Gather the Bones Page 2

  Yes, Paul Morrow had survived, but at what cost, she wondered?

  “Is Paul here?” she asked. “When he last wrote to Alice, he said he would be in Mesopotamia for the digging season.”

  “The digging season is over for the year and I expect him home in the next few days.” Evelyn rose to her feet. “Now, let me show you your bedroom, Helen. I’ve given you the green room. As the nursery wing is shut up, I thought Alice could sleep in the dressing room. It’s so hard with just the two of us.” Her voice wavered and she looked past Helen to a point just beyond her shoulder before recovering her composure and continuing. “Much of the house is shut up, but Sarah can let you have the keys and you are free to go wherever you want, except my rooms and, of course Paul’s rooms. When he returns, he will also be working in the library.” Evelyn looked at Alice. “Then it will be strictly out of bounds. Sir Paul is not to be disturbed, Alice, do you understand?”

  Alice nodded and looked up at her mother.

  * * * *

  Upstairs in the green room, Helen found Sarah Pollard unpacking the suitcase.

  “I can do that,” Helen said.

  Sarah looked at her with such appalled surprise at the suggestion, Helen took a step back.

  “You’ve not brought much with you,” Sarah commented as she set Helen’s silver-backed hairbrush and mirror on the dressing table, along with the photograph of Helen and Charlie on their wedding day.

  Helen refused to display the photograph Charlie had sent her of him in his uniform, ready for war. She wanted nothing to remind her of why he had died, even if she did not know the circumstances of his death.

  Sarah paused for a moment looking down at the photograph. “Oh he was a fine man,” she said. “Everyone he ever met liked him.”

  Helen’s throat constricted and to distract herself, she looked around the room. The faded green curtains and bed coverings on the old half-tester bed gave the room its name. A small bookshelf of leather bound books stood against one wall and the heavy mahogany dressing table dominated the other. A door led through to the room Evelyn had called the dressing room, where an iron bedstead, covered in a pink eiderdown, had been set up for Alice.

  Helen stooped to look out of the low window at the view across parkland, at the unfamiliar richness of the English countryside. Summer wrapped the world in a thick green plush, unlike home where summer bleached the land and everything living in it.

  “Can we go exploring now?” Alice pleaded.

  “Supper will be at six,” Sarah said. “Her ladyship eats a main meal at lunchtime and takes only a light supper. She said to tell you there’s no need to dress.”

  Helen smiled. “That’s fine.” No one dressed except for the most formal meals at Terrala.

  Sarah handed over a bunch of keys before leaving and Helen and Alice started at the top of the house, opening all the doors and peering into the dark, dusty rooms. The old house was built in the shape of a letter C with a front wing facing the main entrance, the side wing dominated by the Great Hall through which they’d entered and the back wing which housed the kitchen on the ground floor and more bedrooms above. They found the nursery and Alice gave a squeal as she rushed toward a magnificent dollhouse.

  “Do you think Grandmama will let me play with it?” she asked.

  “I am sure she will,” Helen said, taking the opportunity to search a bookshelf for suitable books for Alice. She was delighted to discover the complete set of books by E. Nesbit. There seemed to be books in every room in the house.

  “Daddy told me there were secret hidey-holes and passages,” Helen said, caught up for a moment in a childish marvel at the antiquity of the house.

  Alice’s eyes shone. “Did he say where?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “Perhaps Grandmama or Uncle Paul will know,” Alice said.

  When Paul Morrow’s birthday and Christmas letters had begun arriving for Alice, Helen had decided to accord this distant, but important, relative an avuncular title. It seemed easier for a small child to comprehend than Cousin Paul and, knowing the close bond between Charlie and his cousin, it also seemed more appropriate.

  On the upper floor of the house, Helen and Alice passed the solid, oak door that Evelyn had pointed out as Paul Morrow’s rooms occupying the corner between the front and the side wings. They also walked through a gallery lined with faded tapestries and paintings, a large airy parlour over the old gateway into what would have been the inner courtyard, and then into the passage leading to Lady Morrow’s rooms at the end of the wing. A narrow, winding staircase at the end of the passage led them down to a locked oak door. Helen tried most of the keys on the ring, until one massive iron key turned reluctantly in the lock.

  When the turn of the handle still did not shift the ancient door, Helen leaned her shoulder against the wood and pushed. The door creaked reluctantly and opened on to a large room dominated by two massive bookshelves taking up the spaces on either side of an old fireplace. A long, low window looked out over the moat to the driveway. Ancient framed maps and paintings of Holdston Hall crowded the remaining wall space. Several smaller family portraits were dotted among the maps and watercolors, including two head and shoulders studies of a man and a woman painted during the Georgian era and a couple of later Victorian models with severe, frowning faces.

  Helen walked over to the Georgian pair and studied them closely. She could see at once that they had been painted by different hands, probably at different times and yet they had been framed identically and hung together as if in life they had belonged as a pair.

  The man had obviously been a Morrow. Like the other portraits of Morrow forebears, dark hair tumbled over his handsome aristocratic brow and he glared at the artist, his stiffness emphasised by the high collar of a scarlet uniform. Charlie’s fair hair, inherited from his mother, made him quite a cuckoo in the family portrait gallery.

  In contrast to the formality of the male portrait, the woman beside him glowed with life. A fierce intelligence burned from her light grey eyes. A tangle of chestnut curls framed her face and her mouth lifted in a half smile as if any moment she would burst into laughter. She wore a green gown that exposed a great deal of décolletage in a manner fashionable in the early part of the nineteenth century and no jewelry except a slender gold chain, with a locket hanging from it, nothing more than a blur of gold under the artist’s brush.

  Helen shivered and pushed the windows open, admitting a breeze that carried with it the waft of warm grass and the sounds of the country–birds and the distant hum of a steam engine driving a threshing machine.

  Along with these comfortable, familiar sounds drifted another faint sound, a whispering, a woman’s voice half heard, the words indistinct and undecipherable.

  Helen frowned and tilted her head to listen, turning back into the room.

  “Can you hear something, Alice?” she asked.

  Alice looked up from turning an old globe on the table.

  “No,” she said.

  Helen looked around. The whispering seemed to come from within the room, not through the open windows. She stood transfixed, staring at the two wing chairs by the fireplace. The whispering grew more insistent, more urgent. Wrapping her arms around herself, Helen gripped the sleeves of her cardigan. The back of her neck prickled, her breath almost stopped.

  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 pu
shed 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.