The Lovegrove Hermit

On the seventh anniversary of Harry’s death I took his amethyst ring from my left hand and transferred it to the right. I had no hope of loving anyone as I had loved Harry O’Neill but it was now in the past and far away in time and place. My prospects of happiness were buried with Harry’s mangled body at Badajos.

I had made a life for myself of sorts – pleasant enough in its way but utterly lacking in the highs and lows of youth. I was now twenty-nine and for some years I had lived with my brother George at Fairfield in Gloucestershire, acting as companion-governess to my niece Sophie. My father was a poor clergyman but whereas the younger boys had been obliged to make their own way in the army, navy, and church, my eldest brother, George, had been adopted by our childless uncle who had made him heir to his estate. He had succeeded to the property about the time his wife died and I came to live at the manor house.

George had shown no inclination to remarry so I was treated as mistress of the house. It was quite an enviable position, I suppose, but I was always conscious of the fact that I would be ousted if my brother did eventually stir
himself sufficiently to find another wife.

I must not be too critical of George, who was the kindest of men. Like all of us, he had failings but they were of the gentler sort. He was, perhaps, too easy-going and inclined to take the path of least resistance. No greater contrast could be imagined to my beloved Harry – active, energetic,
reckless
, impulsive, and wildly ambitious. I never laughed so much as when I was with him or suffered so much when we were parted.

I still kept by my bed a small watercolour portrait of him which I had painted myself, but I had never been quite
satisfied
with it because the essential spark of life was missing. However, I had caught the tilt of his head with its tousled dark curls and a hint of that alert expression and, of course, the dashing green uniform of the Rifles.

That was all I had of him: his ring, a lock of his hair, a few letters and my amateurish portrait. There were also memories, too painful in the beginning, and now fading like dreams.

That summer of 1819 was glorious. One languid afternoon in June, as Sophie and I were walking through the grounds of Fairfield we saw George reclining under a tree, his back against the trunk and his legs stretched out before him on the grass. He waved a sheet of paper in the air and beckoned us to join him.

‘How do you fancy a trip to Derbyshire?’ he smiled. ‘We are invited to stay at Lovegrove Priory.’

‘A priory?’ cried Sophie, ‘how romantic! Who lives there?’

‘That second cousin of ours who writes those Gothicky novels you like so much.’

‘Mrs Webb,’ I said, ‘although they are published anonymously.’

‘By “a Lady”,’ added Sophie. ‘I’ve read them all –
An Italian Romance, The Castle of Rodolfo, Leonora and Rodrigo….’

‘I tried reading one once,’ sighed George, ‘but gave up at the third chapter. Not my sort of thing at all.’

‘But why has she suddenly asked us? We’ve never had much to do with her.’ I was decidedly puzzled by the
unexpected
invitation. An occasional letter was exchanged but that was all. I always had to write a reply to her effusive missives because George said he was no use at letter-writing unless it was on business. I believe she used to visit our uncle and aunt at Fairfield many years ago before she was married. George remembered vaguely though he was a boy of twelve at the time.

‘A rather overwhelming lady, I seem to recall. She can’t have been more than eighteen at the time but she seemed much older. She was travelling with some female dragon companion. I do remember her hugging me and calling me a dear little fellow.’ He shuddered at the recollection.

‘No harm in her, I suppose,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, she married a Mr Webb, who carried her off to the North and then died leaving her with a son. Then she married again a few years ago – a Sir Ralph Denby.’

‘I remember she wrote and told us,’ I added, ‘and later we had a letter from Italy telling us about their travels.’

‘And the baronet lives at the Priory?’ enquired Sophie.

‘Not when he first married Cousin Amelia. And he’s not a baronet, merely a knight on account of serving as mayor and helping the local MP get elected. He made a fortune in
cotton mills and then sold up, married Amelia and started looking for a country estate. He settled on a fine old Tudor house called Lovegrove Priory. He’d been married before too and has a daughter about your age, Sophie, so if we go there she’d be a friend for you.’

‘When can we go?’ cried Sophie, who was not much
interested
in the possibility of friendship with an unknown girl but excited by the prospect of staying in an ancient house with Gothic ruins.

‘She suggests the 22
^nd
as she has one or two other friends staying there at that time. Here – read her letter.’

