Grace found herself in what she suspected was a dairy room, for it was cold, north facing, with a large marble workbench in the centre. It was the start of a rambling exploration of the empty house, which took her past empty food pantries, through two large abandoned kitchens and into a dark narrow servant’s hall that led to the main grand hall. A sweeping staircase, elegant empty drawing rooms and a large silent dining room, were each visited in turn. They appeared all the same, with no furniture to distinguish them, no paintings to adorn them, no inhabitants to breathe life into them. Grace wandered around for an hour, touching the cracked, peeling paint on the doors and imagining the paintings that had once filled the shapes on the faded, wallpapered walls. Every silent empty room came to life before Grace’s eyes. Elegant balls, fine dining, scurrying servants hurrying about their duties played out before her. The images were so real she could hear the rustle of the exquisite gowns, the tuneful melody of an expertly played piano and the hushed tones of the staff as orders were given and received out of sight of the Brockenshaw family.
In all of her exploration, Grace only came across one painting that represented the family who had employed her mother all those years ago. It was on the floor, propped up against a wall of one of the main bedrooms, as if it had been removed from the hook for packing, but in the last minute forgotten and abandoned. The room was flamboyant and feminine in its decorative taste, leading Grace to believe that it was once Lady Brockenshaw’s. In the corner of the painting was an inscription of her name, confirming that the young elegant lady, with rich auburn hair decorated with bejewelled combs befitting her standing in society, was Lady Brockenshaw herself. Grace marvelled at her intricate hairstyle as she absently touched her own auburn curls. The brushstrokes were exquisite,highlighting each strand, twist and jewel with skill, if not devotion.
‘We share the same colour . . .’ thought Grace aloud, as her fingers grazed her own casually bound hair. Her gaze dropped to the woman’s lips and she smiled. ‘Even the same lips.’ A thought struck her. ‘Perhaps I would look like you if I had your wealth and class.’ She lifted her gaze to the woman’s eyes as if expecting a reply. The woman looked back at her from the depths of the past. Grace believed she would have answered if she could, if she wasn’t frozen in time by the bonds of oil paint, canvas and portrait varnish. Grace’s smile faded. Why did portraits have to make one feel so sad? She carefully replaced it where she had found it, took a deep breath and turned away. It was her mother’s life she yearned to learn about, not the titled woman who had employed her.
Eventually Grace climbed the servants’ stairs, which she suspected would lead to the servants’ quarters and her mother’s bedroom. Grace felt confident that she would know which of the rooms would have been her mother’s, for she had been a lady’s maid and had earned the privilege of not having to share.
At the top of the stairs stretched a dark, windowless corridor lined with closed doors. Grace opened each door in turn, working her way along until only two doors remained. One, she discovered, was a storeroom, still cluttered with old chairs, perambulators and a wicker chair with wheels that had seen better days. Grace turned away and reached for the door opposite. As soon as she opened it, she knew it had been her mother’s.
The room was the same size as the others, but this time there was only one bed inside. She expected the room to be empty, like the others, but it wasn’t, as if in the hurry to vacate the property the room had been overlooked. A lady’s maid’s uniform, covered in a fine layer of dust, still hung from a coat hanger on thewardrobe door, whilst a delicately embroidered cushion and a servant’s lace cap lay on the neatly made bed. A pair of strange wooden shoes were lined up against the wall, the sort women used to protect their boots in years gone by. She couldn’t imagine her mother walking in them as those kind of unwieldy shoes had not been used for years.
Grace’s gaze lifted to an embroidered picture hanging from the wall and cautiously approached it. Her breath caught in her throat. It was dusty and damaged by mould, with the sewer’s initials neatly embroidered in the corner. Grace smiled and tentatively touched the faded threads that spelt out her mother’s maiden initials. Yes, this was definitely her mother’s room. Why didn’t her mother want to share this past life with her? She closed her eyes and imagined her mother embroidering it by the light of a candle, eagerly anticipating the next time she would meet up with her father, when shared promises, passionate kisses and embraces marked their journey of falling in love.
Grace’s eyes flew open. She had heard something. It sounded like footsteps in the hall. And was that a man’s voice? Grace returned to the corridor to make her escape. They could not find her here. She was trespassing and, more worryingly than that, she was disobeying her parents who would surely find out. She had to leave, now, before she was caught.
* * *
The minute Talek had arrived at Bosvenna Manor he knew the place was not for him. The location near to Bodmin Moor had first attracted him. The advert’s details had further snared his attention, claiming it had fine views that reached to the horizon and beyond. Views Amelia had said that she longed for. A cursory glance told him that the typescript was a little over generous in its boastfulness, reaching as far as the surrounding gardens would have been a more accurate description. However,the gardens were very generous in size, albeit overgrown and harshly neglected.
