“We are taking a tour of the abbey.”
“Ah.”
Rebecca reached the top first and saw the others grouping around Mr. Mayhew. The military man sitting at his post rose and regarded the gathering warily.
She waited for Lady Fitzhoward and Sir Frederick on the landing, and asked him, “Will you join us?”
“I had not planned to, but why not? I see Thomas is taking part as well.”
Looking over at them, Mr. Mayhew said, “Good. We are all here. Now, I shan’t point out other rooms, but number three is special, as it was formerly the abbess’s private apartment. It retains the stained glass and ornamental woodwork of the original chamber. It is occupied at present or I would show you. In fact”—his eyes twinkled—“our illustrious guest is—”
The guard coughed significantly.
Mayhew broke off and then continued, “Eager not to be disturbed, so let us move on.”
He led the way down the south side of the quadrangle, which had no guest rooms leading from it.
“This I call the long gallery. The abbey church was originallyjust beyond this outer wall, and since it collapsed, there was nothing to build over. A waste of space from a business point of view, but I’ve tried to give it merit historically by displaying paintings left by the Sharingtons. I especially like this landscape of the house as it once stood, before the village grew up around it.”
Rebecca’s gaze, however, lingered on a family portrait, and she felt a renewed sting of loss.
The proprietor stepped to another. “And this one is by the famous Thomas Gainsborough. I believe the subject is the last mistress of the estate. I forget her name.”
“Lady Sybil,” Lady Fitzhoward supplied. “Daughter of the Earl of Witney.”
“Really? Well. Good to know. Thank you. Something of a historian, are you?”
“Something like that.”
The group moved on, but Lady Fitzhoward lingered, studying the portrait of the fine lady. Rebecca walked over to join her.
“What do you think of her hair, Miss Lane?”
“Um ... there is a lot of it.” The subject’s dark hair billowed above her head like a brunette cloud, interlaced with pearls, while a long curled tendril hung over one shoulder. She had a widow’s peak on her forehead, however, which looked quite natural. “Do you think it was a wig?” Rebecca asked.
“No, I do not.” Lady Fitzhoward seemed to suddenly recall her surroundings. “Come. We’re missing the man’sthrillingcommentary.”
They hurried through the rest of the gallery and followed the sounds of echoing footsteps and voices down the night stair. Slipping into the library and writing room, Rebecca winced as the door banged shut behind them, interrupting Mr. Mayhew’s talk.
He sent them a tolerant smile before continuing. “As I was saying, this spacious room originally housed the chapter house, where the nuns discussed abbey business, and the chaplains’ room, which accommodated those who ministered to the sisters.”
He turned to the wall behind him. “During renovations, several medieval wall paintings were discovered. Here are the largest two. The first depicts St. Andrew the apostle—notice he’s shown on the X-shaped cross of his crucifixion. And the second is believed to be Elena de Wyke, who built the abbey for her order and became its first abbess.”
The willowy woman in headdress and flowing robes held one hand to her breast, while the other palm extended, holding a bird. It was very like the statue Sir Frederick had pointed out to her the previous night.
“Rather than covering over these ancient paintings, I engaged an artist to restore them. Notice the deep frames? They allowed us to plaster over the rest of the room, while preserving this artwork for generations to come.”
He looked at his audience, clearly expecting applause. Rebecca and the middle-aged couple halfheartedly obliged him.
He bowed. “Now. We shall end our tour in the chapel.”
They all filed out after him and processed into the nearby sanctuary, lit today by candelabras. Rebecca smelled dusty hymn books and tallow candles, and saw a vase of tulips left to molder, their bent heads weeping yellow pollen onto the polished wood altar.
“This is the only surviving section of the original church—the rest was too severely damaged to save. The Sharingtons walled it off and installed the altar and pews. It was then used as a chapel of ease for the family. Nowadays, it is simply a peaceful sanctuary for prayer or reflection, as well as the final resting place of the first abbess.”
Within the dim, reverent place, he pointed to a gravestone in the floor, worn almost unreadable by the hands and feet of time.
Sir Frederick lowered himself to his haunches to peer at the Latin words. Rebecca knew Frederick had studied Latin, as did most upper-class males.
