House of Shadows (26 page)

Ashdown House, 1st March 1801

M
atters are most difficult. Robert says that he cannot bear for me to be Evershot’s mistress any longer. He is quite, quite passionate about it. He says he cannot endure to think of me lying with another man.

I should have envisaged this. My poor darling Robert is fathoms deep in love with me and has never espoused the light morals by which I live my life. We argued for what felt like hours until I was exhausted. When I told him I could not break with Evershot because I had no money he told me I was too good for this sort of life and that I should run away with him. He spoke wildly of how we should be married. If only we could, but it is folly, alas, and even more so now that I finally know the truth.

What I am about to relate is quite, quite extraordinary. I am not sure I would believe it had I not seen the evidence with my own eyes. It seems that Robert came to Ashdown Park deliberately.
He had heard that Evershot required a surveyor and applied for the work because he has some distant connection to the family and wanted to see Ashdown for himself. Years back his great-great-great-grandmother or some such (I forget how many greats) was mistress to the Earl of Craven and bore a son. Or so his family history relates. So Robert and my lord are cousins several times removed, though one would never guess it for Evershot and Robert are as dissimilar as two men could possibly be.

Anyway, Robert tells me that the whole business was swept under the carpet since his great-great-great grandmother was already wed and so the child was to all intents and purposes a Verity and in time he inherited the Verity title and estates. I did wonder what Lord Craven thought of this turn of affairs since he never had a legitimate heir of his own, but perhaps he was simply glad to avoid a scandal. History does not relate. But in time, of course, the Evershots rose high on the back of Craven’s fortune and the Veritys, alas, fell almost as far as the Evershots had risen.

All Robert has to boast of the connection to the First Earl is some battered looking mirror that has been in his family for centuries. Legend has it that it once belonged to the Queen of Bohemia, and is another of those mysterious treasures of which people speak but frankly if this is a piece of treasure, then I am a brass monkey. I never saw a more sorry piece, the glass is quite spotted with age and the wood all battered and worn. I suppose the diamonds are quite fine but they are dirty and dull and may be no more than paste for all I know.

Anyway, once more I digress. Robert came to Ashdown to see his ancestral home and when he arrived he discovered that it was indeed the Winter Queen’s lost pearl that Evershot sought, for he too had heard the stories that it was hidden about the estate. Evershot made
Robert swear by the most terrible oaths that he would tell no one of their quest. Naturally Robert, seeing the kind of man Evershot was, told him nothing of his connection to the Craven family, nor that he held the crystal mirror, for he knew it would go badly for him if Evershot knew.

They searched and searched for the Queen of Bohemia’s pearl but they found nothing. Robert says that very probably the whole tale is naught but a myth, which is most unfortunate because the lack of success in his quest makes Evershot savage. Apparently he is not as rich as everyone had thought. His debts are pressing, his mama will no longer fund him, and the heiress he was courting has betrothed herself to another so his mood is at all times vile.

Where does this leave Robert and I? In a desperate plight, I assure you. For here is poor Robert swearing undying love to me and begging me to elope with no thought for how his mama would feel were he to bring home a harlot as a bride and here am I trying to tell him it is impossible whilst secretly wishing it were not so. Yes, I confess it, I do love Robert with all my heart but the reality of our situation is that no matter how high he sets me, I am not good enough for him and I would be the greatest fool to believe otherwise.

Oh, if only matters were different! But alas, Robert could barely afford to keep me – I am very expensive – and it would do him no credit to wed me. His career would be blighted, his good name tarnished. There is no way out of the situation. I feel so miserable I could cry, and that is something I do rarely for it is ruinous to the complexion.

Holly was so engrossed in the diary that it took two attempts for Bonnie to rouse her. She pushed her nose into Holly’s
hand and dropped her lead neatly at her feet. Holly smiled and got up. It would do her good to get some exercise and it would also give her time to think about the latest revelations in Lavinia’s diary.

She was going to read on to the end tonight. The compulsion to do so was too strong to resist. She wanted to know what happened. Unless there was some remarkable turnabout in the last few pages of the memoir it had never been found in Lavinia’s time. Lord Evershot had sought it and failed. Holly wondered if Ben had been luckier.