He handed it to me and Sophie and I read it together. It was in her usual exaggerated style, professing a great desire to renew acquaintance with dear George and his dear sister and dear little Sophie whom she was
dying
to see. Sir Ralph was also eager to meet us and we could be sure of a hearty welcome to the ancient halls of Lovegrove.

I wondered again why Amelia Denby had invited us to stay. It was not until we arrived at Lovegrove that I understood.

We travelled to Lovegrove swiftly and in considerable comfort as George had hired a post-chaise and four. The first night we broke our journey at Leamington and arrived next day at Lovegrove in the warm light of late afternoon. On driving through the well-wooded park, we saw the priory ruins ahead of us and beyond them the house, a long, low building of mellow stone, the sun twinkling on its windows. At least, George and I saw the house. Sophie, who was sitting opposite and consequently looking backwards, gave a sudden gasp.

‘Is it romantic enough for you?’ her father enquired.

‘What?’ She looked startled.

‘The house.’

‘Is it haunted?’

George laughed. ‘I don’t know – you’ll have to ask the Denbys.’

‘But I saw something – someone – back there by those trees. Then he was gone.’

George and I both craned back to see the place she had indicated and saw no one.

‘What did you see?’ I asked.

‘A tall man in a long grey robe with a hood. I think he had a beard.’

‘I doubt if he was a ghost,’ said George, somewhat amused. ‘Probably a woodcutter in a smock. I shouldn’t think a
self-respecting
ghost would appear at this time of day. Don’t they wait for moonlight and owls and so forth?’

‘It wasn’t a man in a smock. It was a monk.’

‘You’ve read too many novels,’ said George. ‘Can’t you wean her off them?’ he asked me, but his tone remained jocular.

Sophie flushed and took on a stubborn look I knew well. At seventeen she was not immune to the swiftly changing moods of extreme youth but she had a happy, sunny nature that made people warm to her. She had no great depth of intellect but was bright and quick as well as extremely pretty. When she saw the house, she forgot her annoyance and exclaimed with delight at its beauty and antiquity.

The family were waiting to greet us. A very tall,
statuesque
lady in a turban with many flowing shawls and scarves held out her arms in an extravagant gesture of welcome. She embraced us all enthusiastically.

‘My dear! How delightful to see you!’ She wasted no more time on me after a quick peck on the cheek.

‘Why, Cousin George!’ she cried. ‘You’ve grown so tall we are now of a height!’

That made her five feet ten if an inch.

‘If I’d stayed the same height as when you saw me last I’d now be in a circus,’ he smiled.

‘And so handsome!’ She pinched his check roguishly and he winced but she was quite oblivious to his embarrassment. George
was
handsome but less so than when he was in his
twenties. At forty-two, indolence and a hearty appetite had filled out his face and blurred what was once an elegant figure. A sweet smile and a benign expression were some compensation.

‘Ah, the poor motherless child!’ Lady Denby descended on the unfortunate Sophie. ‘My dear, dear girl! You must look on me as your mother while you are here.’

Sophie cast a helpless look in my direction before she was once more pressed to her ladyship’s ample bosom.

‘I thought I was being suffocated,’ she told me afterwards, ‘and that horrid scent she uses makes it worse.’

‘You’ll have to put up with it, I’m afraid. At least she doesn’t seem disposed to embrace me like that.’

It was later I noticed Lady Denby called George and Sophie ‘cousin’ but I was always ‘Miss Tyler’.

Amelia Denby, despite her overwhelming presence, seemed good-natured and cheerful, with a hearty laugh, though I was to discover she had little sense of humour. She obviously enjoyed being admired and her most devoted
adulator
was her husband, Sir Ralph Denby. He was half a head shorter than his wife, portly, balding, red-faced and
seemingly
devoted to his spouse, whom he regarded as a goddess beyond reproach.

She was indeed a handsome woman with rather heavy classical features like a statue of Juno. A number of glossy, raven-black ringlets escaped from her turban and I
recollected
George had described her as ‘fairish’ which I interpreted as light brown like my brother and me. I
supposed
she wore a wig to disguise any greyness and because she thought black hair more suited to a writer of romantic novels.

A rather plain, sandy-haired girl who had been hanging back behind her elders was now brought forward and
introduced
as Sir Ralph’s daughter, Elinor – the progeny of his first wife. This was the young woman whom Lady Denby had suggested might make a nice friend for Sophie – who seemed unimpressed.

