House of Shadows (32 page)

‘Now …’ John had come in and was easing himself into the leather desk chair. ‘Take a look at this. I came across it the other day. It’s called
An Allegory of Love
and it was painted by Sir Peter Lely.’

He clicked on a tab on screen and a picture came up. Holly leaned on the desk to take a closer look. It was a painting of a man in a white silk shirt edged in blue, handsome, grave. A woman stood to the side of him in a russet gown that matched her hair. She held a laurel wreath in her hand. Three childlike figures with wings were grouped to the other side.

‘William Craven and Elizabeth Stuart,’ Holly said. This was the painting that Lavinia had written about seeing at Ashdown Park, she thought. She remembered the heartfelt words in the memoir:

‘Oh to find a love like that …’

‘Are those angels?’ Holly asked.

‘Cupids,’ John said, smiling. ‘Symbols of love. I think the painting gives lots of clues about their relationship. I don’t know if Craven and Elizabeth were married but they were certainly bound to each other. Look—’ John moved the cursor over the image, ‘one of the cupids has tied his wrist with blue ribbon. It was known as the
cordon bleu.’

‘I thought that was for cookery,’ Holly said.

John laughed. ‘It is, but the phrase originated as an order of knightly chivalry. It implies that Craven was bound to Elizabeth through love and honour.’

‘She’s crowning him,’ Holly said, squinting at the painted laurel wreath in Elizabeth’s hand. The background of the painting was dark. It was difficult to see the details. ‘I thought laurel wreaths were a symbol of victory.’

‘Victory, peace and wisdom,’ John said. ‘Laurel is also a symbol of marriage, so perhaps this is the closest they ever came to acknowledging the marriage publicly.’ He turned away from the screen to view Holly directly. ‘There’s something else though. You may remember me telling you that the Rosicrucian order believed in reincarnation? The laurel is a symbol of regeneration and future life.’

‘The life they had and the lives of the generations to come,’ Holly said. ‘Yet a little while before Elizabeth died, they parted,’ she said. ‘I wonder why that was.’

‘I believe they quarrelled,’ John said. ‘It was the gossip of the time.’ He clicked on another link and a few lines of text came up. ‘Not Pepys,’ John said, ‘but a lesser diarist called Tremaine. He was at the theatre one night when Elizabeth and William Craven were present.’ He moved out of the way so that Holly could read.

‘To the theatre where the entertainment on the benches far exceeded that on the stage. Her majesty the Queen of Bohemia left in the middle of the performance. It seems she has quarrelled rather badly with that old cavalier Craven, perhaps because his former mistress was in the audience too. Reports have it that her majesty has left his protection and is to be the tenant of Lord Leicester instead …’

‘Oh dear.’ Holly pulled a face. ‘I wonder if that was the mother of Craven’s illegitimate son, or another woman?’

‘Tremaine doesn’t say, unfortunately,’ John said, ‘but I’ll see if I can find any other references.’

He turned away; closed down the screen. ‘Poor Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Just because you may believe in soul mates and destiny it doesn’t mean you aren’t human and fallible.’

‘And poor William Craven too,’ Holly said. ‘After so many years of devotion it must have been unbearable to lose her.’

John stood up slowly, as though his bones ached. He reached for her, drew her in for a hug. He smelled of pollen and warm wool and soil and Holly’s childhood and she hugged him back, feeling the tears prick her throat.

‘Better to risk all for love than to be too afraid to try,’ John said, ‘in my opinion.’ He let go and smiled down at her. ‘Remember that, when the time comes.’

Wassenaer Hof, The Hague, September 1642

T
he baggage train filled the courtyard outside and spilled out of the gates onto the road. Craven was not the only one leaving for England. A number of gentlemen had pledged themselves to Elizabeth’s brother’s service now that the three kingdoms were tearing themselves apart in civil war. But Craven was the only one Elizabeth did not want to see go. Her court was in uproar, her life falling apart and re-forming again into a different pattern. Yet all she could think was that this really was the end. Craven was leaving and she would only see him again on the far side of war, if at all.