Outside the air was warm and still, so still that Holly could hear the Ashbury church clock chiming across the fields. As she opened the gate she heard a step and looked up. For some reason she was expecting Mark and she didn’t like the way that her heart dropped when instead she saw Greg Hunter coming towards her out of the wood. He raised a hand in greeting and loped up to them.

‘Hi Holly,’ Greg said. ‘I thought I’d come and take a look at your studio.’

‘Oh.’ Holly felt put out but she was not sure why. Generally she was happy to talk about her work and show people around her workshop, and she had been the one to suggest Greg come over in the first place. Greg had done her a huge favour in getting her the commission for his sister’s shop and as a result of that she had already had enquiries from a number of other shops and galleries. Business was picking up.

‘Of course,’ she said. Then, as Bonnie pressed closer: ‘Sorry, I was just taking the dog out …’

Greg checked his watch. ‘No problem. I hadn’t realised it was past lunchtime. I’ve been working since first light
today.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘There’s a badger sett on the edge of the paddock and it’s interfering with the laying of the new drainage pipes. But as the badgers were here first by about a thousand years we need to find a way around the problem.’ He gestured to Bonnie who was almost dancing with impatience to be going, ‘I don’t want to hold you up so I’ll come back some other time. It’s just that Karen said your work was superb and I’d love to see it.’

‘That was kind of her,’ Holly said. She smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you walk with us for a bit, if you’re off duty now? I haven’t had chance to thank you properly for the introduction to Karen. She’s great, and I love the shop. It’s got such a fabulous eclectic mix of stuff.’

Greg’s face lit up. ‘It’s really cool, isn’t it? I knew your work would fit right in.’ He loped along beside her. ‘And the Merchant Adventurers’ House is a wonderful setting. A real slice of seventeenth-century history.’

‘Karen said that you were very keen on history before you got involved in all the wildlife side of things,’ Holly said. She noticed that Greg blushed; his ears glowed pink. It was endearing.

‘Oh, I loved history as a kid,’ he said. ‘All those castles and knights and swords.’

‘And buried treasure,’ Holly said.

Greg laughed. ‘I never found anything more exciting than a rusty bucket though.’

Bonnie was galloping between the trees, snuffling through the old leaves and scaring rabbits down their burrows. They walked down a shaded ride and out into a clearing. In the
centre was a low wall of chalk and stone, tumbledown, overgrown, with a wooden seat beside it.

‘There used to be a fountain here,’ Greg said. ‘It was fed by a spring but that ran dry years ago.’

‘All the springs have run dry this summer,’ Holly said. ‘The mill isn’t the same without the water.’ She put a hand on the hot stone of the wall, feeling the warmth against her palm and the roughness of the broken mortar. A peacock butterfly spread its wings to the sun. It was very quiet.

‘I’d better get back,’ Greg said regretfully. ‘The next bus to Lambourn goes in ten minutes.’

Bonnie raised her head and watched him go before returning to her rootling through the grass. Holly sat quietly one had still resting on the stone, feeling the heat of the sun beating against her closed eyelids. The sounds of the birds and the traffic on the road mingled together until it seemed as though it rippled through her head like running water. Even though she knew the spring was dry it felt as though she could feel the droplets from the fountain cold against her fingers. Yet she felt warm inside; she felt love, like a soft drift of blossom against her cheek. It filled her with a sort of wordless joy.

She opened her eyes.

Mark was standing on the edge of the clearing, Bonnie pirouetting around him in excitement. He bent absentmindedly to pat her head but he was looking at Holly. Holly felt her heart lift and she smiled spontaneously and Mark smiled back and she felt the same devastating wash of love she had felt a moment before.

Help.

Panic gripped her. This was not supposed to happen. She was getting confused. Lavinia’s blazing love for Robert was taking over her mind.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Mark said.

‘What do you mean?’ Holly said. She spoke more abruptly than she had intended. The intensity of the emotions she had felt had left her feeling completely disorientated and vulnerable.

Mark raised his brows at her tone. ‘Only that I met Greg on the path and he said you were here.’

‘Oh.’ Holly felt relieved at the banality of it. ‘Yes, sorry … I was daydreaming a bit.’