The girl was certainly no great beauty but I thought she could have done more with her appearance. She had a good figure, fine hazel eyes, nondescript features and a disastrous hairstyle, all scraped back from a slightly bulging forehead. She was very plainly attired in an unflattering
greyish-brown
dress with no adornments save a mud-coloured sash. She shrank into the background as quickly as she could and Sophie never spared her a second glance.

‘Our little party is not yet complete,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘My wife’s son is due here tomorrow. So are Mrs Thorpe and her nephew.’

‘An old schoolfellow of mine,’ explained Lady Denby. ‘We have been friends since we were girls. I haven’t yet met her nephew. Now, do follow me and I’ll show you to your rooms. Usually we dine at five but it will be six tonight to give you a chance to recover from your journey.’

She led us through the porch into an oak-panelled entrance hall from which a magnificent carved staircase rose to the floor above. It was lit by a large stained-glass window full of heraldic splendour which had nothing to do with either Sir Ralph or his wife.

‘The house was built largely of masonry from the Old Priory,’ Lady Denby explained as she conducted us upstairs. ‘You will have seen the ruins near the house. The land was originally purchased by Sir William Chater after the
Dissolution of the Monasteries. He had this house built and although there have been some modern alterations and
additions
, the building is much the same as in Tudor times. The Chater family were great supporters of Henry VIII but after the death of Edward VI they made the mistake of offering allegiance to Lady Jane Grey.’

‘I hope you are absorbing all this history,’ I whispered to Sophie, who was clattering up the uncarpeted steps with a look of fierce concentration.

‘Sir William was executed and his property confiscated,’ Lady Denby continued, her voice booming out above us, ‘and after that it fell into the hands of a Catholic family who
supported
Queen Mary. They hung onto it through all the years of persecution – I must show you our priest-hole tomorrow.’

‘A priest-hole!’ cried Sophie delightedly. ‘Are there secret passages too?’

‘None that I know of, my dear, though there are legends of such. The Catholic Langleys grew poorer until they were forced to sell their property to the Wiltons, who lived here for more than a hundred years before dying out. That’s when Sir Ralph acquired the estate and spent a great deal of time and money restoring the house before bringing me here. There is so much to show you but we’ll leave that until tomorrow when you are rested.’

My room was next to Sophie on the first floor. After seeing us safely installed our hostess departed, saying she would see us in the Great Hall before dinner. Our maid Betsey was busy unpacking our luggage and moving from one room to another.

‘Where’s Papa?’ asked Sophie, putting her head round my door.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I replied. ‘He’s at the other end of the passage, I think. Do you like your room?’

‘Oh, yes – very historical and romantic. I see we both have the same view of the park. It’s a pity we’re at the back so we can’t see the priory ruins.’

‘No, but we have a lovely view of the lake.’

‘Your room is considerably smaller than mine,’ she said. ‘You ought to have had the larger. Would you like to change over?’

‘No, this will do very well and I’m sure Lady Denby planned our accommodation quite deliberately.’

‘I didn’t think much of Elinor Denby,’ she said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘A very plain creature!’

‘Very clever, I believe.’

‘A bluestocking!’ Sophie sniffed. ‘I don’t see why anyone should suppose I’d want to be friends with her.’

‘You don’t know her yet.’

‘I’m not sure I want to. I wonder what the son, Rowland, is like.’

‘I’m sure we’ll find out all too soon.’

That evening in the gloomy, dark-panelled dining-room Lady Denby – now adorned with an even more splendid turban of crimson silk with gold fringes – mentioned her son Rowland at regular intervals. He was apparently a paragon of all the virtues and a great favourite with everyone on account of his winning ways.

‘Do you happen to have any ghosts here?’ asked George, who was obviously keen to hear of something else. ‘Most old houses seem to have a White Lady, or a headless Cavalier.’

‘Well, there are legends, I must admit,’ said Sir Ralph,
‘though I’ve never seen or heard anything myself.’

‘You have not the necessary temperament, my dear,’ said his wife, not unkindly. ‘You have spent so many years as a practical man of business that the ability to sense the other world is quite stifled. Now
I
, whose imagination is fully developed, have detected certain supernatural phenomena: cold spots, footsteps when no one is there, doors opening and closing without human contact.’

‘But you haven’t actually
seen
anything?’ said George.