She could not hold him. She did not have enough to offer. She never had had anything to offer a man who was impatient of idleness, a soldier who needed a cause, who always had to be active. He could not sit by in The Hague playing cards or attending masques or having his portrait
painted. She had seen how it drove him to madness. Even when they had gone hunting together, riding out fast and hard, she had sensed that for him it was not enough. Even when he had been in her bed and it was sublime, it was only the respite of an hour or so.

He came to take his farewell of her. He was dressed for travelling, plain, serviceable. They had not even discussed his departure. It had been accepted that he would leave for war and she would watch him go. It did not matter that he was her lover. Other loyalties came before that.

‘Majesty.’ He bowed and took her hand for a formal kiss. She looked in his eyes and saw he had already left. He was a soldier. He had a job to do.

‘Be careful.’ Her heart was cracking in two.

He nodded and released her.

She had so little time and so much pride. She watched him walk across to the door.

‘William!’ She could not stand it a moment more.

He turned.

‘Don’t go,’ she said. Her words tumbled out now. ‘I don’t want you to go. Stay here with me. Please. I can’t imagine what it would be like without you.’ She did not dare look at him, not when she had thrown aside all her pride just to make him see the truth. She
could
imagine it, the bleakness without him, the emptiness, but the further words stuck in her throat.

There was a moment of absolute stillness.

‘Elizabeth,’ he said.

‘I don’t just want you as my lover,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s not enough. Marry me.’

He looked winded beyond shock. It was so comical she had to stifle a laugh. Yet it was no joking matter. With the words out she realised how much she wanted to bind him to her forever. To take him as a lover for a couple of months, or even years, was not enough. His was the strength and counsel she relied upon. She could not risk losing that on a lovers’ quarrel.

He glanced quickly around. In the bustle of departure it seemed that no one had heard. She suspected that plenty of people knew of their liaison but Craven had always been scrupulous of her reputation, never showing the slightest familiarity in public.

He crossed the room to her and took her hand again, tucking it through his arm, walking with her casually down the length of the room and out on to the gallery. He did not speak. It felt so informal, certainly ordinary enough to fool her courtiers. Yet he covered her hand with his and that was not casual at all. He did not speak and she did not dare glance up at his face.

At the end of the gallery was an antechamber, no more than a storeroom, cold and full of old travelling chests and the smell of dust. She felt him glance back and then they were through the doorway and he closed it behind them.

The room was so small they were almost touching.

‘Elizabeth …’ There was so much emotion in his voice and yet he seemed uncertain what to say. Fear seized Elizabeth then. He was going to tell her that soldiering was his life, that he could not break his pledge to support her brother simply so that he could stay with her. It was not honourable.

He was going to say that he cared more for war than he did for love.

‘I’m sorry,’ she started to say, but he shook his head.

‘Don’t be.’ His voice was fierce. His hand came up to cup her jaw. ‘I did not know—’

‘Did not know that I loved you?’ She felt astonished. How could he have lain with her night after night when she had poured out all of herself and her love to him without restraint and not realise that she cared for him above all else?

She placed a hand against his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart against her palm. ‘Marry me,’ she said again.

‘Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘You are a Queen. It is impossible.’

‘It is possible to lie with me as a mortal sin and yet refuse to wed me with honour?’

She saw the struggle in his eyes. ‘It is not that.’ He sounded angry. ‘Do not demean yourself or what we have by speaking thus.’

‘Then why refuse me?’

‘Because of the disparity in our rank! Because you are a Queen whose cause can only be diminished if she is seen to have married beneath her.’ He threw out a hand in exasperation. ‘Surely you can see that as well as I?’

‘You have always considered yourself the equal of any man,’ Elizabeth said.

Craven made a sound of frustration. ‘This is not about what I feel. This is about what other men think.’

‘But you love me.’

‘Of course.’ He looked baffled that she should question it and the simplicity of his response made her smile. In the end it really was that simple.

‘Then you must wed me.’ She had never been so sure of anything in her life.

She saw the darkness gather in his eyes as though he were going to argue again and she pressed her fingers against his lips to silence him. She did not want to hear any more objections. There could be none. ‘Hush,’ she said, standing on tiptoe, kissing him.

Footsteps passed close to the door, voices; the rattle of keys, discovery so close and so dangerous.

