The Secret of Hollyfield House Read online

  She took a sip of tea. “Well, as much as any of the village folk would ’bout a family like that, I s’pose. Why do you ask?”

  “After the accident, I met Miss Evergreen LaVelle. She was most apologetic and concerned I was not badly hurt. She invited me to join her for luncheon tomorrow.” I reached in my pocket and extracted her card. “She gave me this and said the carriage will collect me at noon.” I leaned forward and passed it to the housekeeper.

  Mrs Stackpoole studied it and returned it to me. “How very nice,” the housekeeper said with sarcasm. “It’s the least she can do after practically runnin’ you over. I imagine she’ll have a nice spread put on for you, an’ so she should. I think it’s best you go. If nothin’ else, you’ll get a dandy look at the Lavelle’s home. Hollyfield House is right on Lake Windemere, just past Wolfe Farm. Ooh, ’tis a lovely old place—well I always thought so.” She raised an eyebrow. “Wait ’til your uncle hears about it. He’ll be right pleased you’ve an invite there.”

  I wish I felt the same, for I was not particularly thrilled about the prospect of dining with a stranger. As it was, my mind was at sixes and sevens. I was jumpy and unsettled.

  I put the card away. “I may send my regrets and not go.”

  Mrs Stackpoole put down her toast and glared at me. “Now, Jillian,” she chastised. “It don’t do no harm to be on good terms with the local gentry. The LaVelles have lived in Ambleside on an’ off several years. I’ll admit they’re an odd family, what with that eastern fellow living under the same roof. But Mr Victor LaVelle, he’s a good sort.” She tapped one side of her nose. “An’ there’s plenty of money there I can tell you. If you don’t go, they will think you ungrateful, an’ that would look bad for your uncle, now. Wouldn’t it?”

  I groaned. “But I have nothing appropriate to wear, Mrs Stackpoole. I am not in the habit of taking tea with high society folk.” I owned a few dresses, but they had all seen better days. Seldom did I venture anywhere to warrant the purchase of new clothing. Now I was more than aware of my lack of finery, not to mention my inability to arrange my undisciplined plain brown hair. I considered Evergreen LaVelle with her beautiful blonde tresses and tailored clothing. How envious I was of someone pretty as she. Her skin was alabaster to my sun browned face, her lovely eyes so blue, and mine green as a cat's.

  “Truly, I would rather stay here,” I complained.

  Mrs Stackpoole fixed me with a harsh stare. “That’s as may be, Miss Jillian. But I’ll remind you your behavior not only affects your reputation, but the professor’s too. ’Tis a nice gesture Miss Evergreen has offered, an’ you should mind your manners an’ go along for luncheon.” She smiled to soften her words. “What harm is there to be had? At the very least you’ll get something fancy to eat.”

  AFTER BREAKFAST, I SET OFF on an errand to purchase stamps for Uncle Jasper. When I passed the butchers, I noticed people clustered in small groups talking. As I drew closer, one or two peered in my direction. I guessed why—and hurried along.

  I reached Ambleside Post Office, and as I put my hand on the doorknob it suddenly swung open to reveal a man so intent on reading a letter, that he bumped right into me. With an earnest apology, he excused himself, smiled, and held open the door for me to step inside. I glanced at his face which studied my own intently, and I managed a quiet ‘thank you’.

  Mr Bonfield smiled a toothless grin from behind his counter. “Hello, again, Miss Jillian.” His rheumy eyes squinted through thick spectacles. He had befriended me as I came regularly to post Uncle’s work to several colleges across the country.

  “Good day, Mr Bonfield. May I purchase three first-class stamps please, and a bottle of your dark blue India ink, as well.”

  The older man opened a drawer and fished out the stamps which he slid into a piece of creased paper. Then he disappeared into the storeroom for a moment, returning with a small bottle of ink. He handed them both to me, and I placed them in my basket.

  He tilted his head. “How are you feelin’, Miss Jillian, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I am well, thank you.”

  “Terrible business if you ask me,” he said soberly.

  Comprehension dawned. I glanced out through the window to where the villagers still gathered. “Yes. It is dreadful. I am so terribly sorry for the man, and his relatives.” His image came into my mind and I forced it away.

