The Secret of Hollyfield House

by Jude Bayton

  I was lost for words. I had nothing to compare to Evergreen’s statement, as my life seemed on an opposite hemisphere from her own. Did she want my sympathy? I cleared my throat.

  “Miss LaVelle, I am unsure what you expect me to say? Am I supposed to empathise for one as fortunate as yourself?” I continued, oblivious of her reaction to my words. “I come from a social class whose main concern is whether they will afford one hot meal a day or lose their life from the black lung. Your concern of which wealthy husband you may have the misfortune to marry seems trivial in comparison. I am sorry, but if it is my pity you seek, I cannot give it honestly.”

  Much to my amazement, she burst into a peal of laughter. “Oh my—how refreshing you are, Jillian Farraday. I am constantly surrounded by people only too happy to agree with every word I say.” Her face shone with pleasure. “Thank goodness you had the misfortune to be knocked over by my coach. To think,” she grasped one of my hands. “I should never have met you otherwise.”

  “Evergreen?” A tall, dark-haired woman came into the room. Dressed in black bombazine, the style appeared harsh and too severe for one who appeared to be in her late twenties—not much older than myself.

  “Marabelle.” Evergreen rose, and I followed suit. “Jillian Farraday, this is my cousin, Marabelle Pike. She lives here at Hollyfield and is in charge of running the house. Cousin, meet my newest friend from Ambleside.”

  She assessed me with eyes black as pitch, and none too friendly.

  I smiled and nodded a greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Pike.”

  “Likewise.” Her voice carried blatant disinterest. She turned her attention back to Evergreen. “Luncheon is served for you and your,” she hesitated and glanced at me, “new friend.”

  The food looked delicious, but I derived no pleasure from the dainty sandwiches and fancy petit fours. I was entirely too uncomfortable being seated across from Miss Pike, who occasionally glanced up to look at me with a curious expression painted on her face. Evergreen monopolized the entire conversation, which suited me. I spent my time studying the two women at every opportunity.

  Miss Pike resembled her name. Thin and serious, her face sullen, in direct contrast to her cousin Evergreen, who was all sunshine and brightness. We made decidedly odd companions.

  I was relieved when the table was cleared, and Miss Pike rose first and excused herself. I was not sorry to see her depart. Evergreen invited me to take a turn around the gardens, and it was while doing this, I explained more about my uncle.

  “How interesting to have a scientist in your family,” she said. “I should like to meet the fellow. He sounds rather fun.”

  “Oh, he is that and more,” I smiled. “I did not know him well as he was my mother’s uncle. But when she died, Uncle Jasper invited me here to live with him as I have no other relatives. A kinder man I’ve yet to meet. I would be lost without him—in the poor house too.”

  We wandered down a narrow path away from the house which led to a small copse of trees alongside a boathouse, and beyond it, the lake. I was quite taken by the beauty of the place. It was peaceful here and most serene. We neared the lake with its inky waters lapping gently at the sandy shoreline. Though not the repetitious sound of an ocean’s tide, I was nevertheless still soothed by it. I was a coastal girl born and bred, and there was naught I loved more than the sound of the tide. A gentle breeze stirred, tickling the fresh new leaves on the trees, and in the distance, I made out the call of a swan.

  “I find the water here revolting. It is so muddy and dirty. I much prefer Brighton, and the sea.” Evergreen complained. “Salty air is so much fresher, don’t you agree?”

  “It is certainly different. I have never been to Brighton, though I have always lived near the ocean.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. Didn’t you say your family was from Devonshire?”

  “Yes. Except Uncle Jasper moved away for his studies long before I was born. My family remained in Devon as Father worked in the tin mines.” We stared out at the water, at small yachts bobbing about in the lake. I thought of my father and imagined what he might have said were he stood beside me.

  “When did your father die, Jillian?”

  “He was killed in a mining accident when I was eight years old.” His face flashed in my head, an image so beloved.

  “I am sorry,” Evergreen said. “I know what it is like to lose a parent when you are young.” She paused. “Come. Enough of us being maudlin. Shall we walk a while longer?”