‘Say you will.’ She was teasing him now, her spirits as light as a girl, dizzy with renewed desire as they kissed and kissed.

‘I won’t go to England,’ he said, resting his forehead against hers when it was over, breathing hard. ‘I will stay here with you.’

She felt triumph but hot on its heels was an echo of melancholy. She had made him choose and he had chosen her. She pressed closer to him to drive out the sadness and the guilt. And when she felt his resistance melt and he shifted to hold her more firmly she felt nothing other than relief for she knew that she had won.

‘H
appy birthday!’ Fran said, grinning from ear to ear as she plonked a sponge cake with chocolate icing down in front of Holly. One modest candle shone in the centre. Clearly Fran had not had enough to supply the other twenty-eight, or perhaps she was just being tactful for once. Not that Holly minded being almost thirty. Not much.

‘I couldn’t arrange for you to have hot sex as a birthday present,’ Fran was saying, ‘so chocolate is the next best thing.’

‘Fran!’ Holly glanced around to make sure that they were the only two people in the café. Fortunately for once they were.

‘What’s the matter?’ Fran said, opening her blue eyes wide in a very innocent fashion. ‘You don’t like chocolate?’

‘No,’ Holly said. ‘Yes.’ She picked up the fork and dug it into the cake. Cream exploded out of the side. ‘Mmm,’
Holly said, closing her eyes as she licked the fork. ‘That’s better than sex, not the next best thing to sex.’

‘Really?’ Fran paused in whisking a quiche mixture. ‘I thought you and Mark were together now?’

‘Fran!’ Holly dropped the fork with a clatter.

‘Well?’ It was impossible to embarrass Fran. She leaned over the counter, eyes bright with expectation. ‘How is it going?’

‘Fine,’ Holly said.
More than fine.
She felt hot thinking just how fine it was. ‘Have some of that cake,’ she said. ‘It might stop all the questions.’

‘Huh.’ Fran sounded put out but she pulled a slice of cake towards her anyway and dug in. ‘I expected more than that.’

‘Dream on,’ Holly said.

It was mid-morning and once again the sun lay in bright lozenges across the tiled floor of the coffee shop but the weather was cooler, rain never far away. The water was rising in the millpond again. Only the day before, Bonnie had gone in for a swim.

‘Wasn’t that a great barbecue yesterday?’ Fran said, cutting herself a lavish slice of the chocolate cake. ‘Thank God the rain held off. I’m so glad you were able to drop by in the evening, Holly. You’re part of the village now whether you like it or not.’ She paused. ‘You did enjoy it – didn’t you?’

‘It was very nice,’ Holly said. She had driven back from visiting her grandparents in the late afternoon and had gone over to Mark’s barn conversion. The day had been mellowing into a clear, warm evening and all Mark’s guests were equally mellow through good food, drink and sunshine. Flick had fallen on her like a long-lost sister and
dragged her over to sit with her on a long swing seat between two ancient apple trees. There had been a lot of laughter and conversation long into the evening and Holly had almost forgotten about Ben, about the constant ache of his disappearance, until Flick had asked for news and the ache had flared into vivid life again. This was how it was, she supposed, the circle of loss and doubt and not knowing, until perhaps at last something happened to bring release. She wondered how people lived with the not knowing for year after year. She could not imagine it.

‘When Mark said he was inviting a few people around I didn’t think he meant the whole village,’ she said. ‘Everybody seems to know everyone else.’ They had all been so welcoming, she thought, so much a community. It was her fault if she felt she did not quite fit, that she was an observer on the edge of the crowd. She still preferred the anonymity of the city to a place where people shared their damson jam and stories of their plumbing issues. It all felt a little too claustrophobic for her but she was learning.

‘Mark’s house is pretty spectacular,’ Holly said.

‘I love it.’ Fran gave an envious sigh. ‘All those glass walls and open views. He did all the work himself, you know, and it’s a great advert for his company. Hey,’ she waved her fork in Holly’s direction. ‘What did you think of Joe? I saw you chatting.’

‘He was exactly as I imagined him to be,’ Holly said, laughing. ‘Spoiled.’ Mark’s younger brother had come over from Bristol University and arrived even later than she had, making the sort of entrance usually reserved for rock stars, amidst much swooning from Flick’s friends.

