House of Shadows (11 page)

Fortunately, I had by that time learned a little of the ways of the world and realised that I needed to value myself more highly. I was not short of admirers and might catch a gentleman of greater wealth than Lord Downes would ever be. So it was that I solved Downes’ dilemma for him by leaving his protection. The poor boy was heartbroken, but I imagine his distress was of short duration. As for me, I threw in my lot with Lord Gower.

Lord Gower was a gentleman of mature years and even more mature fortune, who was easily able to keep me in the style to which I aspired. Despite the fact that he was a prosy bore and lamentably bad at pleasing me in bed, I do believe that I should have been devoted to him all my life were it not for the melancholy chance that he died within a six month. It was vastly inconvenient for me.

Sadly, Gower’s heir was impervious to my charm and promptly evicted me from the pretty little house I had occupied in South Moulton Street. For a short while matters were most difficult for me. I fell further than I had risen and was obliged to find work in a bawdyhouse that delighted under the name of Madame de Senlis’ Temple of Pleasures. Madame was no more a Frenchwoman than I, although she liked to pretend to all manner of affectation. Fortunately, my time there was short, but during those few months my amorous education was vastly expanded. I became proficient in
the use of the birch. I learned how many men enjoyed the sight of two or more women disporting themselves lewdly together. I was celebrated for my ability constantly to recover my virginity so that once again it could be sold to the highest bidder. Useful skills all, but I felt I deserved more than this.

Help was at hand. One night during the season I was at the theatre and caught the eye of Lord Evershot. Evershot had no great personal claim to nobility or riches, but he had benefited vastly from the fame of his ancestor, the illustrious First Earl of Craven. Dying childless, the Earl had left all of his estates that were unentailed to the descendants of one of his sisters. This heir adopted the name Craven Evershot, but later the family dropped the Craven part entirely, which seems a little ungrateful. From such beginnings the Evershots had scaled the heights of the aristocracy. It gave them an air of being vastly pleased by their good fortune.

Evershot was a favourite of old King George, in whose service he had been, and was said to possess sufficient charm that even the Queen, notorious as she was as a high stickler, ignored his licentious and extravagant ways and considered him a fine fellow. I could never see the charm myself but that was nothing to the purpose. He was rich and tolerably handsome and quite young. He made me an offer that I refused. It was a dangerous gamble, for I had nothing to fall back upon. Fortunately though, Evershot was not the sharpest intellect and did not realise the weakness of my position. He made me a better offer and finally one that I was pleased to accept.

Evershot planned to take a house in Brighton and the thought of all those redcoats quite cheered me, but we had barely been there a sennight when a curious thing happened. My lord had a letter from the land agent at one of his estates that seemed to excite him inordinately. Immediately he announced that we were to go
to Berkshire and would remain fixed there for a spell of time. In vain I protested that my portmanteaux were barely unpacked, that Brighton was highly diverting, and that I could not bear the country. Evershot was adamant.

And so it was that in late January of this year 1801 I came to Ashdown Park.

‘G
ran,’ Holly said as she gulped down mouthfuls of scalding coffee, ‘do you know where Ben got this book from? Was it his or does it belong to Granddad?’

She had stayed awake later than she had intended, reading Lavinia’s riveting account of her introduction into the low life of the high-class Regency courtesan. She’d hoped to find some reason for Lavinia’s inclusion on Ben’s list of names but other than a link to Ashdown Park there was nothing as yet. It was intriguing.

Hester, with the newspaper in one hand and her own cup of coffee in the other, looked at Holly over the top of her glasses. She was wearing a silk kimono of vivid design.

‘Which one, darling?’ She put the paper down on the kitchen table so that she could take Lavinia’s diary in her hand. ‘I don’t believe …’ She flicked through it. ‘No, I don’t think this is one of John’s books. I’ve never seen it
before. But you can ask him if you like. He’ll be down in a moment.’

‘I wonder if Ben left it here last time he was visiting you,’ Holly said. ‘When was he last here?’

‘I’m not sure when it was …’ Hester murmured vaguely. ‘Oh, no wait.’ She looked up from the diary. ‘He was here about a month ago. It was the last time we saw him.’ Her voice wobbled a little, then steadied. ‘You think this might be his?’

‘Well it’s all about Ashdown Park and the descendants of the First Earl of Craven,’ Holly said, ‘and it has a bookmark in with Ben’s writing on it. I wondered if he might have left it here.’

‘Hmm.’ Hester was reading through the memoir again. ‘You know, there’s something familiar about this …’ She reached out and pulled her tablet towards her, typing in a few words. ‘Yes, I thought so!’ She angled the screen towards Holly.
‘Lavinia Flyte – The Scandalous Diary of a Regency Courtesan, a true record as dictated to my trusted companion and maidservant Clara Rogers.
’

‘It’s a published book,’ Hester said. ‘It was a huge bestseller in its time, apparently. It looks very risqué. I’m afraid it’s probably all just salacious twaddle, darling, a complete fabrication.’

