Ravens Deep (one) (3 page)

             
I sense that you alone could breathe life into Ravens Deep, which has stood empty for many years. I am also confident in my expectation that you will appreciate the unrivalled beauty of the wild countryside.  Although fate has caused our paths to cross, your destiny is as yet, still to be discovered. Perhaps at Ravens Deep you will find it.  You will delight me with your acceptance of this invitation.

Yours Very Sincerely,

Mr. Chambers.

             
A sudden chill had passed over me, but I shrugged it off.  This invitation sparked excitement and appealed to my sense of adventure. I knew instantly that I would accept.

Chapter Two - Ravens Deep

             
I had taken an extended holiday from work under the pretext that I was visiting an old friend in the West Country, but had told no one of my real destination.  I concealed the relationship with Mr. Chambers from everyone, we shared an unusual understanding and I didn’t want to answer curious questions.

             
Charlie would have been suspicious as to why I would want to write to a complete stranger. Everybody else would have posed their own doubts and opinions on the matter and I did not need, or want to hear them.  I saw it differently from how they would.  This was my opportunity to escape from the world I had known and to immerse myself completely into another.

             
The journey through London was tedious and painfully slow, the constant stop and start of the traffic felt as if it was deliberately trying to hinder my progress, and I longed to be on the less congested country roads and leave the chaos of the city far behind.

             
I relegated any previous doubts or negative thoughts to the furthest corner of my mind, but every so often those uncertainties came creeping back to make me anxious about what exactly waited for me at the journey’s end.  But by the time I arrived on Exmoor, I dispelled those imaginings and replaced them with feelings of excitement. I was fatigued from the long drive, but the picturesque landscape all around boosted my stamina and could not fail to impress me.  I was certain that I had never visited anywhere quite as beautiful, and marveled at the rolling moors and steep valleys and as my car climbed above the tree line, the landscape took on a windswept, desolate appearance. From my vantage point, I could see down to the coastline and along the cliff face to the jagged rocks that protruded out into the sea.  It was a wild place and it would be easy to believe, were it not for the occasional farm tractor or car that passed by, I was totally alone in this wilderness.

             
The road continued to wind dramatically as the varied elevation changes took me down through tree covered valleys and back up again over the gentle slopes of the moors, I passed through villages filled with red sandstone buildings that displayed their distinct round chimneys and miniature turrets, then later the smaller hamlets with their clusters of cob and thatched cottages, which reminded me of the perfect chocolate box images that had inspired poets and artists alike.

             
Following the directions I had been given, I eventually turned from the main road onto a narrower side road, the instructions indicating that I should drive exactly three hundred yards. I drove slowly, my foot hovering above the brake, anxious not to miss my turn.  I counted slowly in my head as I gauged the exact distance, believing my judgement was accurate, I pressed harder on the brakes to bring the car to a standstill.

             
The road should be right here.

             
But there was no road. I stared at the directions again. I had made a mistake and must be on the wrong road.  Although my first impulse was to turn the car around, intuitively this location felt right and I looked up and peered deeper into the mass of hedges and trees.  It was then that I saw a small wooden sign which was so faded with age that I could barely decipher the letters scrawled upon it.

             
Rush Lane.

             
I looked beyond the sign and saw that it really did not look like a road at all, it appeared to be more like a narrow gap between tall hedgerows, but I calculated that it was probably wide enough to allow a car to pass and I doubted that anyone else realised this road existed, let alone ever travelled it.

             
I breathed an immense sigh of relief, I was in the right place after all. I turned the car into Rush Lane, although I felt a little nervous at how overgrown and impassable it looked, but I assured myself that roads as narrow as this were completely normal in the countryside. I passed an old, rusty farm gate pushed back into the hedge, it looked as though it had not been closed in a long time, as it was probably too difficult to keep opening and closing a heavy gate like that, and I was glad that I didn’t have to tackle it.

             
This location was very remote and the nearest village, Beaconmayes was four miles away.  It was a small village that I had just driven through and I had been pleased to see that it did contain a grocery store and a few other amenities that I might need during my stay.

             
By this time Rush Lane was getting narrower by the second, and I felt my car rumble over a cattle grid that had become very overgrown, making it invisible to the eye.  It felt as though the hedgerows were closing in on me and I wondered what I would do if I were to meet another vehicle, although that possibility seemed unlikely.

             
Who in their right mind would drive up here, unless they had a reason to? 

             
After three or four minutes of negotiating my car down the narrow lane, it widened a little and I saw the remains of an old cobbled driveway which led to the right.  A battered wooden sign standing close to the ground informed me that it must be a neighbouring property: Ravens Farm. I tried to locate the farmhouse, but nearly everything beyond the driveway was concealed from sight, all I saw were some sheep in a distant field. 

             
I continued forwards and began to wonder if I should have turned into that driveway at the farm, but I couldn’t attempt to turn my car around now, there was no room for manoeuvring.  I  had no choice, but to proceed and see where this lane took me, and I reminded myself that Mr. Chambers would have most likely told me if I were not to have brought a car down this far.

             
“Just keep going Madeline, it can’t be far now,” I said in a firm voice as a way of reassuring myself. Although my voice sounded more confident than my feelings at this time, for the hedgerows were too high for me to judge how far I had come, or how far I still have to travel. My only company was a constant, gentle tapping from the shrubs and nettles that brushed my car as I passed by.