‘He is pretty to look at though, isn’t he,’ Fran said.

‘If you like the Regency poet style,’ Holly said. She shook her head indulgently. ‘He’s cute. Charming, but he’s just a boy. Whereas Mark is more …’

‘Mark’s a man,’ Fran said dryly. She smiled. ‘Mark didn’t like Ben much, you know,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad that didn’t get in the way for the two of you.’

‘What?’ Holly looked up, startled. ‘What do you mean, he didn’t like Ben?’

Fran looked confused. She gathered the plates together with unnecessary clatter, stacking them, her face turned away.

‘They didn’t seem to have much to say to each other,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I wondered …’ She stopped, shrugged. ‘I guess you can’t get on with everyone.’

Holly didn’t reply. She felt odd, disorientated. She realised that she had somehow assumed that Mark had liked Ben – surely everyone liked Ben – but now she thought about it he had always been cool about him. He asked if there was any news, he gave her support and understanding, but he had never said that Ben was a good bloke or anything else she might have expected. Yet she knew Mark well now and that meant that if he had disliked Ben she knew there must have been a good reason for it.

‘Forget it,’ Fran said now. ‘Hell, Holly, you know me, I am so tactless. I didn’t mean to cause a problem. Anyway, I’m probably wrong.’

‘No,’ Holly said slowly. ‘No I don’t think you are.’

The shop bell pinged. Fran quickly painted on a cheerful
face. ‘Hi Mark! We weren’t talking about you. Not at all. It’s Holly’s birthday. Would you like some cake?’

‘Please help yourself,’ Holly said, ‘before I eat it all.’

‘Thanks,’ Mark said. He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Happy birthday.’ He gave her his long slow smile, full wattage. Holly thought she might spontaneously combust.

Holly could see Fran looking at them. It made her feel ridiculously self-conscious. She stood up. ‘I’d better be getting back,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much for the cake, Fran.’

‘Are you having a birthday party?’ Fran looked hopeful.

‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ Holly said.

‘We’ll organise one for you,’ Fran said. ‘Next weekend.’

‘Don’t bulldoze her,’ Mark said mildly. ‘Not everyone sees the village mafia as a good thing.’

‘It’s really sweet of you, Fran,’ Holly said. ‘Thank you.’ Fran shot Mark a self-satisfied smile. ‘See?’

Mark sighed.

Holly’s phone rang. She fumbled for it, trying to dampen down the familiar rush of mingled hope and nausea. She recognised the Oxford code but not the number. Not Ben.

‘Holly?’ The woman at the other end sounded warm and very pleasant. ‘This is Eleanor Ferris about your mirror.’

‘Eleanor!’ Holly said. ‘Gosh, thanks so much for getting back to me so quickly.’ She could feel her heart beating hard. The phone slipped a little in her hand.

‘It’s a most interesting piece,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’ll be sending it back to you with a full report but I thought you would want to know a little about it now. The wood is willow and dates from about the sixteenth century and the glass is most
certainly original Bohemian of a similar date. The reflective surface is badly worn, of course, and urgently needs restoration.’ There was a note of hesitation in her voice. ‘I checked the records you suggested and it does correspond to the descriptions of the crystal mirror belonging to the Winter Queen, albeit those are rather scant. There is just one thing …’

‘Oh?’ Holly’s heart missed a beat.

‘It’s the diamonds,’ Eleanor said. ‘At some point in its history, probably in the early nineteenth century, someone took the original diamonds and replaced them with stones made of paste. They are worth nothing at all.’

‘Right,’ Holly said. Her mind spun at the implications. ‘Worthless. Thank you.’

‘I hope that’s not bad news,’ Eleanor said, a little anxiously. ‘I mean, the mirror is still worth something because of its probable provenance, and also the quality of the crystal, but it’s not original, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘No, it’s not bad news. It might be quite good news, actually.’

She slid the phone into her pocket.

Lavinia
, she thought. It had to be. Her spirits lifted. She did not know what had happened to Lavinia after the fire but if she had sold the diamonds she would have been rich enough to start again. Perhaps that was what had paid for Kitty’s dowry.