Holly pulled the tablet towards her and scrolled down the list of books on display. There were a number of different editions of Lavinia’s diary in print, and also various scholarly commentaries on the art of the nineteenth-century erotic memoir. The covers ranged from the tasteful – an elegant depiction of a boudoir – to the racy – a heaving bosom
about to escape from the constriction of some very tight lacing.

‘Goodness,’ Holly said. She clicked on the ‘look inside’ button.

‘Written at Ashdown Park in this year of 1801.

I shall not say why and how I became, at the age of sixteen, the mistress of Lord Downes and embarked upon a life of vice.’

‘Oh.’ Holly felt deflated. Last night she had thought she had discovered something secret and unexpected. She had hugged the memoir to herself like a special gift. Now it appeared that the entire world knew about Lavinia Flyte and her diary. It had been published. It could not conceal any secrets. The brash flow of covers on the screen offended her. Not because she was a prude but because the handwritten diary with its delicate drawings of flowers and its flowing handwriting had felt too special to be no more than a sensationalist piece of erotica. Lavinia Flyte had seemed so real to her.

She looked dubiously at the plain green cover of the book as it rested on the table. ‘This is a handwritten version, though,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s the original?’

‘That would be extraordinary,’ Hester said. ‘What would Ben have been doing with that?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Holly said. ‘Perhaps he found it at the mill.’

An image came into her mind; the little hidden space beneath the window seat and a wet summer’s day with the rain drumming on the mill roof.

‘Holly! Come and see!’ Ben’s voice, urgent. ‘Look what I’ve found!’

She blinked. Had they really found the little green book in the secret compartment years ago, when they had been children playing at the mill, or had she imagined it? She could not remember.

‘Do you want to see what your grandfather knows about it?’ Hester asked. ‘Oh, here he is now. John, darling—’ She spun around in her seat to address her husband, ‘do you know anything about this book? Holly found it upstairs. She thinks it may have been Ben’s.’

Again there was that small, tell-tale quiver in Hester’s voice as she mentioned her grandson’s name and John Hurley came across the kitchen and put both hands on the back of his wife’s chair. He bent to kiss her; Holly saw her grandmother close her eyes briefly and rub her cheek against his arm, as though she was drawing strength from him.

‘Morning, Granddad,’ Holly said, smiling at him. ‘I hope it was a good dinner last night.’

To Holly, her grandfather had always epitomised the idea of a typical old-fashioned academic. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair, a slight stoop as though he had spent along time hunched over his books, and he always wore a tweed jacket, even if it was a warm day. He matched the outfit with an air of slightly abstracted kindness that gave no hint of the steely sharpness of the mind beneath. Not for John the glamour and wanderlust of the television academic. He looked as though he belonged in Oxford’s ivory towers and was determined to stay there.

‘I certainly had too much after-dinner port,’ John said ruefully, rubbing a hand through his hair and making himself
look even more dishevelled. ‘I should have learned at my age.’

Meeting Hester’s eyes, Holly saw the faint shadow of concern there. Many years before, her grandfather had been a very heavy drinker. Holly realised her grandmother was worrying that Ben’s disappearance might push him into seeking that escape again.

John had picked up the memoir now. ‘Oh yes, I remember this,’ he said. ‘It’s an interesting document. I was going to get it authenticated for Ben but then when he left I couldn’t find it.’

‘He’d put it on the bookcase in my bedroom,’ Holly said. She took the memoir from her grandfather, holding it close to her chest. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll keep it for now. I’d like to carry on reading it.’

‘Of course,’ John said equably. Holly saw him exchange a look with Hester and knew they were both thinking she was eager to keep it because it was another tenuous link to Ben. Probably they both thought she was clutching at straws because in the absence of knowing what had happened to Ben they were all finding it hard to cope.

‘What are you planning to do today, darling?’ Hester asked. ‘Will you be going back to Ashdown?’

‘Not today,’ Holly said. ‘I’ve decided to go back up to London for a few days. Not to make up with Guy,’ she added hastily, seeing an expression of wary surprise and relief on her grandmother’s face. ‘I plan to pack up my stuff and make arrangements to move my workshop down to the mill. I wondered—’ she looked at Bonnie, ‘whether you would
mind having her for a day or two whilst I get myself sorted out?’

‘We’d love to,’ Hester said, beaming.

‘You should get a dog of your own, you know,’ Holly said. ‘They are very therapeutic.’

‘We couldn’t possibly find one as lovely as this gorgeous girl,’ Hester said, stroking Bonnie’s silky ears. ‘As long as we can borrow her sometimes we’ll be fine.’ Bonnie thumped her tail in appreciation and agreement and when Holly rose to get ready to go she made no movement to follow her.

‘Do you think she misses me at all?’ Holly said, with a sigh.

