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The Secret of Hollyfield House Page 4
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“What?” I asked. “That makes no sense. What past. Which chapter?”
His gaze met mine. “Before your mother married, there was another man in her life. Someone unable to be with her—someone who broke her heart.”
“That is ridiculous,” I snapped with irritation. “My mother only ever loved my father, and he her. There was no one before him. She would have said something to me. We were always very close.”
“My dear girl, of course, your parents were in love. What I speak of was before they met, when your mother was young and impressionable. I cannot tell you much for she never elaborated about what happened, but only gave me the pendant for safekeeping, lest she might have need of it one day. I was visiting your grandmother at the time, and your mother insisted I take it with me when I left. And Jilly, she obviously did not want it back, for she never reclaimed the gem.”
“No, this makes no sense at all.” I did not like his inference. My mother could not care for anyone other than my father, and that was an end to it.
“It is not for you to fret over dear girl. ’Tis a young woman’s keepsake, not unlike a love letter, or a card from an admirer—something she would want you to have. Just put it away in a drawer and forget about it.”
I opened the tin and looked at the moonstone. It was a beautiful stone, yet somehow tainted by what Uncle Jasper had shared. I was uncertain what I thought now.
“Do you think it valuable?” I asked.
“I am not sure,” he said. “I imagine it would be worth something, yet moonstones are not rare, or as expensive as emeralds, sapphires or rubies. We might have it appraised and find out?”
I nodded and got to my feet. “I will put it away for now.” I went to him and kissed the top of his head. “I am off to read before it gets too late. I shall see you in the morning, Uncle.” With that, I left the room for the sanctuary of my bed.
BUT SLEEP EVADED ME, THAT night. I tossed in my bed, the pendant there whenever I closed my eyes, along with images of my father—his lovely smile and his happy face. That my mother could have cared for another was beyond distasteful, and I would not accept she had. Why was the pendant here? My parents had never been wealthy, and Mother could have sold the gem and used the money to ease their own plight. Yet she had not. I was uncertain if the thought of her selfishness irritated me more than the realisation she had loved my father second.
Chapter Five
ON THE NIGHT OF THE DINNER, when the door opened to admit my uncle and I to Hollyfield House, the lack of finery in our formal attire was shockingly apparent. Uncle Jasper’s black suit reeked of mothballs, even though Mrs Stackpoole had it airing on the washing line all afternoon. My dress was one kept for Sundays and special occasions, a dark green cast-off from my mother’s hope chest. I had wrapped a gold silk shawl about my shoulders, but it did little to improve my embarrassment.
We were shown into the parlour I had frequented earlier that week, and Evergreen instantly leapt to her feet, welcoming me with an unlady-like embrace, and a friendly nod to Uncle Jasper.
“Goodness, Evie, do let them come in before you devour them.” A male voice chuckled from one of the armchairs, and as Evergreen led us over to the settle, a tall young man approached with one hand extended.
“Good evening, to you both.” He smiled, and I noticed his obvious resemblance to Evergreen. This was the twin brother she had spoken of. Though not identical, their likeness was uncanny.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he added. “Peregrine LaVelle, Evergreen’s long-suffering brother. Welcome to Hollyfield. We are pleased you could come at such short notice.”
My uncle shook his hand vigorously. “Happy to accept, my boy. Pleasure is all ours.” We took a seat upon a large satin sofa while the siblings sat facing us in two scarlet armchairs. I studied them. Both were blonde, yet Peregrine’s eyes were lighter, unlike his sister’s startling violet-blue. His face was the same pretty heart-shape, yet with harsher angles. They made a striking pair.
A man entered the room, a silver tray in his upturned palm. I almost gasped in surprise, for he looked as though he had stepped out of a page of the Arabian nights. His skin was the colour of strong coffee, with obsidian eyes beneath the deep scarlet of a turban. Garbed in a long white tunic over loose-fitting trousers, with sandals upon his feet, he was an exotic vision—flamboyant among the formal trappings of a stoic English parlour. This must be the ‘easterner’ Mrs Stackpoole had casually mentioned.
