House of Shadows (28 page)

‘I wanted you to walk,’ Holly said.

‘I know.’ Mark gave her a brief, hard, kiss then tilted her chin up to look at her. ‘Are you all right?’

Holly nodded. ‘Yeah. Thank you.’

‘I’ll call you later,’ Mark said. He paused in the doorway. ‘Just in case you were wondering,’ he said, his tone a little ragged, ‘I’d like nothing more than to go straight upstairs and make love to you but I’m determined to wait this time around.’

He gave her another kiss and went out.

Holly felt as though her knees might just give way. She grabbed the edge of the worktop to steady herself and took a gulp of lemonade. The bubbles threatened to choke her. Putting the glass down she took a deep breath instead and waited for her heartbeat to slow down.

Breathe.

Whatever was between her and Mark was intense but that physical attraction was starting to run much deeper. She’d never felt like this before, never risked getting even close to
it. Her instinct had always been to escape. Now she did not know what she wanted.

She went back into her studio, taking the rest of her lemonade with her. The air was still and warm. She knew she wouldn’t be able to work to save her life. She couldn’t concentrate. Instead she drew one of her sketchpads towards her and flipped it open, drawing in a few swift strokes the outline of a ruined tower bound with ivy, secret and shuttered.

She remembered the day she had taken the photograph. It had been years ago and she and Ben had driven out to White Horse Hill and taken the path over the Downs and stumbled across the tower quite by accident. Ben had clambered in through the broken down doorway to see what was inside whist she had taken some photographs and then turned to view the whole broad sweep of the Downs, the sheltering copses clinging to the hillsides, the long view south and west to the distant hills, and the golden dome of Ashdown House glinting in the sun amidst its thicket of woodland.

Except that there had been no house and no golden dome, and she must have been imagining things then, just as she had years later when she had driven up the road and thought she had seen the house through the trees.

She dropped her pencil and pushed the drawing pad away. Memories. Imagination. She was starting to become confused as to which was which, what was real and what was not.

She thought of Ben again and the climb up to Verity’s Folly and suddenly it was as though she was looking at that day in black and white, down the wrong end of a telescope,
and that the picture was fading before her eyes. She could not remember what they had talked about, or where they went afterwards, or what she had worn that day or any of the brightly coloured details that she wanted to keep a hold of in order to capture Ben and hold him for ever. Like water, he was slipping through her fingers.

She thought of Lavinia’s memoir then, and the postcard of Kitty. They were the only two slender threads that linked her to Ben’s research. If she wanted to hold on to him she had to continue on that path. It was time to find out what had happened to Lavinia. It was time to read to the end of the memoir.

Ashdown Park, 3rd March 1801

T
he most terrible thing has happened. Evershot knows. He confronted us this morning in the drawing room. At first he was calm as you please and I thought that all might be well, but soon his temper broke through and it was terrifying. I am almost certain Clara betrayed me, untrustworthy jade that she is. I expect he paid her well for the information and she, seeing an opportunity for gain, was not averse to taking it. Whatever the truth, Evershot dismissed Robert from his post, throwing his possessions out onto the gravel of the carriage sweep where they were soaked in the thawing snow. Robert was particularly distressed that many of his measuring instruments were smashed and broken. It was wilful cruelty on Evershot’s part knowing how expensive such devices are and how little Robert can afford to replace them. All was lost but for the ugly mirror that belonged to Robert’s ancestors. I saved it by hiding it in my skirts. Just in case the diamonds were real.

Anyway, the destruction wrought upon Robert’s possessions was as nothing to the violence with which he treated my poor beloved. Evershot’s steward appeared with a horsewhip and threatened to drive Robert from the premises if he did not leave at once. Robert most bravely declared that he would not depart without me, whereupon the man set about him with the whip and then two others came and pushed Robert out of the door, locking it behind him.

You may imagine the severity with which Evershot then turned on me, and the cruelty of his treatment of me. He dragged me up the stairs; the entire servants’ hall had been roused by the altercation and stood watching and no one lifted a finger to help me. Of course they did not. They were all as terrified of him as I was. Or perhaps they felt that I deserved punishment for my deceit, if loving another man is dishonesty.

Once in my chamber Evershot tied me to the bedposts, stripped my clothing from me and whipped me soundly across my back and my buttocks, as he had done before. Even though I knew what to expect and tried to block out the pain it was excruciatingly dreadful. Anger gave his arm even greater force and he took such pleasure in hurting me. I did not cry out, for my anger matched his and I would not beg, but my strength deserted me and I think for a little while I fainted.