‘I’m sure she does,’ Hester said. ‘Give us a ring later and let us know how you’re getting on.’

It was still early, a Saturday morning, and the traffic was light, most of it heading into Oxford rather than out onto the M40. Holly rang Guy on the way to let him know she was coming. She didn’t feel it was fair simply to turn up even if the house had been their shared home until very recently. When she got there the narrow cobbled mews and the tall slender house looked almost unfamiliar, even though she had only been away for a few days. It was an odd sensation, as though she had already moved on in some fundamental way.

Guy was waiting for her. He was in boxers and a stained T-shirt and had clearly only just got out of bed. He looked unshaven and not particularly friendly.

‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ he said grudgingly, as though he had been rehearsing the words and thought he should be praised for his performance. ‘I thought he
would have turned up by now.’ He paused, awkwardly. ‘I suppose they’ve started to think he might have topped himself …’ His voice trailed away as Holly just looked at him.

The flat was in a spectacular mess. ‘I’ve been out most of the time,’ Guy said, by way of apology. ‘What d’you want to do?’

‘I’ll pack up all my stuff and take it back down with me,’ Holly said. The flat was Guy’s, as was most of the furniture; it would not take her long. Looking about her, she saw how superficially she had made an impression on the place despite the time she had lived there, mainly because she had always been working. The cushions were hers as were a couple of the pictures. She owned one chair and some bedding. She certainly didn’t own the toothbrush that was nestled next to Guy’s in the bathroom but she ignored that. She wasn’t going to pick a fight now.

Her workshop was a completely different matter. That was all hers and, as she let herself into the engraving studio and shop, she felt a sharp pang of loss and for the first time, questioned whether she was doing the right thing. Ben’s disappearance had eclipsed everything else in her mind up until now. She looked around the shadowed interior, at the shelves laden with her stock, glasses and bowls and paperweights; at her long work desk and the drills standing idle and some of the old familiarity of her life returned again. She wanted to turn the clock back.

The problem was that she could not turn back time. Too much had happened. Ben was missing and she had changed.
She wanted to be at Ashdown. She wanted to find out whatever it was that Ben had been researching. She wanted to find
him
somehow, through his work.

She could see that there were benefits in closing the studio. London rent was sky high and for a number of months she had been struggling to make the payments. It wasn’t that she was unsuccessful; she had a thriving small business, but expenses ate up so much of her profit. Perhaps it was time to move on somewhere different. The mill was a gift in the sense that she would have free accommodation and she certainly couldn’t stay here, not now that she and Guy were over.

Back in the flat she told Guy she would be staying with a friend that night and saw his look of unconcealed relief. It was bizarre to feel that they had moved so far apart so quickly, and yet she thought they had actually never been all that close. For a while, their physical proximity had masked an emotional distance but now that pretence had been smashed to pieces.

‘I forgot to tell you …’ Guy was dressed now and looking as though he was ready to go out and hoping she wouldn’t hang about too long. ‘A parcel arrived for you early this morning by courier. They woke me up, actually.’ He paused as though expecting Holly to apologise. ‘Anyway, here it is.’ He passed her a small padded envelope.

Holly pulled the flap of the package open. Inside there was a black velvet box and a stiff sheet of thick white writing paper.

She recognised the box at once and felt her heart do a strange, sickening little lurch. Her fingers trembling slightly,
she put it on the table and unfolded the letter. The paper felt smooth beneath her fingertips.

‘My dear Miss Ansell …’

The writing was in ink, strong and black. Holly thought, irrelevantly, how rare it was to get a hand-written letter.

‘It was a great pleasure to meet you at the Ashmolean Museum last night …’

‘Holy shit.’ Guy burst out. He had taken the box from the table and opened it. Now he was standing there, his mouth hanging open, the crystal mirror in his hand. It looked tiny and fragile, but the diamonds shone with a hard glare in the morning sun.

Holly glanced up for a brief second but the letter called her back. There was a shaky nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her throat was dry.

‘You will, I am sure, remember me telling you the story of Frederick of Bohemia’s crystal scrying glass,’ she read. ‘I have decided to withdraw it from the exhibition. Its place is with the Sistrin pearl; with you, Miss Ansell, for I am certain that in examining the cause of your brother’s disappearance you will discover the pearl. I wish you success in your quest.’

It was signed Espen Shurmer. There was a short postscript.

‘The mirror is a gift.’

Holly let the letter slip from her fingers onto the table, where Guy pounced on it. She grabbed the back of one of the kitchen chairs and sat down in it rather heavily. Guy was scanning the letter quickly now and when he spoke there was a new tone to his voice, excitement and disbelief jumbled up together.

‘Is this for real?’ he said. ‘Someone has
given
this to you?’

Holly looked at the mirror. It was lying in shadow now and somehow, in the ordinary surroundings of the kitchen, it looked diminished, shabby, and half the size it had done when it had sparkled in its display case at the Ashmolean.