“Ah, Marik, there you are.” Peregrine rose. “May I introduce our friend from India, Marik Singh. He is part of the family but insists upon acting thus when we have company—though he needn’t.” The Indian gentleman approached each person with the offer of a glass from the tray. He kept his handsome face expressionless, his back rigid. I could tell at once he was a man of great self-discipline.
“India,” my uncle commented wistfully. “Now there’s a place I’d like to explore.” Uncle Jasper’s face beamed like a young boy. “I’d enjoy a jolly good romp around the jungle. I daresay their flora would be a fascinating study.”
“Not to mention the tigers,” Evergreen added, and we all laughed.
“And cobras,” said Peregrine, taking a glass of sherry from Marik Singh. “Were you ever in British East India, sir?”
My uncle shook his head. “Never was. Closest I got was Cairo, right after the Suez Canal opened. Caught a fever at Port Said and got sent right back to England. Good job too, or I’d probably have been a goner.” His words stirred a vague childhood memory. A telegram to my grandmother, her worry at her brother’s fate.
“India will always hold a special place in my heart,” Peregrine said softly, and his eyes met those of his sister. “But our time here in Ambleside is—” He paused as the door opened to reveal the solemn figure of the woman I had met on my last visit. Marabelle Pike. Tonight, she appeared less formal. Her gown was russet brown, devoid of frills or lace, which did not serve to accentuate her looks, but rather make her seem even more sullen. I admonished myself for thinking such unflattering thoughts. Besides, who was I to criticize, wearing naught but a Sunday best dress, long past its prime.
“Dinner is served, Peregrine,” she announced laconically.
I HAD NOT BEEN BROUGHT UP wealthy, yet I silently thanked the women in my family for teaching me social graces and polite table manners. My grandmother had come from a distinguished background but was cast out when she chose to marry my grandfather, a working fisherman. Her lifestyle had proved hard and difficult, though you would not have known it in her presence. Proper etiquette was second nature to my grandmother, and she took great pride in passing on what she knew to my mother and myself. Thank goodness. At least I knew the correct fork to use first, and could display what I hoped were decent table manners.
After the plain food at my uncle’s table, dinner was simply mouth-watering. There was watercress soup and poached salmon, followed by carved roast beef and vegetables. Stimulating conversation had been ongoing, mainly between my uncle, and Peregrine LaVelle, their mutual interest of the Lake District an easy topic. When the raspberry cream tart was served, both men were engaged in their differing opinion of Darwin’s controversial book, On the Origin of Species.
“But, Professor Alexander,” Peregrine insisted. “How can you possibly believe the human race is descended from apes. It is an absurd notion.”
My uncle was unfazed. “No more preposterous than a celestial being having the power to create life. And for what it is worth, my boy, human beings are not far removed from ‘said apes’.”
Miss Pike’s voice suddenly perforated the atmosphere like a blade “That is easy to believe, Professor, when you consider the atrocities men do to one another. A perfect example is our propensity for violence. What say you of the murder of our blacksmith?” Everyone stopped talking and collectively we all stared at the woman. I felt the start of a blush creep across my face and dreaded what might come next.
“I understand you, Miss Far
raday, were the unfortunate person who discovered Flynn’s body?” Her beady dark eyes settled on me as the others turned my way.
“Good grief,” said Peregrine. “Is this true?”
I nodded solemnly, reluctant to be drawn into the conversation.
“My dear Miss Farraday, that is absolutely shocking,” Perry said, astonished. “You must have been terrified.”
“I should hate to see something so abhorrent. Though I have heard an arrest was made,” continued Marabelle. I looked at her and saw a malevolent gleam in her eye. She was enjoying my discomfort.
I lifted my chin. “That is a relief,” I forced my voice to sound confident. “I should hate to think anyone could get away with murder.”