  “Lucky really he had no family, just his old mother. An’ she’s beside herself with grief—poor dear.”

  “You knew him then?” My pulse picked up speed.

  “Why yes, Miss Jillian. Everyone did. ’Twas Jareth Flynn, our village blacksmith, you found floatin’ in yon lake.”

  I gasped. But then the door behind me opened, and another customer entered the shop. Stepping back quickly, I sought a moment to compose myself and suppress the nausea rising in my belly. Would it always be thus with the recollection of yesterday’s tragic event? I turned my attention to a free-standing turnstile displaying varieties of postcards. I willed my mind away from the ghastly memory at Lake Windemere and forced my eyes upon the pretty cards instead.

  They depicted tiny portraits of the area. I studied them and found them lovely indeed. There were lake scenes with sailboats on the horizon, paintings of velvet green hills with rambling pathways, and fields dotted with sheep. My favourite was a beautiful depiction of a waterfall. Whoever created these was a talented artist.

  I left the post office and turned in an alternate direction to avoid the ever-growing crowd of people gossiping on the corner. I took a detour to walk past the mill, for I loved the old building. Though still a newcomer to the village, this part of it was my best discovery so far. I loved to stand on the ancient stone bridge, watching the enormous wooden mill wheel turn in the narrow river. The constant movement churned rushing water into small foam-flecked waves. Having been born so close to the sea, I felt a tranquil calm descend whenever I was near a body of water. I stood transfixed in the moment and tried to unclutter my mind.

  “’Tis a lovely place, is it not?” A smooth baritone voice pierced my meditation, and I started at the interruption and spun around. It was the young man from the post office. I swallowed the nervous breath caught in my throat.

  “Forgive me,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  I looked at him and instantly surveyed every detail of his face. His eyes were an extraordinary shade of amber bordering upon gold. Dark flecks around the iris rendered them striking. There was a suggestion of stubble on his face, a shade darker than his thick, wavy brown hair.

  “Miss?” he said with an expression of concern.

  I snapped out of my trance, irritated for being so absorbed in my impertinent study. “Oh, excuse me,” I croaked. “I was lost in thought.”

  He stepped beside me to look upriver, while my gaze lingered on his handsome profile. What classical features he possessed—one might see the likeness on any Greek statue. I checked myself and pulled my eyes away to fasten upon the view from the bridge. Though at that moment I knew which scenery I preferred.

  “This is the best view in the village,” he said, turning to face me. “By the by, I am Dominic Wolfe. I believe I literally bumped into you at the post office not ten minutes hence?”

  I nodded, forcing my composure to return. Why was I so affected? “Yes, you did, sir. I am Jillian Farraday.”

  “Professor Alexander’s niece?” And with my confirmation, he extended a hand to shake mine. I complied. His grip was firm, his hand warm and dry.

  “Jasper is a fine fellow. A true academic if ever there was one, not to mention the foremost expert on local flora in the Lake District. You are new to the area, I understand?”

  This man had obviously heard of me. “Yes,” I concurred. “I am come to my uncle’s house recently. Are you from these parts?”

  He leaned an arm on the stone ledge of the bridge. “Born and bred in Ambleside. I live on Wolfe Farm, my family’s property for
the past two-hundred years.” His feral eyes glinted with merriment. “I think that classifies me as a local, Miss Farraday.”

  It was my turn to smile. “Indeed, and a fine place to live, Mr Wolfe. Though I have seen little of it, Ambleside is a pleasant place to call home.”

  A breeze rustled in the warm air and teased the front of his hair. “Your uncle said you had joined him from Devon.” He paused, “…and told me of your family’s recent loss. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.” His tone was sympathetic, and I appreciated his concern. I was still devastated from the death of my mother.

  “It has been a difficult time,” I said solemnly. “But being here with Uncle Jasper has made it far more bearable.” My voice wobbled, and I quickly sought composure.

  His brow furrowed. “Forgive me. I have distressed you.”

  “Do not apologize, sir. I am glad to speak to someone new, regardless of the subject. I have befriended few people since my move here.”

  His eyes twinkled with pleasure. “Then I consider myself absolved. Now, allow me to escort you home—if that is your destination? ’Tis seldom I meet new friends myself.”