Views aside, in reality there was little sense in its purchase. It was miles from his work and it would need a great deal more funds to make it liveable. Before the wheels of the trap had creaked to a halt, Talek had noticed that the guttering was inadequate, the windows required attention and a large area of the roof was in desperate need of replacing.
Mr Headway, the house agent, hurried forward and cheerfully greeted him, before he had time to dismount from his carriage. The excitable man was a few years younger than Talek, but had a tendency to roundness and a harsh receding hairline, giving him the appearance of being many years older. His nervous eagerness resulted in Talek resigning himself to waste the next hour in Mr Headway’s company to avoid disappointing him. After all, it was not the house agent’s fault that Mr Headway senior had misrepresented the property to him. Besides, despite his growing reputation, Talek did not have the heart to refuse this man’s opportunity to practice his property selling skills.
Inside, the house was no better. The musty smell of damp infiltrated his airways and warned him to go no further, but he ignored it. Mr Headway’s nerves ensured that the tour of the rooms was a speedy affair and Talek obediently followed in his wake, thankful it would soon be over. On several occasions, his sharp hearing caught the sound of creaking floorboards and the scurrying feet of a rodent somewhere above, but neither concerned him. The house was old and empty, making it an ideal haven for wild animals to make their nests in the spring.
Talek climbed the stairs. They were another disadvantage, he thought. There were too many for his needs and too ostentatious for his taste. What was he thinking when he chose this house? Was it his vanity or his sister’s enchantment of the nearby moors that drew him to it? What little patience hehad was fast disappearing and he declined, rather too abruptly, when Mr Headway offered to show him the servants’ quarters. He would stomach the grander rooms, but there was little point wasting more of his time here by including a tour of the servants’ living quarters too.
Mr Headway laughed nervously, perspiration beading on his top lip. They had paused on the first floor corridor, before an open door to yet another room.
‘Of course you don’t,’ said Mr Headway, bowing slightly. ‘Silly me. Not a man of your standing. Perhaps the view from this room will interest you. I was told the views are important to you.’ He beckoned his client towards what might have once been a study. Empty, built-in shelves lined the walls that would have sucked all the light from the room if it had not been for the splendid window facing south. Mr Headway shuffled from foot to foot like an eager puppy, keen to please. Talek nodded and followed him into the room.
Mr Headway eagerly watched Talek approach the large window. ‘Splendid view, is it not?’
Talek had to admit that it was, even if it was mostly of the tired, neglected gardens below. Talek solemnly surveyed the grounds trying to imagine what his sister would say. It didn’t matter anyway, he realised. This place required too much time and commitment, none of which he had to give.
Something caught his eye. The faded curtain to his side had moved. It had been so slight that he had almost missed it. A draught, perhaps? His engineering mind wanted to find the cause and provide a solution. Surreptitiously, he let his eyes wander along the window frames while Mr Headway wittered on behind him.
‘Most of the land was sold off years ago. I forget the reason why. Probably debts, or was there a tragedy? I seem to recall . . . Is anything amiss, Mr Danning?’
‘I believe there is a draught coming from somewhere.’
Mr Headway laughed nervously. ‘I am afraid these old houses are prone to draughts at times. Shall we move on?’
Talek declined. ‘And who owns the land now?’
‘Kellow Dairy has acquired some of the tenanted farmland. The milk produced is used for their products. Come, Mr Danning, let me show you the drawing room which boasts two open fires.’
Mr Headway’s figure disappeared through the door, but Talek was reluctant to follow. He should never have come here. He had too much to do at home and he didn’t particularly relish the idea of being a close neighbour to the redhead from the moors. Another movement of the fabric caught his eye again. It was slight, a mere tremor, but he had seen it all the same. This time he was certain it was not caused by a draught. He narrowed his eyes and noticed, for the first time, a dark shadow within its folds. Talek reached out and slowly drew the drape aside. Staring back at him, startled and wide-eyed, was Grace Kellow.
‘Mr Danning, are you coming?’ called Mr Headway from the corridor.
Miss Kellow did not move. It was as if she was frozen at the point of seeing some horror unfolding. Talek realised the horror was him. Mr Headway called to him again. Talek’s reply was sharper than he intended.
‘No, Mr Headway, I am not.’ What was he to do? Expose this woman for the trespasser that she was or pretend he had not found her? The infernal man was returning.
‘Is there anything you like the look of, Mr Danning?’ asked Mr Headway from the doorway, his hands wringing in anticipation.
‘No,’ replied Talek, letting the drape fall back into place, before she could be seen. He turned slowly to face the despondent young man. ‘I see nothing here that attracts me,’ headded in a clear tone so there would be no misunderstanding. ‘I see no point in wasting your time further.’ He heard a soft gasp beside him, but fought the urge to glance in Miss Kellow’s direction. Instead, he strode determinedly from the room and headed for the stairs without looking back.