  “I do not think so,” I said, my mood darkened by memories. I was unused to such company and had stayed long enough to be polite. “I must return home, Miss LaVelle. I have multiple tasks to finish before my uncle returns.”

  Her face registered disappointment. “Oh, do call me Evergreen, please. I wish you might stay a while longer, Jillian. Still, you must come again.” Her blue eyes implored. “I shall not take no for an answer.”

  I imagined Miss LaVelle often got her way, and in truth, it would be hard to turn down so friendly and engaging a person. “Perhaps.” I would not commit to her enquiry, and I could see she had expected acquiescence.

  “Please Jillian, I shall go barmy if you do not. Say you will visit another time, or I will return home along with you.” She grinned, a sly look in her eye.

  I relented. “All right, Evergreen, I will come again, but not for several days as I have my own work to do.”

  I took my leave of Evergreen LaVelle. Little did I realise my life would never be quite the same again.

  Chapter Four

  MRS STACKPOOLE WAS A matronly woman. Though she had only one child, she was nonetheless a kind lady with a propensity to cluck. Upon my return from Hollyfield, she declared me tired and pale. I had been plied with tea and fresh jam tarts until I felt more myself once again. The housekeeper told me it was natural to still be upset after what I had seen. “It will fade with time,” were her sage words.

  Uncle Jasper was in fine fettle when he appeared at sundown, his face smudged with dirt and carrying a bag full of mouldy samples. He entered through the back door, bringing the scent of the downs with him, earthy and damp. I encouraged him to pull off his socks as well as his muddy boots. While he went to change clothes, Mrs Stackpoole warmed up a pan of oxtail soup, and I cut the loaf of bread she had baked fresh that afternoon.

  Uncle Jasper returned and we sat down to eat.

  “The soup is delicious, Mrs S., I believe you are turning me into a fat old man with all this wonderful fare.”

  “’Tis no stargazy pie,” she retorted, her eyes twinkling with pleasure at his compliment. “But it’ll do.”

  I took a bite of bread. “How went the collecting today, Uncle? Did you find what you needed for the lecture?”

  “Just about there, Jilly. Plenty to show those horticultural boffins.”

  I chuckled at his reference, for he was likely more of a boffin than all the others combined.

  “I went to Hollyfield House today, for luncheon with Evergreen LaVelle.”

  “You don’t say?” He glanced from me to the housekeeper. “And how did that come about?”

  I had not explained the carriage accident the other night because our conversation centered on the murder of the blacksmith. I quickly recounted the events leading up to the invitation.

  “My goodness, Jilly. You haven’t been here five minutes and you are already rubbing shoulders with the gentry. And how was it, my dear? Did you eat caviar and drink champagne?”

  “Of course not,” I laughed. “Tiny sandwiches, fancy cakes and Oolong tea.” I took a sip of my soup. “But I prefer our good soup and bread over that any day. Though I do envy them their home. It is quite lovely.”

  “Hmmm. The father does something with boats if I’m not mistaken?” Uncle Jasper said vaguely.

  “Ships,” I corrected him. “Shipbuilding. Oh, and he has rather a large fortune.”

  “That’s right.” He slurped another spoonful of soup and sat back in his chair. “Victor
LaVelle. Nice chap. Donated a large cheque to the society last year. Has a son, tall lad if I remember rightly, though I never met the fellow.”

  “Victor LaVelle is a good an’ generous man.” Mrs Stackpoole contributed, not to be left out.

  “That he is,” agreed my uncle. “Spends most of his time in the city though. I haven’t laid eyes on him in Ambleside for a long while. Don’t think they’ve much interest in horticulture as their gardens are a bit mundane. But they are kept neat and tidy—I’ll give them that.” He returned to his meal, and I concluded that was the sum of my uncle’s interest in the LaVelle family. Had they a root system and were they green, I am sure he would have known their entire life history.

  “Did you meet the son?” Mrs Stackpoole asked.

  “No.” I said. “Though Miss LaVelle did say she had a twin. However, I did meet the cousin. A Miss Pike.”

