The housekeeper hesitated, the lines on her face deepened by a wince. “Gone. John sold it.”
Rebecca’s heart sank. “Sold it? Why?”
“Needed the money. Or at least, wanted the money.”
“But who would even want our family portrait?”
“Don’t know. Was it done by someone famous?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Samuel Lines, I believe. Or one of his pupils. I was rather young at the time.” Betrayal heated her veins. “He had no right to sell it!”
“I understand your anger, my dear. But trust me, it’s not worth losing your only sibling over. Your living, breathing family is more important than any portrait.”
Rebecca squeezed her eyes closed and drew a shaky inhale. “I suppose you are right. I will wait to raise the issue with John. We have a more pressing matter to deal with first.”
2
Portfolio in one trembling hand, valise in the other, Rebecca walked back to the medieval stone abbey—the setting of many childhood nightmares. Her heart beat painfully hard. It had been one thing to alight in the stable yard, but to enter the abbey itself?
As a girl, she had taken pains to avoid the place, walking around Mr. Dodge’s field rather than using the more direct path past the abbey. Every All Hallows’ Eve, the children of Swanford told tales of the evil abbess who roamed the ruined church that slumped beside the abbey like the bones of an ancient mastodon, which Rebecca had once seen at an exhibition.
Local children still considered Swanford Abbey haunted, inhabited by the spirits of long-dead nuns who’d lost their home and some their lives during the dissolution centuries before, when icons had been smashed and church property claimed by the monarch. Afterward, the abbey had been given to a nobleman loyal to the crown who built a large private residence over and around the old cloisters. Sharington Court had been a two-and-a-half-story house with a slate roof, twisted chimney stacks, and mullioned windows. Many generations of theSharington family had lived there until the last of them died without heir or offspring more than thirty years ago. The house had been locked up, while the adjacent church, with its collapsed roof, continued to crumble. Since then, children of the parish had dared one another to climb the fallen walls, and the bravest among them had played among its ruins.
Rebecca still remembered the one and only time she climbed atop a partially crumbled wall of the ruined abbey church. A childhood companion had told ghost stories until fear froze her in place.
And then Rebecca had looked down and seen Frederick Wilford standing below her, an amused smile on his handsome face.
“May I help you down, young lady?”
Relief and a secret thrill had washed over her. She nodded and trustingly leaned into him as he lowered her to the ground....
Rebecca blinked away the memory, wishing she could leave behind her girlish infatuation as easily.
Several years ago, Sharington Court had been purchased and, after a few financial setbacks, had eventually been renovated into a grand hotel. Rebecca was still not keen to enter the place in any state. With thoughts of dispossessed spirits in mind, the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end as she walked up the graveled drive.
Taking a deep breath, she ascended the double-sided stairway, where an officious-looking commissionaire opened the door for her.
With a start, she recognized him as Sir Roger Wilford’s former valet, now attired in fine livery.
“Mr. Moseley, good day.”
“Ah, if it isn’t Rebecca Lane, all grown up. Goodness, how ancient you make me feel. I remember you running around the village green in a grass-stained pinafore.”
She dipped her head, neck warm. “That was a long time ago. Well, a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, miss. It’s been an age.”
“I have been traveling.”
“Have you? I would say, ‘How pleasant,’ but the truth is, I am a homebody who likes his own bed.”
He offered to carry her valise, but she shook her head and held it close. She wasn’t yet sure she would be staying as a guest. She rather hoped not.
He looked about to insist, but at that moment a stately traveling chariot arrived, and he quickly turned his attention to its occupants, calling for two porters to come and carry their baggage.
Rebecca entered Swanford Abbey alone.
Inside, she found herself in what had once been a Gothic great hall of impressive height, now a spacious reception hall. A magnificent log fire burned in a hearth with crossed sabers carved into the chimney piece above. On either side of the fire, decorative andirons shone, polished to a high sheen. A plush Turkish carpet served to soften the echoing sound of the open space. Atop it were arranged a cluster of small tea tables, red velvet armchairs, and sofas.