  I accepted his kind offer, and we began walking back through the village, amiably chatting as though we had met several times before and not mere minutes earlier. As we walked, each person passing would greet Mr Wolfe, tipping their cap, or if perchance a woman, they giggled as young girls might do at the sight of a handsome beau. Their stares at me were of a different nature—that of curiosity. I cared not, for my spirits climbed, blossoming as a rosebud under a sunny sky from his delightful attentiveness. Mr Wolfe was refreshingly good company.

  We spoke of my uncle and his upcoming lecture. I told him of Mrs Stackpoole’s friendship to me, omitting that I suspected her romantic interest in Uncle Jasper. Mr Wolfe then regaled me with a brief history of Ambleside and its progress in the past decade. As we passed the Queen’s Hotel, he slowed his step and nodded a greeting at a young couple who passed, arm in arm.

  “Tell me, Miss Farraday,” he enquired. “Have you ever ventured to London?”

  I glanced at a liveried carriage pulled up outside the grand hotel door. “I have not, Mr Wolfe. My trip here to the Lake District marked my first venture away from Devon. I am sadly no traveller. But I imagine London to be a vast and wonderful city. Why do you ask? Are you familiar with our capital?”

  He threw an easy grin in my direction, and again I was taken by his handsome features. I drew a breath and willed myself to stop this foolishness.

  “I lived there not three years since, though in truth it seems a lifetime ago. London is a marvellous, vital place.”

  “Yet you returned to Ambleside?”

  “I did indeed, but I still carry a fondness from my time there and enjoy speaking of it when I meet others who are familiar with the place.”

  At once, I felt uninteresting and overly aware of my lack of experience. I had been nowhere, done nothing, and at the matronly age of four and twenty, must be considered rather dull.

  Mr Wolfe seemed to have read my thoughts. “Please do not misinterpret my meaning, Miss Farraday. I do not judge a person based upon their travels. I was simply curious.” He finished speaking and I realised with some surprise we had already arrived at my gate. Before I could mutter a word of farewell, the front door opened, and Uncle Jasper stood on the step, his cravat askew.

  “There you are, Jilly,” he exclaimed in astonishment, as though discovering an errant coin in his pocket. His eyes lit upon my companion. “And Dominic, is that you, boy? Come in, come in.”

  Mr Wolfe gave a friendly hello and opened the gate for me, following me to the door where he paused as I brushed past Uncle Jasper, and entered into the hallway.

  “I cannot stop, Professor,” he commented. “I must get back to the farm and check on Billy. But I was pleased to introduce myself to your great-niece and accompany her back home.” He turned his head to look at me. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Farraday. I do hope we speak again soon.”

  “Likewise, Mr Wolfe,” I said politely. My face felt flushed, and I was glad to be in the shadow of my uncle.

  “Well, come back another time for tea, Dominic. I’ve a mind to discuss a new variety of lichen I spied just last week on Compton Hill.”

  Dominic thanked Uncle Jasper but looked directly at me. “You can count upon it, sir,” he replied.

  Chapter Three

  I SPENT THE NEXT MORNING examining the last few pages of notes Uncle Jasper had given me the previous day, and soon became completely absorbed in my work. When the mantel clock chimed eleven, I put aside the papers and went upstairs to freshen my appearance. I looked frightful. My old dress had seen better days, the dark blue fabric almost grey from wear. But my hair was brushed and pinned into a chignon, and I was clean and tidy. It must suffice. Mrs Stackpoole pronounced me presentable, and when the LaVelle carriage arrived promptly at noon, I bade her farewell.

  It was the same driver who had knocked me over. He opened the door and help me into the vehicle and had the courtesy to look embarrassed. I gave him a friendly smile and hoped it would ease his mind.

  The carriage went down the lane, turning onto Lake Road, the main thoroughfare which wound towards Lake Windemere. It was early May, and the tulips and daffodils were in riotous blooms of bright yellows, dazzling oranges and reds. We passed a small farm, and I admired the sumptuous green pastures full of lazy mother sheep with their frisky lambs. Nature astounded me with its palette—no wonder spring was my favourite season. The trees and bushes burst with colour, elegant red maples, vivid lemon forsythia, everywhere my eyes turned there was new life in abundance.