  The housekeeper bristled. “Now there’s a miserable woman if I do say so. She has a face on her t’would spoil milk. Too high an’ mighty to speak to any of us in the village. I remember when the LaVelles first came to Ambleside an’ bought the house from old Mr Morecombe.” She paused to think. “Must be fifteen years since.” Her hazel eyes looked directly at me. “The wife died in India if I’m not mistaken. Victor LaVelle brought the children here for a fresh start. They spend their time in London mostly. Come to think of it, they’ve been here for a longer spell than usual.”

  “Oh,” I answered quickly. “The son is being mentored by the firm’s accountant, a Mr Sneed. At least that is what Evergreen said.”

  “On first names, are we?” Mrs Stackpoole grinned. She turned to my uncle. “It might be time for missy here to get a new frock or two if she’s going to be hobnobbin’ with the gentry now.”

  SATURDAY DAWNED AND THE WEATHER was positively glorious. Mrs Stackpoole opened all the windows and aired out the house while Uncle Jasper disappeared to capture his final samples for the upcoming lecture. Birds sung happily in the fresh breeze and the scent of spring was invigorating.

  It was too nice to sit at the table working. So I took a leaf from Mrs Stackpoole’s book and decided to clean out my own room. I stripped the bed, dusted the furniture, and swept my rug. My eyes turned to the wardrobe where I had placed my belongings when I first arrived at my uncle’s. It was dusty and could use a liberal dose of oil to feed the wood.

  I laid my meagre possessions on the bed, and with the bright sun beaming through the open window, I could see how grubby the old piece of furniture was. I set about cleaning with a rag soaked in lemon oil, and the wood soaked it up like a thirsty sponge. I finished the main area where my clothes usually hung and then turned my attention to the shelf above. I had trouble reaching it and dragged my small chair away from the vanity table and climbed upon it. I doused the shelf with oil, and as I wiped away years of dust, I knocked against something at the very back. I craned my neck inside the wardrobe and squinted. Practically invisible to the naked eye was a dark-coloured box, tucked right into the corner. I pressed closer and stretched my arm as far as I could. My fingers touched against it and, with some dexterity, I managed to move it.

  It was grimy, thick with dust, and likely had not seen the light of day for many years. I stepped off the chair and took it over to the sunlit window while wiping off the lid. It was an old tobacco tin, the colours faded and the writing barely legible. Intrigued, I began to work on the lid and then hesitated. The tin did not belong to me. Should I show it first to my uncle? It was barely past midday, and he was still out on the hills. Curiosity burned. What could be inside? I made my decision, and pushed the lid from all sides, but it was on tight and would not come loose. I kept working at it until finally, it began to move, and then came away in my fingers.

  The faint tang of sweet tobacco rose from the tin, still fragrant after many years. Inside lay a thick scrap of velvet, red as blood. I gently unfolded the fabric and then gasped. Wrapped inside the material lay a beautiful teardrop pendant the size of a penny piece. I lifted it out, holding it up to the light. It was beautiful. Cut prisms of the milky, glassy gem captured the sun’s rays and projected shards of sparkling light around the room. Was it a diamond? I looked closely at the jewel. It seemed too white for a diamond, and too large. Then what could it be? I put it back in the tin and replaced the lid. Where had this come from and who did it belong to?

  I thought long and hard. As far as I knew, Uncle Jasper had always lived here alone. Perhaps the tin had been in the furniture when he bought it? Puzzled, I slipped it into my nightstand drawer, determined to ask Uncle Jasper when he returned home.

  THAT AFTERNOON, AN INVITATION arrived for us to dine at Hollyfield House for the upcoming Sunday evening. I instantly baulked at the notion, assuming Uncle Jasper would do the same, as Mrs Stackpoole told me he disliked formal engagements.

  “He prefers a-talkin’ to his blasted fungi,” she had commented when I read her the note.

  But much to my disdain, when I spoke with him at supper, he appeared delighted by the missive, due to the existence of a particular moss growing in Hollyfield’s grounds. A specimen would be worth any inconvenience he might have to suffer.