             
I had pictured the house long before it came into view and from the description I had read and the image in my mind, I knew it would be beautiful and ancient, a rambling relic rising up from the landscape of the moors.  I imagined there would be roses clinging to the stonework and a sprawling garden filled with lavender and hollyhocks, but now I was starting to wonder if the access to the house was just too difficult, and the location too remote.

             
I felt as though I had driven a long way down Rush Lane and doubts were beginning to creep into my head about staying in such a secluded spot, especially because I was alone. But just as those doubts began to multiply, the lane opened up and my fears disappeared in an instant. Before me was Ravens Deep. 

             
My expectations were not disappointed, for it was no exaggeration to describe it as breathtakingly beautiful, just as I had imagined it would be. I had been told that the main part of the house dated back to the fourteenth century, and it certainly looked every bit that old. The soft grey coloured stonework complimented the dark grey slate roof and the gothic leaded windows.  There was a long stone wall in front of the building, interrupted by a metal scroll top gate leading into the garden, and a path led up to the front door past a lichen covered stone bench which sat outside the open porch. Wisteria adorned most of the front aspect; unfortunately it wasn’t in flower right now and ivy clung to all of the four chimneys covering one complete side of the house. The garden wall disappeared from my view indicating that it enclosed the back garden as well. 

             
A pale pink rose had climbed up and over the porch and was now competing for space with the wisteria branches, but adding to this vast array of colour, purple Lavender and yellow Hypericum hid the base of the stone walls.  Long ago, this had been an organized and manicured garden, now it was a jumble of flowers, weeds and nettles.

             
I parked my car on a patch of stony ground to the side of the garden wall, and walked up the three stone steps that led through the gate into the garden. I had not believed that places like this still existed, so perfect and untouched by modern encumbrances. 

             
“This is beautiful!”

My exclamation startl
ed a chaffinch that had been hopping along the stone wall, into taking flight. I turned and looked back down over hedgerows and across moors filled with heather and gorse to the sea in the distance.  Apart from the occasional bleating of a sheep or the insistent humming of bees in the lavender, there was complete peace and tranquillity. 

             
Walking up to the house, I took a seat on the stone bench to enjoy the view and saw that the house was the end of the lane, as woodlands blocked all further progress other than on foot.  The hedgerows which ran opposite the house were divided and an overgrown footpath led between them. I thought then that it may have been a public footpath, but I had seen no sign.

             
The air was intoxicating, with the scent of lavender and roses that drifted lazily around on the warm summer breeze.  I sat unmoving for several moments gazing across to the sea which shimmered and sparkled brilliantly in the sunshine, but my curiosity to explore further and to see the house drew my focus away from the surrounding landscape.

              The key to open the heavy oak door was hanging on an iron hook, just as Mr. Chambers had described in his letter.  The key fitted perfectly and the door, despite its age and thickness, opened easily.

             
Inside, the house had a distinct musty odour from being shut up for so long and I entered into a small passage which in turn opened into a large sitting room.  Across from where I was standing a large stone inglenook dominated the wall. Two large windows adorned with heavy red velvet curtains flanked the fireplace although the curtains were partially closed, so very little sunlight shone through, giving the room a dark and dismal aspect. 

             
I crossed the room and pulled open one of the curtains, immediately a cloud of dust showered down upon me, it seemed no one had touched them for many years. I shook the particles from my hair and surveyed the scene in front of me.  I saw that a thick layer of dust covered everything. But bathed in the brightness of the sunlight, the room was inviting and filled with antique furnishings that belonged to another era. It was as though everything had been forgotten and was now succumbing to the ravages of time. The feeling that time had indeed stood still was evident, in the beautifully inlaid French bracket clock which ceased motion long ago and now stood in silence on the mantle. 

             
I lightly struck one of the chairs closest to me, and as the hazy cloud rose into the air I saw the details clearer. The fabric of the vintage chair was fashioned out of a dark red brocatelle, the deep relief was an exquisitely woven pattern of horsemen and deer which seemed reminiscent of fabrics found in ancient castles.  The fireplace had seen extensive use in the past, as evidenced by a sooty stain on the back wall of the chimney, but hiding part of that chimney wall was an ornate cast-iron wood burning stove. And I remembered having seen a stack of logs outside. 

             
An opening inside the fireplace seemed obvious that its purpose once served to bake bread, as it looked like a crude stone oven.  Two additional recesses’ in the stonework were visible and still held remnants of wax candles. I wondered how many years ago they had burned out because these days, even in a house this old, thankfully electricity had replaced the need for candles.

             
Two lovely watercolour landscape scenes were the only wall decoration in this room and they appeared to have some crazing upon their surface, indicating that they were in need of some careful restoration. Dominating the space in front of the fireplace was a large olive-green overstuffed sofa.  Vintage carved side chairs covered in deep red brocade flanked the sofa, each having its own matching side table, one of which supported a cranberry coloured glass lamp. 

             
Across the room, a highly carved sideboard decorated with a panache of five ostrich feathers stood against the wall and two large gold candlesticks rested on top, adding drama to the overall appearance.