“Marabelle, must you?” Evergreen glared angrily at her cousin who hastily averted her eyes. “I hardly think this appropriate conversation at dinner, in fact at any time. Our guests have come to dine and enjoy our company. It is in poor taste assaulting Jillian by asking unpleasant questions about an experience I am sure she would rather forget.” She rose abruptly from her chair. “Come. We ladies shall excuse ourselves to the parlour for coffee.” Marabelle and I instantly got to our feet and followed our hostess out of the room, leaving the men to their port and cigars.
The drawing room was a welcome reprieve from the topic of conversation at the table. I took a seat on the now familiar red sofa while the two ladies sat across from me. As before, Marik appeared like a genie and placed a small coffee tray on an ornate ivory inlaid table next to Marabelle.
With her face all seriousness, Marabelle poured the coffee. As we sipped the delectable brew, she spoke for the third time since we had sat down to dinner.
“Do you share your uncle’s interest in plant life, Miss Farraday?” Her deep voice was not warm, and her expression devoid of character.
“Unfortunately, no.” I smiled, though I still smarted from her earlier comments. “As much as I like flowers and vegetable gardens, his obsession with mosses and lichens is beyond my scope.”
“I cannot think of anything more boring,” Evergreen commented. “They all look much the same to me, except I rather like lavender. It is so fragrant and makes such a nice adornment for my hats.” Her pretty blue eyes were guileless and naïve, yet I was not so foolish to believe the girl silly. She was toying with us.
“Marabelle thinks me frivolous with my propensity for gowns and trinkets,” she continued. “It goes against her strict Catholic upbringing to wear gaudy costumes.” She gave an unkind giggle, and I did not look at Miss Pike. Unlike her, I derived no pleasure from another’s discomfort.
“Indeed,” Evergreen continued. “My dear cousin believes my soul eternally damned for brushing a little rouge on my cheeks and lips, not to mention a dab of cologne.”
Miss Pike set her demitasse in its saucer with a distinctive chink. She got to her feet. Ignoring her cousin, she looked at me directly. “Please excuse me. There is a matter I must attend to with Cook, lest I forget.” With that, she hastened out of the parlour.
“Thank goodness,” Evergreen sighed. “I am sorry she picked on you at dinner. Marabelle is such a misery-guts. Truly, I do not understand why Father allows her to stay. She is always so down in the mouth. Can you believe the woman is but twenty-eight, Jillian? I think she was born forty years old.” She laughed at that, and my fine opinion of her lost some of its shine at her capacity to be unkind.
She continued to chatter about inconsequential subjects until the adjoining door to the dining room opened and Peregrine entered the room with my uncle in tow.
“Ladies, I beseech you to dazzle me with vocal frippery, for I have spent enough time hearing about the complexities of horticulture. My brain is exhausted.” He turned to my uncle, who took a seat next to me on the sofa. “Sir, I am drunk on knowledge.”
Everyone laughed, and it did my heart good to see Uncle Jasper having such a pleasant time of it.
“Jilly,” he beamed. “What do you think? Peregrine has agreed to my taking a specimen of his Lycopodium annotinum. It will be a wonderful addition to the collection.”
I gave a grateful nod to my host even though I had no clue what Uncle Jasper was talking about. “Mr LaVelle, it is most kind of you. My uncle will be forever in your debt.”
“Happy to help the cause.” Peregrine grinned and sat in the chair vacated by Miss Pike. “Professor, feel free to wander and collect to your heart’s content. I’ll let Billy know so he won’t run you off if he sees you in the gardens.”
“Is that young Billy Wolfe you speak of?” My uncle asked, and I found myself suddenly most attentive at the mention of the familiar surname. Surely this must be the Billy related to Dominic Wolfe, the young man I had met at the post office.
“The same,” Peregrine answered. “He took over responsibility of the gardens when his father died. Very good with the plants I’m told—has a knack for making things grow. I’ll have a word with him in the morning.”
“Is Billy related to Dominic Wolfe?” I enquired, quelling the curiosity in my voice, and wondering why I felt such a sudden interest in the Wolfe family.
“Yes.” This time it was Evergreen who answered. “Dominic is the older brother, a wonderful artist. Father commissioned him to paint his portrait years ago when Dom was a student at the London College of Art.” Her eyes sparkled. “He’s rather dashing. Artists are so romantic.”