  We rounded a bend with the calm, blue lake straight ahead and I kept my gaze averted from the direction I had been yesterday. I thought of the blacksmith’s grief-stricken mother and quickly dismissed it. Having so recently known my own loss, it was unimaginable to comprehend a mother’s pain.

  Mrs Stackpoole had given a good account of my destination. Therefore, I easily identified the sizeable house situated on what looked like a small peninsula, where the land fingered into the lake. As the carriage turned into the driveway, I craned my head out of the window for a clearer view.

  Hollyfield House was positioned so that both the front and rear of the building faced the water. It was not in the least ostentatious, being of modest size with a short driveway leading up to its entrance. Built from stone, the structure was accented with thick aged timber which framed many windows peppered along both storeys, along with tentacles of thick ropes of ivy. Though a dignified building, there was yet a wonderful rustic appeal. Tangled green vines clung fiercely to the walls, their tendrils snaking in all directions. High up on the pitched roof, I spotted a weathervane shaped in the fashion of a yacht.

  The carriage deposited me at the front of the house, and I walked down the pathway admiring the well-kept beds, teeming with spring flowers.

  A young girl in her early teens answered my knock on the door. She bobbed a deferential curtsey which I found extremely embarrassing as we were of similar social standing. I gave her a friendly nod, then stepped inside at her invitation and followed her through to the sitting room.

  Evergreen LaVelle rose from a window seat, a vision in pale blue silk. She glided towards me like a swan, a broad smile spread across her lovely face.

  “Miss Farraday, I am so pleased you are come.” Her eyes sparkled, and she grasped my hand and led me to the window. “Let us sit here while we wait for luncheon to be served. Tell me, how do you feel? Improved I hope?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I assured her, for I was much better. “I beg you not to worry, Miss LaVelle. It was an accident and could have been far worse.”

  “Oh, do call me Evergreen, and I should also like to call you by your Christian name. After all, we shall be good friends. I am sure of it.”

  I know my expression registered surprise, yet she paid no notice and continued.

  “I have learned
only today that you were the unfortunate creature who discovered the dead man in the lake. No wonder you were in a state when first we met. My poor dear, you have had a rough go of it these few days. I cannot imagine what a terrible shock it must have been—”

  “Please,” I asked. “I appreciate your kind words, but I would rather not revisit the experience. In fact, I should prefer we not speak of it at all. I did not come here to discuss such upsetting things. Can we talk of other, more pleasant topics?”

  She nodded in understanding, and the subject was dropped.

  “Tell me, do you miss your friends in Devon?” Evergreen asked. But before I could formulate an answer, she continued. “I miss all of mine in London. We always had such a jolly time of it. In truth, I am so very bored here at Hollyfield. ’Tis nothing like the city and I would leave in a moment if I could.” She gave a mournful sigh.

  I was somewhat bewildered at this sudden outburst. We were scarcely acquaintances, yet she spoke as though I was a trusted confidante. I did not respond.

  “My father remains in the city but insists Perry and I spend several months here.” She gestured with her hand. “In this awful place in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Perry?”

  “My twin. He apprentices with Mr Nicholas Sneed, Father’s accountant. Perry is to work with Father, and he insists my brother understand all facets of the company. Currently it is bookkeeping and accountancy he must study.”

  “What kind of business does your father have?” I asked, then instantly regretted my ignorance as she smiled at me as though I had been living on the moon and was the only person who did not know.

  “Why, he is a shipbuilder. Tell me, have you never heard of LaVelle Shipping?”

  I shook my head to the negative.

  Evergreen giggled. “How amusing. My father is a self-made millionaire, Jillian, and I do believe you are the first person I have ever met who did not know of him. He is called the working-class man’s hero,” she exclaimed with a note of disdain. “Father has not a drop of blue blood in his veins, but he was clever enough to become filthy rich.” She shrugged. “I am fortunate indeed to want for nothing, yet my father plans to marry me to a wretched title, probably one in need of a sound financial investment. I am a mere bargaining tool for him to auction off to the highest peerage.”