‘Not yet,’ she conceded, rather reluctantly. ‘But people claim to have heard chanting in the ruins of the old priory church and in the house the Tapestry Room is supposed to be haunted. It’s one of the bedrooms but never used. In the past, people have seen the grey phantom of a lady in Tudor dress, moaning and sighing for her husband, Sir William Chater, who was taken off to the Tower.’

‘And shortened by a head, I suppose,’ added George
facetiously
. ‘There isn’t the ghost of a monk, by any chance? Sophie thought she saw one this afternoon as we were coming up the drive.’

‘Papa!’ Sophie looked highly embarrassed.

No one laughed, fortunately, though I saw a faint smile on Elinor Denby’s face.

‘A tall fellow in a grey hooded robe?’ enquired Sir Ralph.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, you’re not the first visitor he’s startled. But he’s not a ghost; he’s our hermit.’

‘A hermit?’ cried Sophie. ‘Then I didn’t imagine him?’

‘Of course not,’ said Lady Denby, ‘he’s Brother Caspar. I insisted we should acquire a hermit when we came to live here and Sir Ralph had a very comfortable cave constructed
for him before we advertised.’

‘A comfortable cave seems a bit of a contradiction,’ said George.

‘Oh, it has perfectly adequate living accommodation at the back, out of sight,’ Sir Ralph explained. ‘We send food down from the house and he has a little fireplace where he can boil a kettle and so forth.’

‘What sort of man would choose to live as a hermit?’ I wondered. ‘I suppose he had to be someone unsociable. An old vagrant perhaps, grateful for food and shelter.’

‘Not at all,’ said Lady Denby, ‘he’s quite an educated man and not all that ancient. He simply wants to live apart from the world – a misanthrope. But he’s so picturesque he adds the final touch of mystery and romance to our park.’

After dinner, we ladies retired to the drawing room, which was a good deal brighter and more cheerful than the rest of the house as it had been altered in the last century. It was comfortably furnished and contained modern pictures and ornaments. There were large sash windows and the walls were painted pale green.

‘Not at all in keeping with the rest of the house, I’m afraid,’ said Lady Denby. ‘Sir Ralph and I plan to restore the casement windows. Now I really must lie down, I’ve had such an exhausting day.’ She reclined on a sofa propped up with cushions and allowed Elinor to dispense the tea and coffee.

I found that Amelia Denby, when not actually engaged in novel-writing, spent much of her time on a sofa, sometimes reading but often deep in slumber.

‘I am afraid my devotion to my muse drains my energy and I must rest frequently as I am not robust by nature but cursed with a delicate constitution.’

I darted a warning glance at Sophie, who was in danger of giggling. Lady Denby asked if she played the piano.

‘A little,’ said Sophie, who managed to control her mirth, ‘but I suppose that’s what all young ladies say.’

‘Then you must entertain us, my dear, but before you start, do take a look at that portrait of my son near the piano. I’ve had candles put near it so it’s well illuminated.’

I joined Sophie in front of the painting. It was a
half-length
of a fair-haired young man in a blue coat. Either the artist had flattered him or he really was strikingly handsome with his mother’s Grecian features and a debonair attitude.

‘He looks very nice,’ said Sophie cautiously.

‘Wait till you see him in the flesh,’ simpered Lady Denby. ‘He’s so charming, It’s such a pity he can’t be here more often but he has so many friends and is engaged in so many activities.’

‘What does he do?’ asked Sophie.

‘
Do
? What should he do?’

‘I mean, is he in any profession – the law, perhaps, or the Church or the army or – or – something,’ she ended lamely.

‘There is no need for him to
work
. He is of independent means.’

Anyone would think, I pondered, that her ladyship had not married a man who had made a fortune in industry and whose father had worked in a mill.

Sophie played for us – rather well for her.

‘Such a pretty girl!’ pronounced Lady Denby. ‘Her hair is a true gold – just like Rowland’s!’

When Sir Ralph and George joined us, Elinor Denby was prevailed upon to play and displayed a talent quite outstanding.

‘Good, isn’t she?’ said Sir Ralph proudly.

‘Yes indeed,’ I agreed, ‘quite superb. She must have been well taught – but even that cannot create real talent.’

Having reached the end of the piece, Elinor put away her music and retired to a corner of the room with her
embroidery
. I went over to her.