When I came to consciousness, sagging between my bonds, the most extraordinary thing happened. The door opened and my maid Clara appeared. She cast me a look of sullen triumph mixed with shame as she sidled into the room with a tray on which appeared to be some long plants with pointed furry leaves.

‘You have found some,’ my lord said with evident satisfaction. ‘Well done. I was not sure they would be growing so early in the year.’

He did not wait for the door to close behind her before he took the stems in a gloved hand and, coming over to where I hung in my bonds, started to brush them across my stomach and breasts.

At first I felt nothing. Then the sensation began, a stinging, burning, maddening itch that made my skin rise and turn a hot raw red. I could scarce bear it. I thought I would lose my mind at the vicious burn of pain. My back was throbbing from the whip and my breasts from the application of whatever this vile plant had been. It was torture.

Evershot cut my bonds and pressed me face down on the bed. What followed was as unpleasant as one might imagine, especially since my poor bruised and beaten body was pressed roughly against the covers with each thrust of his body into mine. He growled in my ear that I was a faithless jade and that I was his whore, no one else’s, and that I was well paid to satisfy his lusts not to service anyone else. Which was true, but still I do not think I warranted such treatment. He was unrelenting until at last he was spent and rolled off me with a groan leaving me lying there.

Holly put the book aside and put her face in her hands. She felt sick and distressed and blinded by fury, a fury all the more intense because it could have no target. Evershot was long dead and death was far, far too good for him.

Her hand was shaking as she took a glass from the cupboard and slopped some water into it. Was this why she had not wanted to finish the book? Had she known, in her heart, in her bones, that something so terrible was going to befall Lavinia? Had she been afraid to experience all of Lavinia’s pain and grief because she knew it would be like
feeling it herself, the echo of that violence and terror down the centuries?

She glanced back at the book, lying open on the table by the sofa. Lavinia had played with fire and had paid an appalling price for it. Yet surely this could not be the end. Lavinia deserved more, better than this ignominious dismissal. There was still Robert; he would not desert her. Holly was certain of it.

She picked up the book with her fingertips and a sense of revulsion.

Evershot sent for food and drink to fortify himself for further assault. Fortunately for me, he drank so copiously that he passed out, which gave me at last a chance to escape him. I knew that Robert would not desert me and that he would seek refuge at the mill and wait there for me. And so I made a plan. I would tie Evershot up and make my escape. I would rob him of anything I could take with me. Think what you will of me – it is the least Evershot owed me.

Although I was sick and bruised and heart sore, a tiny spark of excitement lived on in me. I have made my choice and I choose Robert. Perhaps it is folly to allow my heart to rule my head when all my short life I have been so careful to put material considerations before all else. Yet I feel this is no mistake. Robert is my soul’s star. There. I admit it. I who once believed I had not a sentimental bone in my body! And oh, it feels so very splendid to love and be loved! It gives me the strength to endure almost any trial, for I know that at the end of it we two will be together and nothing will come between us again. Soon, very soon, we will be fled away together …

Impatiently Holly turned the page. There was only one more line.

Robert did not come.

The rest of the page was blank. For a moment, Holly stared at it, uncomprehending; then she quickly flicked through the remaining sheets of the memoir. They stuck together a little beneath her hasty fingers. They had the smooth pristine whiteness of the untouched. Lavinia had written nothing else at all.

Holly felt odd and disoriented. It was not merely that she felt a horrible, personal sense of betrayal that Lavinia had been abused twice over, beaten by Evershot and then abandoned by the man who had professed to love her. It was not simply that she wanted – needed – to know what had happened, to Lavinia, to Robert, to the child she would go on to have. She was also shocked at the speed at which Lavinia’s life had unravelled. But then Lavinia had never had much security. One false step and she had lost everything: protector, lover, the roof over her head and the future of her unborn child.

With shaking fingers she turned to her laptop and brought up the published version of Lavinia’s diary. Once she had realised that it bore little resemblance to Lavinia’s original memoir, except at the beginning, she had not bothered to do more than flick through the pages. Now she searched them feverishly, looking for any reference to Ashdown Park or Lord Evershot or Robert Verity. Evershot certainly got a mention as one of Lavinia’s cavalcade of
lovers, and there was even a footnote to the effect that he had died soon after their liaison, but other than that there was nothing. There was no record of Lavinia’s stay at Ashdown other than as a brief period of boredom in the country after which she separated from Lord Evershot and allegedly went back to London:

I bought my passage back to London in the only currency I had – my body, dear reader, should you be in any doubt – which involved a lusty encounter with a carter and two of his fellows in a barn near Reading. What energetic lovers they were!

