I’ve done a bit of research myself since I saw you and I do know that the published version is largely a work of fiction – all erotic thrills and melodrama.’

‘I guessed as much from what little I’ve read,’ Holly admitted, ‘but this original is different. I’m sure it’s authentic.’

‘Hmm,’ John said, clearly unconvinced. ‘Have you googled her?’ he asked. ‘Lavinia Flyte?’

Holly had the feeling of disconnect that she always experienced when her grandfather made reference to technology.

‘Um … No,’ she said. ‘I have bought a biography of her but I haven’t read it yet. I didn’t want to pre-judge the memoir by reading up about her first.’

‘Well I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled things for you,’ John said, ‘but perhaps it’s better you know upfront rather than thinking you’ve discovered something authentic. I’m guessing that this—’ he tapped the memoir, ‘is valuable in the sense that it’s an early copy or perhaps even the original, but as a primary source it’s very suspect.’