Mark smiled at her again and she felt even hotter. ‘I was looking for you, anyway. I wondered if you’d like to come over to my place for Sunday lunch tomorrow? It’s just a barbecue, nothing formal. Fran and Iain will be there and Greg and Paula and a few other people.’

‘I’d love to,’ Holly said, ‘but I sort of promised my grandparents I’d have lunch with them.’ She was taken aback at how disappointed she felt. ‘I haven’t been to see them for a few weeks …’

‘No problem,’ Mark said. ‘I should have asked sooner.’

‘I’ll drop in afterwards if I’m back in time,’ Holly said.

She ran her fingers over the rough stone of the fountain. There was a date carved in the crumbling wall. Her fingers traced the numbers 1665. She remembered Lavinia making reference to meeting Robert Verity by a fountain somewhere in the grounds. She wondered if it had been here, in a very different time, with the snow on the ground and the bite of cold in the air.

‘This was part of the original pleasure grounds,’ Mark said. ‘You remember I mentioned that Lord Evershot was remodelling them? He had men working on a series of tunnels and water mines to supply the fountains and pools.’

Holly knelt down to push the grass and bracken away from the slab and uncovered the date stone. As well as the numbers it had a complicated arrangement of initials carved onto it, a W and a C and an E and an S with a design of leaves and stems shaped like a heart.

‘William Craven and Elizabeth Stuart,’ Mark said, bending over to see. His shadow fell across the white stone. ‘I had no idea that was there. Cute, like carving your initials on a tree.’

‘He was besotted with her, wasn’t he,’ Holly said. She let the grass spring back into place, covering the stone again.

‘Do you know what happened to the first Lord Craven after the Winter Queen died?’ she asked. ‘ I know he never married.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ Mark said. ‘He lived to a ripe old age but had no wife or child.’ Their eyes met and Holly felt her stomach somersault. ‘They say his heart was broken,’ Mark said. ‘He wanted no one but her.’

Wassenaer Hof, The Hague, March 1636

I
t was odd how the loss of the mirror preyed on Craven’s mind. He thought of it as a loss now, as though Margaret had stolen from him something that was legitimately his.

He had gone to all the goldsmiths and gem dealers in the city to try to find the diamond mirror and buy it back. It was not a job he could entrust to a servant. He went under the guise of looking for a pretty trinket for a mistress. But none of the merchants he spoke to appeared to have seen the crystal mirror and sometimes when he pressed too hard he saw the interest quicken in their eyes and knew he was in danger of giving himself away.

Each time he returned to the palace empty-handed.

And then Elizabeth summoned him one day. She was having her portrait painted and Craven felt a flash of irritation. It felt as though all she ever did was pose for
these endless paintings; the martyred Queen reminding the world that she was still fighting for what was rightfully hers even if she used the paintbrush not the sword. He knew it was hypocrisy. She had told him so that night on the hill when she had offered herself to him, but now they had both retreated into formality. They both kept her secrets.

The portrait was almost finished and was not, to Craven’s eyes, remotely flattering. The background of heavy gold brocade hangings and behind that the dull, flat greenery of the Dutch landscape set a sombre mood. Elizabeth was clothed in black widow’s weeds, as she habitually was, with only the smallest touches of white at her neckline and sleeve. Craven found himself irritated again that she would not, after several years, throw off the black for something less morbid. He had once taken the liberty of saying that she should wear colours again only for Elizabeth to tell him very sharply indeed that a widowed queen’s dress was as much about politics as fashion. She was the sober stateswoman on the European stage. It was difficult enough to get men to treat her with respect as it was, without giving them the opportunity to accuse her of frivolity and yet it felt as though she was smothering her own spirit under layers of funereal black, tying herself forever to Frederick’s memory.

‘Mierevelt,’ Elizabeth said to the artist. ‘Would you excuse us?’

The painter looked infuriated for a moment, as though he should not be subject to the whims of any sitter, no matter how royal. He dropped his brush with a clatter and stalked out, shutting the door behind him with a decidedly ill-tempered bang. In the sudden silence Craven could hear
the panting of the small black and tan spaniel that was lying glumly on a cushion to Elizabeth’s right. The dog featured prominently in the painting, pawing at Elizabeth’s black skirts, gazing up at her with hope and the expectation of a sweetmeat. Craven snapped his fingers at it but the creature ignored him. Perhaps it was too hot to move. The room certainly felt airless.

