Authors: Alison Stuart
As she took a step toward the chairs, the whispering ceased and she let out her breath and straightened her shoulders before crossing to the windows and pulling them shut.
“Come on, Alice,” she said. “We’ll be late for supper and I don’t want to annoy your grandmother on our first day.”
* * * *
In the morning, Helen induced a reluctant Alice away from the dollhouse with the promise of a visit to the village shop. Rather than follow the drive, they cut along a neglected path that led from the house to the village church. Their feet crunched on the weedy, broken gravel and the hinges of the small gate into the churchyard squealed in protest as Alice pushed it open.
Walking through the gravestones to the church, they paused at one or two to read the inscriptions and marveled at their age. In the cool interior of the church, Helen stood still, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. She was fascinated by old buildings. No building in Mansfield was older than fifty years, and to stand in the nave of a church where men and women had worshipped for centuries filled her with awe.
They wandered down the side aisle of the church past carved stone knights and their ladies resting on their tombs, and walls covered in memorial plaques, mostly to long dead Morrows. Beside the choir stalls in plain view of the nave, a bright brass plaque headed “
In memory of those of this parish who died in the Great War 1914-1918
” caught Helen’s eye.
Her own town had subscribed to a public fund and erected a solid memorial in the centre of the town, the plinth inscribed with the names of the fallen of the Mansfield district. She scanned the list of about twenty names. This simple plaque was no different; it could have been the same names, the same young, hopeful faces.
Captain Charles Morrow MC headed the list.
She swallowed. Seeing his name so starkly written made it all so real. The fact it did not appear on the Mansfield war memorial had been a matter of some dispute with her father who chaired the public subscription to raise funds for the Memorial. Treacherously, her brother had sided with their father pointing out that whatever their personal feelings for Charlie, he had not fought with the Australians.
“Look, Alice,” she said. “Here’s Daddy’s name.”
Alice stood beside her, slipping her hand into her mother’s. They stood hand in hand, looking at the plaque and allowing the silence of the old building to engulf them.
“Can I help you?”
Both Helen and Alice jumped and Helen turned to see the vicar, a middle-aged man with graying hair, in a dog collar and long dark robe, watching them from behind heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” The vicar blinked behind his spectacles as he looked up at the memorial plaque. “I shall leave you to your prayer.”
“It’s all right, Vicar. It was just something of a shock to see my husband’s name here. I’m Mrs. Morrow,” Helen said.
“Of course, I quite understand. Welcome to Holdston, Mrs. Morrow. My name’s Bryant.”
Helen dutifully shook his proffered hand. “This is my daughter, Alice,” Helen said, placing her hands on Alice’s shoulders.
“You are most welcome too, Miss Morrow,” the vicar said. “I have a daughter your age who would love to meet you. My youngest,” he added, looking up at Helen. “The others are all away at school now and Lily gets terribly lonely.”
“That would be wonderful. It is a little quiet for Alice up at the Hall and she would be glad of a playmate.” She turned back to look at the church. “It’s a dear little church.”
The vicar beamed with pride. “Twelfth century, if not older, I believe. Indeed, the Manor of Holdston is mentioned in the Domesday book.”
“I can’t imagine what it must be like to live in the same place as my ancestors have lived for all those centuries,” Helen said. “Where I come from, there’s nothing older than sixty years.”
“Ah, you’re an Australian, if I remember rightly? Young Mister Charles met you when he went out to Australia to work as a...” He searched for the word.
“A jackeroo?” Helen suggested.
“Good heavens, what a strange expression. He always wrote so fondly of Australia. We feared he may never come home. You know there are six centuries of Morrows in the family crypt under the church? They’re all there except, of course, young Charles...” He broke off. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t need to be reminded.” Turning to Alice, he changed the subject. “There is a story that a secret tunnel runs from the house to the church.”
“Why?” Alice asked.
He shrugged. “I believe the Morrows of the sixteenth century kept getting their religion wrong, Catholic when they should have been Protestant, Protestant when they should have been Catholic. I’m sure a secret tunnel would have been very useful in those circumstances. They say Charles II used it when he fled the battle of Worcester, but of course, every old house in this area has a Charles II story so I have my doubts as to its credibility.” He looked at Helen. “Is Sir Paul home yet?”
Helen shook her head.
“I do enjoy my chats with him. He was in Palestine last year, you know? If he’d had the chance to get a proper university education, there’s no telling what he would be doing now, but the war...” He shrugged. Helen had heard it before. The war accounted for so many things that should have happened. “Of course his work takes him away from Holdston and he doesn’t have the time for the church and the estate. Your own dear husband...” The church clock struck eleven and he glanced at his watch. “Is that the time? Mrs. Morrow, Miss Morrow, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sermon to write. Shall I see you in church on Sunday?”
Helen smiled. “Of course.”
Helen watched as the vicar entered the vestry, closing the door behind him. She gave the memorial plaque one last look and walked gratefully into the warmth of the summer day.
* * * *
Carrying magazines and a bag of humbugs procured from the village shop, Helen and Alice strolled back to the big house. From the driveway, Helen could see the stable courtyard where a man washed a large, old fashioned Rolls Royce. She looked at Alice and they turned down the driveway toward him. He straightened when he saw her, wiping his hands on a cloth.
“Mrs. Morrow, Miss Alice,” he said. “Sorry we didn’t meet yesterday. I would have brought old Bess here to meet you at the station. I’m Sam Pollard.”
“How do you do, Mr. Pollard,” Helen said with a smile.
“Call me Sam or Pollard,” the man said. “Mr. Pollard just doesn’t sound right.”