Fran was busy serving a couple of customers and didn’t look up from the counter but Mark paused as he opened the coffee shop door and smiled at her. Holly made up her mind quickly. She stood up.

‘Mark,’ she said, ‘I know you’re busy but could I drop by later and discuss something with you?’

Mark raised his brows. ‘Sure. You can discuss it with me now if you don’t mind walking back to the office with me.’

‘Thanks,’ Holly said, grabbing her jacket. Fran caught her eye and gave her a saucy wink. Holly rolled her eyes at her.

‘Have a great time!’ Fran sang out, buttering a scone with extra vigour.

‘No one needs a town crier with Fran about,’ Holly said with feeling, as she closed the door and they started to walk slowly across the cobbled courtyard towards the old stable yard.

‘Do you mind?’ Mark asked. He shot her a sideways glance. ‘That everyone knows, I mean.’

‘No,’ Holly said, realising that she didn’t mind at all. She blushed. ‘No. It’s … fine.’

Mark smiled at her again. ‘What was it you wanted to talk about?’ He took the top off the coffee and took a deep swallow. ‘Ah, that’s good. I’ve been up half the night working on the stuff for the Open House.’

‘I won’t keep you long,’ Holly said. ‘I just wondered …’ She hesitated. ‘This is going to sound weird but …’ She stopped, shivering. They were in the shadow of the buildings and a chill breeze was blowing down from the hills. ‘I wondered if you disliked Ben,’ she said in a rush.

She felt Mark tense beside her. There was a guarded expression in his eyes. He did not answer for a moment.

‘I didn’t know him well,’ he said. His gaze was on the far horizon and Holly suddenly felt a distance opening up between them, as though he had quite deliberately taken an
emotional step away. Then Mark’s gaze came back to her and he gave her an apologetic smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess Ben and I just didn’t have much to talk about.’

Holly struggled with that. She knew she ought to understand; it was exactly how she had always felt about Tasha. Sometimes people didn’t click and that was all there was to it. Yet it felt as though there should be something more.

‘There must have been a reason,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’re not the sort of person to take a dislike to someone over nothing.’

She waited but Mark neither denied it nor explained. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and there was tension in the lines of his body.

‘I …’ he started to say, but then there was a shout from across the courtyard, cutting into the moment. They both turned.

Greg was hurrying towards them, shirt flapping. ‘You need to come over to the farm conversion, Mark,’ Greg said, giving Holly a quick nod. ‘They were putting in some pipework and they found a body—’

There was a buzzing in Holly’s ears. The day suddenly seemed too bright, the yard spinning like a top.

‘Greg, for fuck’s sake!’ Mark grabbed her tightly to stop her from falling. He sounded absolutely furious. ‘Holly—’

‘I’m all right,’ Holly said faintly.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Greg looked utterly stricken. ‘I didn’t mean … It’s not a body, it’s some bones. Several hundred years old, Iain said. And some tools with it, or instruments, or something. I dunno. Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

Mark ignored him, steering Holly over to the corner of the yard where she sank gratefully onto a wooden bench.

‘Put your head down,’ Mark said. ‘You’ll be OK. It’s shock.’

‘I know.’ Holly waited for the sickness to subside. She felt hot and sweaty and yet at the same time so cold she was shivering. After a moment, Mark crouched down beside her and touched her arm. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine,’ Holly said, sitting up, taking a deep breath. ‘Sorry about that.’

The shock was fading but she could remember it like a beat through the blood. Perhaps not knowing about Ben was better. At least there was hope, not the dead thud of realisation that he was never coming back.

‘What did Greg mean when he said there were instruments with the body?’ she said, remembering the scramble of words.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Mark said. He was frowning at her. ‘Farming tools, perhaps, if it was a burial, although it sounds too late for that. Don’t worry about it.’ He put out a hand and helped her to her feet. ‘I’ll take you back to the café. You need a glass of water. Then I’ll go over and find out what’s going on. I’ll let you know.’

‘Okay,’ Holly said. ‘I’ll get a bottle of water, but I’m coming with you.’ Her legs felt shaky and the day still seemed too bright. She felt exhausted. ‘It’s just that I think I know who it might be,’ she said. ‘The bones, I mean. I think it might be Robert Verity.’