There followed a lurid account of how, fortunately for Lavinia, a new brothel had opened and she took pride of place in it. She grew rich on the proceeds of sin and decided with a coy wink to the reader to turn respectable and retire.

If Holly could have thrown the book at the wall she would have done. She knew the account was scurrilous nonsense. She
knew
it. Someone – the perfidious jade Clara Rogers, no doubt – had taken the idea of Lavinia’s diary and turned it into a fictitious memoir in the interests of making money. She had taken Lavinia’s name and her identity and had got rich on it.

But what had happened to Lavinia herself?

Holly shut the laptop with a snap and wandered over to the door and looked out on the mill garden. It looked serene in the golden sunshine, yet she had never felt less peaceful. She felt sick and chilled to the soul. All along she had been fearful of an unhappy ending. From the first she had not only liked Lavinia for her self-interest and survival instinct,
but had felt so close to her. Now it seemed that her worst fears had been realised. Lavinia’s lover had deserted her. He had run off, according to the information Mark had found, disappeared from the army record, perhaps started a new life elsewhere leaving Lavinia abandoned to sink into the poverty from which she had come.

Holly let herself out into the garden. She felt sick and disillusioned and yet even as she cursed Robert Verity, it felt wrong. Instinct, stubborn and deep-seated told her that Robert would never willingly forsake Lavinia. She was not sure how she knew when she only had Lavinia’s word on their entire relationship, and yet she was certain. She was sure they had loved one another with a deep, true love. Perhaps something had happened to Robert, preventing him from waiting for Lavinia at the mill. Perhaps it was fate’s cruelty, not man’s that had separated them. If only there was a way to find out …

Amidst the tangle of misery she felt a spark of faith. Quickly she walked back to the memoir and flicked back to the beginning of the entry, checking the date. Then she opened her tablet … After Mark had told her about the fire she had read some old newspaper reports about it and made a few notes … Now she saw that the date of the fire was the same as the entry in the diary; 3rd March 1801.

Lavinia had planned to run away from Ashdown Park the night the fire had burned the house to the ground. Robert Verity had abandoned her that same day.

Holly needed to clear her head, to think. She took Bonnie’s lead from the drawer. The dog bounded to her feet, eager, excited, following Holly out of the mill and into
the wood. Chequered patches of light and dark lay across the path. It felt cooler than recently, a scent of sadness hanging in the air. Holly walked aimlessly for a while, her head a jumble of thoughts and emotions. It was only when she realised how dark the day had become that she finally looked up and realised that she was lost.

They were in an ancient bit of the wood she did not recognise. Stands of tall oak towered on each side of her. The ground beneath her feet was dry brown earth and leaves long dead that crackled as she walked. There was no other sound. The air was very still, heavy and dark.

Unusually, Bonnie seemed on edge and unhappy. They had barely reached the end of the stand of oaks when her head went up and she sniffed the air sharply, scenting something. She froze. Then she turned and ran, her shadow wavering between the trees until it was swallowed up deep into the wood. The rustle of bracken and bramble died swiftly. The dog was gone.

‘Bonnie!’ Holly was as much shocked as she was afraid. It was completely out of character for Bonnie to behave in such a way. She waited, listened. There was no sound. She spun around. Shadows were gathering now, the air thick with them.

‘Bonnie!’ She shouted Bonnie’s name until she was hoarse but there was no sign.

Panic gripped her. She knew that when a dog was lost the best thing to do was to stay in the same place and wait for it to find its way back to you. Even so, she toyed with the idea of going home in case Bonnie had run back to the mill, but then she worried that Bonnie would come back
here instead and not be able to find her. She thought about walking through the wood, calling Bonnie’s name, in the hope that Bonnie would hear. And all the time it felt as though the darkness was deepening and the shadows were pressing closer and Holly could feel the fear tightening her chest and stealing her breath. In an odd way it felt as though time itself was running out.

She decided to go back to the mill and wait there, but as she turned to retrace her steps along the path it felt as though the darkness was spinning dizzily around her, the shadows shifting and reforming, and for a terrifying moment she had no idea where she was. Then the world steadied and she saw again the tunnel of trees meeting overhead and started to follow it, still calling Bonnie’s name, tripping over tree roots in her haste to get back.

Suddenly, she felt cold. Looking up she saw that the trees were bare and the sky above them was a darker black against their dark boughs. A crescent moon lay on its side, tangled in a web of branches. Beneath her feet there was snow, crisp and pale in the torchlight and she could hear water running. It was the sound of the stream that used to flow past the mill but had been silenced in the drought.