Alice opened the packet of sweets. “Would you like a humbug?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Pollard sat down on the running board of the car and selected a sweet from the bag. Helen leaned against the mounting block.
“Is Lady Morrow going out?”
Pollard shook his head and shifted the humbug to his cheek as he replied. “No. These days, if her ladyship goes up to London or into Birmingham, she takes the bus or the train. This old girl,” he patted the Rolls affectionately, “doesn’t often get much of a run. The Major thinks we should sell her and get something smaller.”
“It’s a beautiful car,” Helen said.
“I remember when Sir Gerald first bought old Bessie here. The whole village turned out to watch him drive it. He took all the village children for rides. He was a good man, Sir Gerald.” Sam’s lips tightened. “Master Charles’s death broke his heart and to see the old place now–” he looked up toward the hall, “–falling down around our ears and not the money to fix it. If Master Charles were here...”
Helen looked up at the house. It seemed clear, in the opinion of some people, the wrong Morrow had come home from the war. If Charlie had ever intended to return to Holdston, he had not shared his thoughts with her, but at the time of his death his father had still been alive and inheriting Holdston had seemed a distant problem. They had made plans for a future together in Australia.
“Mummy.” Alice’s excited voice came from the stables and she peered around the door. “Come and see the horses.”
Helen straightened and walked over to the stables, pausing in the doorway to breathe in the familiar smell of warm horse and hay that reminded her of the stables at Terrala.
“Used to have the best blood stock in the county.” Sam Pollard had followed her to the stables. “All gone now except for her ladyship’s old hunter, the Major’s gray and a couple of trap ponies.”
Alice stood beside one of the stalls stroking the nose of an elegant chestnut with a white star. Sam rummaged in a sack by the door, and handed a couple of withered carrots to her. She held them out on her palm, giggling as the horse’s soft nose tickled her.
“This ‘ere’s Minter.” Pollard ran a loving hand down the nose of the chestnut. “Her ladyship’s hunter, only she don’t ride any more on account of her bad hip. Pity. He’s getting old and lazy, aren’t you?” Minter’s ears swiveled, as if aware he was being talked about in disparaging tones.
Helen dipped her hand into the oat bin and offered some to Minter, who snaffled them appreciatively. She patted him on the graceful curve of his neck.
“He’s beautiful,” she said. “I miss my horses.”
“If you’ve a mind to it, her ladyship would probably have no objection to you taking Minter out for a ride sometime. The old boy could do with the exercise.”
“What about me?” Alice asked. “Can I ride one of the trap ponies?”
Pollard shook his head. “I wouldn’t like you to do that, Miss Alice. Awful mean those ponies can be.”
Helen put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, seeing the child’s disappointment in the droop of her mouth. “Never mind, Alice, I am sure we will find something suitable for you.”
Pollard moved to the next stall and stroked the nose of a beautiful dappled gray with a dark mane and tail.
“And this here’s Hector, the Major’s horse.”
“Does the Major ride much?” Helen asked.
“When he’s home,” he said. “He’ll take him out most mornings–if his leg isn’t botherin’ him too much. Fine rider, the Major. He should have joined the cavalry, but old Sir Gerald insisted he joined his father’s regiment.”
“His leg?”
“Aye, smashed it the night...” Pollard stopped. “He was wounded you know.”
Helen nodded. “So I’ve been told.”
Pollard cleared his throat and Helen, deciding against pushing the man with any more questions, repeated the exercise with the carrots, handing a couple to Alice who fed them to Hector. Minter looked over expectantly and nickered at her.
“You’ve had your share,” Alice told the horse.
“And you, young lady, have some lessons to do this morning,” Helen said, steering her daughter toward the stable door.
Alice looked over her shoulder at Pollard. “Can I come and visit the horses?”
The man smiled. “Any time, lass.”
Chapter 2
Every time he returned to Holdston, Paul Morrow paused for a moment to look up at the old house that he knew he should call home. The familiar weathered stone walls of the medieval house, pierced with mullioned windows, slumbered peacefully in the summer sun. It still felt no more a home to him then it had when he first saw it twenty years ago.
He straightened his shoulders, hefted his suitcase in his right hand and strode across the bridge over the moat.
Sarah Pollard waited at the door, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“I heard the car,” she said. “It’s good to have you home, sir.”
A normal response would be “
It’s good to be home
” but Sarah knew him too well to expect such a response. He smiled and kissed her on her forehead, a gesture that would have appalled his aunt.
“Lady Morrow’s in the parlor,” Sarah said and Paul nodded in acknowledgement.
Striding across the stone flags of the Great Hall toward the living rooms of the house, the sound of his boots echoed in the silence, betraying the slight unevenness of his stride.
His aunt sat at her writing bureau, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. He knew she would be here without Sarah telling him. Lady Evelyn Morrow always wrote letters from two to three in the afternoon.
“Hello, Evelyn,” he said.
His aunt started, turning abruptly on her seat and removing her glasses as he entered the room.
“Paul.”
She rose to her feet, still as slender and elegant as she had been the day he had first met her.
They made no move to greet each other with any more intimacy than that of polite acquaintances. Although physical displays of affection were not in Evelyn’s nature, a smile greeted him as she gestured to the armchair for him to sit.
“You look well, Paul,” she said taking the high-backed chair across from him. “Palestine must agree with you.”
“Mesopotamia,” he corrected her.
She frowned and said more to herself than to him. “Why did I think it was Palestine?”
“I was in Palestine last season,” Paul said.
“Of course. I lose track. I suppose you will be locking yourself in the library again like you did last summer?”