‘Oh dear,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I expect he will send one of his students to complete the commission now. There is no one so ill-natured as an offended artist.’

Craven moved across to the casement and pushed it wide. Now he could breathe more easily, even if the fresher air brought with it the unseasonable heat of early spring and the rotten stench of vegetables discarded by the palace kitchens.

‘There is bad news,’ Elizabeth said. ‘The worst. It is as I had feared.’

The light glistened on the pearls at her neck, a fine necklace that glowed with a soft lustre. Against their beauty Elizabeth’s skin looked sallow, drained by the heavy black silk, age and lines and hardship showing. Craven felt a pang of pity for her and then felt angry. He had no right to feel sorry for her. She would not thank him for it.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘They have taken my lord’s body,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It is lost. Simmern’s party was attacked on the road.’

Craven saw that her hands were shaking and moved swiftly to the table by the door, splashing a measure of wine into a glass and bringing it across to her. She took it with a nod of thanks but did no more than wet her lips before putting it down.

‘Simmern does not know who took the body,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Robbers. Rough men, he thinks, illiterate jackals preying on travellers for money. Perhaps they did not even realise what it was they took. I think—’ her voice faltered, ‘that the King of Bohemia’s bones are probably even now scattered through the forest.’

‘Bloody incompetents,’ Craven thought savagely, and when he saw her smile he realised he had spoken aloud.

‘I beg your pardon, Majesty,’ he said. ‘But in truth—’ he smashed his fist into the other palm, ‘how could a group of trained solders fail to fight off a band of brigands? It beggars belief.’

Elizabeth picked up the wineglass again. Her fingers clenched white around the stem. ‘Too late for regrets, Craven. I should have asked you to fulfil the commission instead. But for now—’ She looked up. Her eyes were dark, strained. He wanted to go to her, gather her to him and soothe her fears. He kept quite still. Such intimacies would not be wise, nor were they permitted between them these days.

‘We tell no one,’ Elizabeth said. ‘We act as though all is as it should be. We do not hand such a victory to our enemies. If they know of it we shall hear soon enough.’

‘I’ll go to Germany,’ Craven said. ‘I can surely discover what happened—’ he broke off for Elizabeth was shaking her head.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ she said. ‘If it were known that you were asking questions that information alone would make the spies of the Emperor suspicious. We leave matters as they are.’

Craven opened his mouth to argue; closed it again. It was her choice. Elizabeth was the one after all who had to live with the images of her husband’s corpse tossed aside by bandits eager for money and scornful of the respect due to the dead. She was the one whom, every day, would see the nightmare pictures in her mind’s eye of the wolves feasting on his bones. She would always wonder and never know what had become of him.

‘I am only grateful,’ Elizabeth said, ‘that you retrieved the treasures of the Rosy Cross before this happened.’ Her hand strayed to the huge drop pearl in the centre of her necklace. ‘Indeed, with the mirror destroyed I was disappointed such ill fortune could happen at all. The protection of the Sistrin has failed me.’

With the mirror destroyed …

The sky beyond the windows had turned grey and the warmth had suddenly gone from the day. A wicked little wind was licking its way into the room, ruffling the drapes, causing the spaniel to raise his head and sniff the air.

‘You know my opinion of such superstitions.’ Guilt caused Craven to speak more sharply than he had intended. ‘Cold steel not spells and sorcery would have kept His Majesty safe.’

Elizabeth did not contradict him but nor did she agree. She was still holding the pearl and there was an opaque look in her eyes that matched its mysterious iridescence. Craven had the sudden disconcerting feeling that she was using it to see the truth, to strip away his bluster and prevarication and see that he had failed her, betrayed her, and left the diamond mirror free to wreak its havoc in the world. Elizabeth, after
all, was a member of the Order of the Rosy Cross too. She possessed the gift of prophecy if she chose to use it.

The instinct that she was reading his mind was so strong that he felt terrified, repelled, and had to repress a shudder. God help him, the thought of sorcery was turning him mad too.

