By the time she saw the advertisement, though, she was ready to move on and at least try to build a new life. With the few savings she and Blake had accrued and a few thousand from Blake’s will, she had enough money to give her a yearto decide on her next chapter. Ever since she had finished her history degree, Tabitha had worked in PR. She had been offered an internship while at university and had taken it, enjoying the fast-paced glamorous life. She had met Blake at a party thrown by one of their clients, a large London recruitment company, and despite him being twelve years her senior, their attraction had been immediate. Now, she wanted a complete change and her love of history was driving her forward. She knew she was probably not qualified for the head curator and archivist job, but even having the energy and drive to apply had felt like a positive first step.
When Edith had contacted her the following day and invited Tabitha for an interview, she felt the stars had aligned and this was the universe presenting her with the new beginning she craved. A month later, much to the concern of her family, she had moved into Tadpole Cottage and begun her new job, never regretting it for a moment.
Now, Tabitha watched as Edith paced the room, distress in her every movement.
‘His mood scares me,’ Edith admitted. ‘Lucia has always wanted him to give up Cerensthorpe Abbey. She feels no love for it and sees it as an impediment to her plans. He’s angry now but, if when he calms down, Gulliver decides to try to win her back, he may choose to sell the house.’
‘Cerensthorpe Abbey belongs to you,’ said Tabitha.
‘I know, but one day it will be his and I’d be so sad to lose it before we found the Chaucer. You and Gulliver don’t believe me, but Papa told me all the dark family secrets were in his father’s journal, including the whereabouts of our original copyofThe Canterbury Talesby Geoffrey Chaucer. Family legend states, the book was bequeathed by Geoffrey Chaucer himself after the nuns cured his wife, Lady Philippa, after she suffered an ague. There were only a few canonesses remaining as the majority had been killed by the Black Death. They illuminated the manuscript, and it was the fine detail of their work which helped to save the abbey. Unfortunately, sixty years later, after the Wars of the Roses, finances had faded again and the last abbess, Margery de Cerensthorpe, a distant Howard cousin, negotiated with Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, to have the estate transferred to the Howard dowry trusts in exchange for pensions. In 1498, it was granted to Elizabeth Howard upon her marriage to Thomas Boleyn.’
Tabitha listened, by now, she was used to Edith unexpectedly reciting a piece of family history and she found the tales fascinating, even if she wondered at their veracity. The older woman rummaged in her bag and pulled out a padded envelope.
‘This is my grandfather Wilbur Swanne’s diary,’ she said, pushing it at Tabitha. ‘Despite Papa’s claims, it’s never been transcribed. I know this isn’t one of your tasks, but would you please consider looking through it and assessing whether you would be able to make a readable copy, as a special favour to me? My eyes are not what they were and the writing is small and cramped, which makes it impossible for me to read. I wish I’d read it when I was younger, but it felt like an intrusion on Grandpapa’s privacy. Now I’m older, I realise his intentions in leaving the diary to Papa were for it to be read, but I didn’t understand. If nothing else, it would be wonderful to experience his words. This would be like hearing his voice and, if what he and Papa said was true, the diary might offer clues to the location of the missing book.’
Tabitha looked into Edith’s hopeful face and could not refuse the heartfelt request.
‘Let me fetch cotton gloves,’ she said, reaching over to her desk drawer and pulling on a pair.
Tabitha was unsure what might be inside the envelope and thought the gloves would offer protection to both the book if it was delicate and her fingers if the diary was in bad condition. With great care, she pulled out the leather-bound book and examined it in detail. It was navy blue, with gold trimmed pages and was in surprisingly good condition. Wilbur Swanne had died in 1914 during one of the first battles of World War One in the French village of Soupir and this diary had been preserved ever since.
Opening the pages with care, Tabitha examined the writing. Edith’s had been an optimistic description of the almost illegible script within. There was an expression of desperate hope on Edith’s face and, despite logic telling her this would be a thankless task, Tabitha smiled and said, ‘I could try, Edith. Would you like me to do this before I continue with cataloguing the small library?’
‘Would you mind?’ asked Edith, delight in her eyes.
‘Of course not, I’ll start on it this morning,’ said Tabitha.
‘Thank you so much, my dear,’ she said. ‘It’s very important to me to discover whether Papa did find the book or whether it’s a family myth.’
She hugged Tabitha with surprising strength and hurried away, wiping her eyes on a lace handkerchief.
As Tabitha hung up her jacket on the old-fashioned coat stand in the corner of the room and unpacked the things she would need for the day ahead, she began running through ways of enlarging and enhancing the words in the journal. Opening her computer, she emailed a friend who might be able to help and, as she did, she heard a magpie squawk. Looking up, she saw two birds on the windowsill outside, their eyes bright, their feathers a shimmering miracle of beauty. The three stared ateach other, human to bird, bird to human, then, with a raucous caw, the two birds flew away.
6
THE JOURNAL OF WILBUR SWANNE – FEBRUARY 1909
Thoughts onThe Boke of St Albans – The Social Rank & Appropriate Bird for Rank
By Dame Juliana Berners
Emperor: Golden eagle, vulture and merlin
What wonders do I imagine at the thought of a vulture landing on my arm, docile and pliant, awaiting orders to search for prey? A bird of such vast proportions it would surely topple me with its weight. Also, I venture, a carrion bird, known for feasting on the carcasses left by others rather than as a sleek hunter.
These words do entertain me and I wonder at the veracity of the lady who delineated the birds to the chosen ranks. She was a nun, who perhaps had been the wife, now widow, or daughter of a nobleman. What little I have discovered about her was that she entered the convent later in life and was already an exemplary hunter. Her skills were no doubt appreciated by her sister nuns.
To choose a vulture, though, it is peculiar. Perhaps if I were an emperor, the idea of hunting with such a bird would appeal, but being in trade – although, Mother would be shocked at sucha description – makes me lean towards a merlin. Even the golden eagle feels too stately for a man of my low, mean soul.
My life, once perfect, is destroyed by the curse. The treasure meaningless since its recipient is lost to me. Therefore, I shall leave its future to fate.
For the one who reads this tale, the person who solves the clues is my heir, the true inheritor of our family treasure. Whoever you are, know this, I have written some doggerel, a clue, a beginning for you who has been summoned. The one who is chosen: whether emperor or pauper, this path and your companions on your travail are your destiny and your hope.
Under the branch where the wizard waits
The Aquila chrysaetos guards our words
With blood on his beak, the vulture is the key
