As the autumn sun threw its golden rays across the driveway of Cerensthorpe Abbey, Tabitha glanced over her shoulder for a final glimpse of the house before she turned the corner towards her cottage and it was lost from view.
The abbey was what Tabitha thought of as a smaller stately home. It lacked the enormity and grandeur of buildings such as Chatsworth, Highclere Castle or Hardwick Hall, but with twelve bedrooms, a long gallery, a library with an annexe known asthe small library, an orangery and a hundred acres of rolling grounds, it was not an average family home. There were also numerous cottages dotted throughout the estate, including Frog Cottage, where Molly, Gulliver’s mother, lived.
Cerensthorpe Abbey was spread over two main storeys, with the third storey devoted to smaller attic rooms which would once have housed servants. It had begun life as a thirteenth-century convent. The oriel window in the east wall was a remnant of its ecclesiastical origins, as was the scriptorium which, Gulliver had explained, had been renovated five years earlier.
As the sun lowered, preparing for a spectacular sunset, the glass in the oriel window glittered golden and Tabitha tried to imagine how it had looked when it housed the imposing figure of St Scholastica, the twin sister of St Benedict, who was associated with learning and prayer. The deep indigo of her robes and her solemn elongated eyes had earned her the name of the Black Lady.
‘She was lost during the Second World War,’ Edith had said. ‘The window was blasted out when a bomb was dropped in East Meadow. One piece survived – a white falcon – said to have been added to the window by Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, when the abbey became part of her dowry. It survives to this day.’
The central tower – once a bell tower – loomed, watchful and wise over fountain court and the long winding drive. Built from honey-coloured stone, the mediaeval heart of the house, with its gabled rooftops and tall chimneys, was weathered but even more beautiful with the softness of age.
There had been additions over the centuries: the orangery and long galleries added at the back of the house, first during the Jacobean era, followed by a Georgian façade, then remodelled again during extensive Victorian renovations. Edith was proud to point out the new additions as it had been her grandfather,Wilbur Swanne, who had created the glasshouse, the library and the ballroom.
When Tabitha had first seen Cerensthorpe Abbey on a bright, cold spring morning in March for her interview as Head Curator, the windows reflecting the bright sharp light with a shimmer like diamonds, the brick glowing warm with golden tones, she had felt peace suffuse her.
This is a house that has known great love, she had thought,a place where people have come to take refuge.
Unsure where these thoughts had come from, she had nevertheless known they were true. Her elder sister Tamar’s voice had whispered in her ear as though she were beside her, ‘It’s because you’re a natural born witch, Tabs,’ followed by laughter: echoes of her four sisters.
Edith had hurried her inside and spent half an hour on a whistlestop tour of the house, explaining that both she and her sister, although married, had kept the Swanne surname.
‘We didn’t want the name to die out,’ she had said, ‘and we were so delighted when Phyllis had a son, Lemuel, then he and Molly had Gulliver, so the name is safe. Sadly, my husband, Jacob, and I were not equally blessed, which is why Gulliver will inherit the estate, even though he’s descended from my younger sister. You understand more than most, you being a historian and genealogist.’
All this had been delivered in a rush and Tabitha had not quite caught the finer points but felt there would be time to probe further if she was offered the job.
‘And this,’ Edith had said with a flourish as they had walked out through the front door and along the path to the left which led to a small wood, ‘would be your home, should you accept my offer.’
Tadpole Cottage had once been thatched, but the roof was now a flash of terracotta against the pale sky. Picture-bookperfect, with the symmetry of a child’s drawing, it was painted white with black-framed Crittall windows. Tabitha had stared at it in astonishment. A wall surrounded the small front lawn, while to one side was a space for a car and a glimpse of a well-maintained back garden.
‘Do you think you could be happy here? It’s not far to the village and there are plenty of things to do to keep you occupied,’ Edith had asked with a hint of anxiety. ‘I’d be delighted if you would consider taking the job. Cerensthorpe needs someone with compassion and you are brimming with it.’
A lump had formed in Tabitha’s throat and she had been unable to speak. After a year of horror, culminating in the death of her husband, Blake, this was the first glimmer of recovery she had felt.
‘I’ll show you around inside before you decide,’ Edith had said and propelled her forward, but even before they had walked through the front door, Tabitha had known this was her new home.
Now, she breathed in the autumn air with its scent of woodsmoke and the underlying peculiar aroma of mulched leaves, damp earth and the changing of the seasons.
‘Home,’ she murmured as she followed the winding path through the small expanse of trees – that she had been pleased to discover, were well lit at night – towards Tadpole Cottage.
Even six months on, there were days when the fatigue which had accompanied her depression made even the simplest task feel impossible and this evening was one of those times. She planned to do little more than cook and relax before an early night.
A perfect black glossy feather lay in the centre of the path and Tabitha paused; reaching down, she picked it up and held it in the filtered light from the trees. The myriad colours of green,violet, deep brown and black shimmered, creating the midnight shade of true black.
A warning, she thought with a shiver, as her knowledge of folklore spiked her tired mind, then, mentally, she shook herself.
It’s a feather, take it home, draw it, but don’t see imaginary signs.She twirled it in her fingers before sliding it into her tote bag.
But as she rounded the corner, her breath caught in her throat.
A man was slumped on her doorstep, his abundant dark hair had flopped forward and was covering his face. His shoulders were shaking as though he was sobbing and his face was hidden in his hands.
Hands which were slick with blood.
2
SHURLAND HALL, KENT – AUGUST 1485
‘Elizabeth, wake up.’