He realised with a flash of despair that he would probably never know where the mirror had gone or what mischief it was perpetrating, until it was too late. His failure, his disloyalty, cut him like a sharpened sword. He had prized his reputation for unwavering fidelity as much as he valued his gift for decisive action and now he had destroyed one of the principles by which he lived his life. Worse, he had betrayed the love he had for Elizabeth by letting weakness rule him.

‘There is something we must discuss,’ Elizabeth said. ‘A visit to my brother in England.’ Her tone had changed. It was business-like, regal, indicating that the previous subject was closed. Craven knew she would expect him to keep silent on the matter of the loss of the King’s body as he kept silent on so many things. His discretion she took for granted. She had taken his loyalty for granted too and that had been a mistake.

‘I am sending both Charles Louis and Rupert to my brother’s court,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I have high hopes for them.’

‘I am sure that His Majesty will be impressed by both princes,’ Craven said. Charles Louis, at nineteen, was already an adept politician with a clever, wary mind. Rupert was very different, energetic, impatient, quick to flare to anger but possessing dazzling charm for one so young.

‘You will accompany the boys on their travels,’ Elizabeth
said. She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I trust you to keep them out of trouble, Craven. You understand me? No complications, no distractions. Is that clear?’

‘As crystal, madam,’ Craven said.

The visit to King Charles had a darker purpose too. Once more they would be begging for funds to furnish an army, trying to persuade both King and parliament to support Charles Louis’ cause now he was of an age to fight for his German lands.

‘I shall endeavour to keep them away from the ladies of your brother’s court,’ he said.

Elizabeth’s lashes flickered down, hiding her expression. Was she remembering the time when she had asked him to be her lover? Did she regret his rejection? He was startled to feel a sharp pang of lust. He thought he had mastered that particular weakness. Perhaps he needed to find a new mistress.

‘If you are able to stop them bedding women then you are a miracle worker rather than a soldier,’ Elizabeth said dryly. ‘As long as it does not interfere with the purpose of the visit, I will ask no questions. They admire you, William.’ She smiled. ‘I trust your influence on them.’

‘Madam.’ Craven bowed. So now he was to nursemaid Elizabeth’s sons away from the brothels and bedchambers of London. God help him.

‘You seem preoccupied today, William.’ Elizabeth had dropped the formality now. Her voice was soft. She had come up to him and placed a hand gently on his sleeve, her blue gaze searching his face. ‘Does something trouble you?’

‘No, Majesty.’ With an effort Craven put thoughts of the
crystal mirror from his mind. It was not so great a matter. Very likely Margaret had sold it or broken it or destroyed it for the jewels in the frame. And even if she had not, necromancy was for fools. He did not believe it; did not believe that it would continue to work its black magic to the detriment of Elizabeth and her family. Or so he told himself even as the shadows fluttered at the corner of his mind.

‘You would not tell me even if you were troubled, I think.’ Elizabeth had moved a little away from him. She gave him a half-smile, quick and almost shy. ‘It is a great pity. I rely on your judgement and support so much, William, yet you take nothing from me in return.’

If only she knew.

‘It is not my place to burden you with my concerns, madam.’

She ignored that. ‘Is it Mistress Carpenter?’ She asked. ‘I heard she had left the court. You must feel …’ she paused delicately.

‘Absolutely nothing, I assure you,’ Craven lied, feeling the bitterness eat a little deeper as he thought of his child. He wondered how long it would be before gossip about Margaret’s pregnancy reached the court in The Hague. He wondered if Elizabeth would work it out, count it up on her fingers, or ask him …

He doubted it. It seemed that if he was going to refuse to confide in her she was not going to be interested in his concerns. Her expression had hardened and she was reading a letter with rather determined concentration, excluding him from her notice.

‘If that was all, your Majesty,’ he said.

‘It was. Go and prepare.’ She barely looked up from the letter. Sometimes she had all the stubbornness and petulance of her father.

So. He would go to England with Elizabeth’s sons and try to make amends for his failure. He would raise men and money. He would fight for the Palatine cause again and he would defend Elizabeth’s boys to the death. And perhaps death would be the best thing that could happen for in life he could never have her and she was all he wanted.