“Oh, please, must you?” Peregrine rolled his eyes at his sister. “Dominic Wolfe is a fine fellow, indeed. I have a great deal of respect for the man with the sacrifices he’s had to make.”
I was intrigued. And when my uncle agreed with the statement, I was eager to know of what they spoke. “What has Mr Wolfe sacrificed?”
“His potential career as an artist in London,” Peregrine replied. “The man was under the tutelage of the great John Everett Millais himself. Gave it all up when his parents died of scarlet fever a few years ago, and he came back to Ambleside to run the family farm. Now all the man gets to paint are postcards which are sold to tourists.”
I remembered the beautiful little paintings I had admired. A variety of thoughts crossed my mind at this information. Several questions presented themselves, and I asked the first which bubbled to the top.
“Could Billy Wolfe not take care of the farm without his brother?” This seemed logical to me, especially if he had a way with making things grow.
Evergreen laughed, and it sounded like a little bell. “Goodness no. Billy might be good with plants, but he can barely hold a conversation or do up his own buttons. The boy is disturbed, if you ask me.”
I frowned, uncertain of her meaning.
Peregrine must have seen my confusion for he smiled kindly. “Billy Wolfe is not like a normal young man, Miss Farraday. He is struck with Mongolism.”
I stared blankly at my host as I absorbed the term.
Evergreen interjected. “Surely you know what that means? The boy has the mind of an infant. He is an imbecile.”
THE USE OF THE LAVELLE carriage was offered for our journey home, but Uncle Jasper politely declined. He announced, “The night is pleasant, the moon full, and a walk will help digest the gargantuan meal I have consumed.” Though I was tired and the prospect of walking home was unappealing, I had to agree with his choice.
Uncle Jasper kept a steady pace. No doubt his legs were strong from all his rambling on the hills. As we went along, the conversation eventually turned to our evening of repartee. More than anything, I yearned to learn more about the Wolfe family. Though I could not define my reason, thoughts of Dominic Wolfe resided on the fringes of my mind. What was it about the man that held my interest?
“Uncle, how well are you acquainted with the Wolfe family?” I asked as we reached Lake Road, which was quiet at this time of night.
“I knew the parents before they died. They were good people. If I remember correctly, we first met when they gave me permission to examine a species of liverwort growing in one of their west fields. It was
a wonderful specimen. Still have it in the study.”
“What were they like?”
Uncle Jasper fell silent, gathering his thoughts. He cleared his throat. “Well, Arthur Wolfe kept a rather fine ale, and I seem to recall a delectable slice of Mrs Wolfe’s plum cake which—”
“Uncle,” I groaned. “I mean what kind of people were they?”
“Hmm.” I realised the question was not an easy one for him to answer. My uncle could describe a mushroom in poetic detail, but human beings were of an alien species.
“I do not recall them being particularly spectacular, Jilly. Just hard-working farmers. But now I think on it they were a mismatched pair. Arthur was a respected village elder, a serious chap, never much to say. But his wife. Now there was a striking woman. Pretty eyes, I recall, and of elegant stature. Violet Wolfe was well versed in herbal remedies and such like. We had several interesting discussions on the healing components of lichens, especially when used as poultices on infected wounds. Although she was not a proponent of the use of leeches—”
“Uncle. I mean for you to tell me about them. What were their personalities like?”
He shrugged. “No better nor worse than most, Jilly. I did not know them well, you understand. As a matter of fact, I am on better terms with Dominic. His parents were good people who unfortunately succumbed to scarlet fever and left the care of a young boy to the more competent elder son. They have a small, working farm, and seem to rub along well—all things considered.” He frowned and appeared to engage his thoughts elsewhere. I knew that was the total sum of his opinion of the Wolfes’, and no more would be forthcoming.
As he prattled about his upcoming lecture, my mind drifted like a leaf upon the lake, and the rippling current of thought brought the image of a handsome dark-haired man—with eyes the colour of a tiger’s.