  For myself, I did not understand the interest shown toward us. After all, Ambleside was a large enough village to boast of other families in the community more suited to the social class of the LaVelles. Perhaps Evergreen LaVelle saw us as entertainment? Our unimportant lives were far different than her own. She must be bored indeed.

  After we ate, Mrs Stackpoole declared she had a headache and excused herself early for bed. I waited patiently until Uncle Jasper settled into his armchair for the evening, and then retrieved the gem from my room and joined him in the parlour.

  “Uncle Jasper, I was cleaning out my wardrobe today, and I found this.”

  His thick eyebrows raised above his spectacles as I passed him the small container. “What of it? Looks like a tin of tobacco to me.”

  “Open it,” I instructed, sitting down opposite him.

  He pulled off the lid and frowned as he saw the velvet fabric. When he uncovered the pendant, his expression suddenly relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair with a great sigh. I noted the lack of surprise upon his face.

  “Remind me where you found it?” Sadness laced his words.

  “In the wardrobe, at the back of one of the shelves. Have you seen it before?”

  He nodded slowly, lifted the pendant out of the tin, and held it in his large palm. He rubbed the stone with the pad of his thumb, and then looked up at me. To my shock, I saw his eyes fill with tears.

  “Uncle Jasper, what is amiss? Are you unwell?”

  This time he shook his head. “Calm yourself, Jilly, I am all right.” He closed his fist over the gem. ’Tis just a moment of passing sorrow. This pendant brings old memories.”

  “Then you are familiar with the piece?”

  “Indeed,” he said solemnly. “Beautiful as it may be, it never brought any joy.”

  Puzzled, I began to ask a question, but he spoke before the words left my mouth.

  “Some might not know this stone as ’tis uncommon in England. It can often be mistaken for an opal, even a diamond.” He held it up where it caught the light from the gas lamp. “But this, my dear, is a moonstone. And this particular piece is probably from India, or Nepal.”

  “Like the stone in Wilkie Collins’s novel,” I said wistfully, the gem now more exotic because of its origin.

  My uncle did not read fiction and therefore did not remark on my statement. He was focused upon the geologic explanation of the stone. “They are common enough, not as valuable as other gems, yet distinctive and lovely of their own accord.” He pondered for a moment. “If my memory serves me right, the moonstone is a mineral from a group named feldspar. It is popular because of the alternating layers it possesses within, which makes the light diffract through the gem. Do you see?” He held it higher, and I saw exactly what he meant.

  “The sheen on the stone gives the appearance
of a crescent-shaped moon, hence the name.” He placed it back inside the tin and closed the lid.

  I was fascinated. My uncle’s knowledge of the gem was far more interesting than his usual topic of ferns and flora.

  “Where did you get it, Uncle?”

  He cleared his throat. “Oh, Jilly, ’tis not mine. No, my dear. I was given the pendant by another many years ago and asked to keep it safe until the day when its owner would come to reclaim it.”

  “How mysterious,” I exclaimed. “How long have you kept it?”

  “Oh, long enough to have lost it until your discovery today.” His pale eyes looked directly to my face. “Twenty-four years.”

  I smiled. “My goodness, that is as long as I have been alive.”

  “Indeed, it is, Jilly.” Uncle Jasper’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “Why has the owner not reclaimed it, I wonder?”

  “Because she is no longer living,” he said softly. I looked at him then, saw the grief etched upon his face. Perhaps the woman who had owned the moonstone was someone he had romantic feelings for, an unrequited love? How tragic.

  “Who was the woman, Uncle Jasper?” I asked boldly, not expecting him to admit her name.

  Uncle Jasper extended his hand to me and placed the tin in my palm.

  “It belonged to your mother. And now, Jilly, it is yours.”

  My face must have betrayed incredulity as I absorbed his meaning. I glanced at the tin in my hand and then back up at him.

  “This was Mother’s? I do not understand. Why would she own such a lovely piece and not keep it with her? She did not have much. I am certain this would have been a treasured possession. Uncle, I am confused.”

  He gave a compassionate smile. “Yes Jilly, it must seem odd, yet it is true. This pendant represented a time in my niece’s history she held most dear. But when life brought a different chapter, she gave up the past, leaving its reminder with me.”