Grace watched Talek Danning leave through the window, his figure blurring behind the rain-stained glass that had not been cleaned for a quarter of a century. The house agent followed shortly afterwards, stiffly sitting in his open trap, clutching his papers to his chest as the breeze tried to snatch them away. Grace stepped back into the shadows of the room. Was it bad luck or fortunate that Mr Danning had found her first? Whichever it was, she had the distinct feeling that any opinion he held of her before finding her hiding like a criminal, was now damaged beyond repair.
Grace shivered. A chill had entered the house and for the first time she noticed the damp walls and clawing odour of stale air. Had he noticed this? He hadn’t fallen in love with the house as Grace had once done. Stubbornly, she continued to explore the house for a further hour, but her enthusiasm for the old building had waned as her romantic imagination had deserted her along with the departure of the house agent and his guest. Instead of welcoming rooms, she saw the crumbling plaster, the fingers of black mould reaching from the damp corners and the abandoned, dusty cobwebs hanging like rags from the window frames. The silence began to fray her nerves and prick at her skin, making her jump at every unexpected sound. She was alone, yet she didn’t feel it. Ghosts, Grace thought. They are everywhere and watching me. She decided to leave, descending the stairs far quicker than she had climbed them. She strode through the hall and headed for the kitchens to make her escape through the same window she had entered. She turned the corner at speed and came to a sudden stop. A figure of a woman, dressed in black, stood in the dark corridor barring her way.
She was old, yet tall and thin, with a long, narrow face and blue veined hands as pale as alabaster. If the old woman was surprised to see Grace she did not show it. Instead she lifted her chin and looked at her through the rounded spectacles perched on her nose. She said nothing, but Grace had the distinct feeling that she was being studied.
‘The house agent has left,’ Grace said, attempting to appear as if she had the right to be there. The woman did not answer. ‘There is no one to show you the house. I am afraid you will have to leave and make another appointment.’
The woman approached, her eyes never leaving Grace’s face. This woman was not here to buy the house. She looked too at home, yet her face was too harsh and her clothes too plain to have lived a prosperous life that could afford such a property. Years of hard work and discontent was plainly etched on her face.
‘Who are you?’ Grace asked, curious. The woman came to a halt opposite her. Their eyes were level and for the first time Grace could see interest glinting in the depths of the other woman. It unnerved her. ‘Why are you here?’ she added, her confidence waning.
The woman’s gaze raked over her auburn hair. ‘I’m here for the same reason as you are . . . to see the house before it is sold.’
Grace felt instantly chastised. This woman knew she had no right to be here. Grace braced herself. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I have my own keys. I was the housekeeper here.’ Her gaze briefly lifted to the damp walls. ‘Before it was sold and left to rot.’
Grace’s interest was piqued. She would know her mother and what life at Bosvenna Manor was like all those years ago. The opportunity to discover her mother’s past outweighed the woman’s unfriendliness.
‘You must know my mother, Janey Kellow. Her maiden name was Carhart.’ The woman’s gaze returned to Grace’s hair, but she said nothing, her stern face devoid of any warmth. Grace would not be put off. ‘She was a lady’s maid. She was not here very long. She tells me very little about it. Did you know her?’
The woman gave a slight, sharp nod of her head, as if it pained her to do so. It was all the encouragement Grace needed.
‘She left to marry my father. He is called Daniel Kellow. They now run Kellow Dairy, not far from here. I am the oldest, then there is Ben, my brother, and Ann and Mary, my sisters. Mary is married and away from home.’ She knew that she was wittering on, but the old woman was not the friendliest of sorts. Why was she staring so? ‘I could show you around, if you like.’
Her suggestion brought the woman to life.
‘I know every corner, every crack, every knot in every floorboard. There is nothing you can teach me about this house that I do not already know.’
The rebuff scalded Grace. No wonder her mother did not enjoy her time here. For the first time, Grace understood her mother’s reluctance to recall the past. Meeting the woman answered all her questions.
‘Then I will leave you to look around on your own,’ replied Grace, crisply. ‘If you will excuse me, I will be on my way.’ Grace attempted to pass her.
‘You are Carhart’s eldest?’
‘Yes. Why?’
The old woman’s eyes narrowed, but the interest remained. ‘I knew your grandmother. I was there. I heard it all. It was the reason your mother left.’
Grace frowned. The woman was confused, speaking words that made no sense, yet Grace found herself rooted to the spot.
‘Heard what? I don’t understand what you are telling me?’
The woman began to walk away, her long even strides rustling beneath the black crepe of her dress. Grace followed.
‘Tell me,’ she called out. ‘What do you mean you were there and “heard it all”?’
‘I heard your father raping your mother. Why else do you think she married Daniel Kellow? It was because her belly was already filled with your father’s seed.’
The walls distorted and moved about her, playing a trick to ease her pain, yet threatening to swallow her whole in the process. Grace gasped for air.
‘No! You lie!’ she shouted as she pulled at the old woman’s arm which was no more than skin and bone wrapped in fabric. ‘My father would never do a thing like that!’
The woman looked back at her with hard, cold eyes and shrugged her arm from her grasp.
‘How would you know what a man is capable of doing?’
Grace retreated, confused. The woman was mad. To accuse her father of such a vile act proved that she must be. In shock, she watched the woman walk away, disappearing amongst the black shadows of the corridor. Grace exploded with anger. How dare she spread such wicked lies! She ran after her, determined to confront her.
‘It is wicked to say such things!’ she called out. ‘Wicked! Do you hear me?’ She ran to the hall and searched the ground floor, flinging the doors open one by one for only empty rooms to greet her. She climbed the stairs to the first floor and hurriedly searched each room in turn. ‘Where are you?’ she shouted. ‘I dare you to repeat it to my face again. Come out and face me!’ Her own voice echoed back to mock her.
Grace paused at the door of the grand boudoir, breathless and frustrated. As she caught her breath she noticed that the painting of the woman with auburn hair was now hanging on the far wall. The former housekeeper had recently been here, gaining access by way of the servants’ backstairs as she searched the rooms below. It was her parting act, as the woman had gone and taken her secrets with her.
* * *
Grace scrambled out of the dairy window, crossed the garden and headed for the footpath that would take her in the direction of her home. She was still on Bosvenna property when a man stepped out from behind a tree. It was Alfred and he appeared as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
‘Grace. What are you doing ’ere?’
He caught her arm to stop her. Grace did not have the stamina for Alfred right now. He would see this as another opportunity to speak to her and she had grown tired of his persistent advances months ago. She took a deep breath to calm herself. It took all her strength to remain polite and not shake him off.
‘Alfred . . . please . . . I just want to go home.’
His hand squeezed her arm. ‘You look upset? What’s the matter?’
Grace stared at his grimy fingers, darkened by the smut of a blacksmith’s fire. He was genuinely concerned. Grace felt her resolve to keep walking drain away. He was offering her support and right now she needed it.
‘Someone has been saying some terrible things,’ she confided. Alfred’s hand fell away from her arm. ‘It’s all lies,’ she reassured him — or was she reassuring herself? ‘None of it’s true.’
