“It’s not very big, but at least it won’t take much to fill.” Mary placed a chair next to the tub for the towel and soap.
“It’s big enough to allow me to wash my hair.” Although Hannah would need to stick her legs out and duck under the water to rinse off. Would she be finished before Wycliff returned? And if she was not, what would he do if he discovered his wife in the tub?
10
That evening, Wycliff sat at the head of the kitchen table and basked in a sense of accomplishment and contentment. Long days and honest hard work were making a difference on the estate. Next year, the merino fleece would increase the revenue earned from wool. He sipped his wine and stared at his wife. Thinking of Hannah made his heart swell. Everything he did, he did for her, and for the future he wanted to build with her.
Hannah turned to him with excitement and curiosity simmering in her eyes. “I found a round tower today in my explorations. It was hidden behind the walls and struck me as being very old.”
Wycliff’s thoughts tumbled back over twenty years to when he had made the same discovery. “The tower? Good grief, I had forgotten all about that. How on earth did you stumble upon it? As I recollect, it is rather well concealed.”
She grinned as though they shared a childhood secret. “The hidden door wasn’t quite shut and a draft blew through a crack. Having discovered the door, I then followed my curiosity.”
Wycliff huffed a laugh. He remembered his excitement on finding the hidden door as a child, and creeping along the dark and narrow passage that opened out at the curved wall and spiral stairs. Having climbed to the top, anticipation hadn’t met with expectation when he had found only an empty room. “When the house was rebuilt last century, my great-grandfather simply bricked up the tower and closed it off. I think the old stone and curves clashed with his plans for modern and elegant straight lines.”
A slight frown marred Hannah’s brow. “What an odd way to treat a piece of the estate’s history. Almost as though he couldn’t bring himself to tear it down, but sought to conceal it instead.”
A curious young Wycliff had asked his father about the tower, but his only reply was that he was never to go there again. Then his father had removed his belt and soundly lashed the child for his discovery. He had only returned once after his father died, as an act of rebellion. In hindsight, he wondered why his father had reacted so violently to Wycliff’s exploring the ancient tower. “From what I can remember, the tower is unremarkable and the room empty.”
“I found it beautiful in its simplicity, and ideally situated to catch the sun. Add carpets on the floor and a comfortable chaise and I can envision it as a solar retreat for a lady.” A wistful look entered Hannah’s eyes.
Wycliff had forgotten all about the secret hidden in the walls of Mireworth. “I doubt you would get a chaise through the door or up the narrow passage if you wished to use it again. Unfortunately, there are no records that might show its original purpose. Given that the spiral stairs start on the first floor, I would assume it was once attached to a castle that stood here. The ground floor most likely housed animals over winter.”
Hannah took a sip of water and Wycliff found himself entranced by how she licked her bottom lip afterward. “Did you know there are stones within the hearth engraved with hieroglyphics?”
Wycliff shook his head and tried to keep his mind on the subject of the tower rather than his wife’s mouth. “No. I don’t remember sticking my head into the fireplace.”
“Oh.” Hannah’s excitement deflated. “I thought you might have known how they came to be there.”
Wycliff stared at the ceiling and considered the approximate age of the tower and how the inscription might have come to be there. “Let me see…the Crusaders fought a campaign in Egypt in the twelfth century. It is possible that whoever owned this land back then may have acquired the stones and had them installed when he returned home.”
Her eyes shone with excitement again. “Yes! That would fit, don’t you think? And is it not rather coincidental that a small piece of Egypt found its way here, when that country and her magic is much on my mind lately? Not to mention the statue of Ma’at in the conservatory, although hundreds of years separate the two items.”
Hannah and her mother were digging into Egyptian magic to find a way to halt the Affliction and to release the women held in its grip. Now that she had pointed out the connections, it did seem odd that she had found two traces of Egypt at Mireworth. Or not odd at all. Many travellers brought back things they found in other countries. “I’m sure many old houses have pieces of antiquity prised away by travelling sons. Do you know what the hieroglyphics say?”
Her nose wrinkled in a most delightful fashion. “Not without the translation paper that Mother made for me, which I left at home. I plan to go back to the tower with paper and charcoal to make rubbings of the stones. Are there any books in the library about your ancestors? There might be clues as to the origins of both the stones and the statue, and who knows, there might be other pieces of Egypt hidden elsewhere.”
After a day of hard labour, Wycliff would rather put his feet up and sip a brandy while he read a book. Or take his wife to their makeshift bedroom and hear her whisper his name again. Jonas. He couldn’t recollect the last time anyone had called him by his Christian name, and never with the breathy hitch of desire in which Hannah whispered the syllables. But perhaps if he found her a book to satisfy her curiosity, he could request a boon from her in return. Yes, that seemed a most excellent plan.
“We can look after dinner, if you like. It’s a dark room even in the middle of the day, so it won’t make any difference whether it is evening or morning, if we have a few lanterns to aid our search.”
After dinner, Mrs Rossett dug into the Aladdin’s cave of a storeroom she maintained and found a few lanterns. “They’re not magic ones like yours, Lady Wycliff, but a good honest wick and a bit of oil throws a decent light.”
Mary trimmed the wicks and refilled the oil before lighting them. Wycliff carried two and Hannah the third as they ventured into the gloom to find the library. He led the way to double doors tucked under one of the curved staircases. Wycliff placed the lanterns on the ground and stared at the doors. When had he last ventured into the library? It seemed a lifetime ago that he had packed away the last books of any value, to be sold in London. He could imagine what Hannah would think of the picked-over shelves—the volumes traded for coin to pay Swift’s wages.
He slid a door to one side. It protested on its tracks and squeaked like a mouse, but yielded to a constant pressure. Wycliff picked up a lantern in each hand and entered the room. The dim room absorbed light and a faint musty odour greeted him, but at least he could detect no aroma of damp. The library occupied a high and narrow slice of Mireworth, as though someone had cut a piece from the manor house. A window over nine feet high and three feet wide at one end looked out over the garden. Or it would have, if anyone could penetrate the dirt on the glass.
Shelves ran the length and height of one long wall and then along over the double doors, where they terminated abruptly. The doors themselves hunkered close to the wall, their placement out of balance with the room. A set of steep wrought-iron stairs led to a narrow gantry that raced the length from door to window.
The wall opposite held narrow shelves that seemed out of place. Wycliff remembered they had once housed curiosities and treasures the viscount had acquired on his travels. Now they contained only dust and mummified flies. Few books remained, most sold long ago. The odd escapee hunkered down flat on a shelf, having escaped Wycliff’s attention when he packed the others away.
Only one section remained with an almost full complement of books. These volumes were unique to Mireworth. Histories of the estate, penned by previous lords. Ledgers that tallied up the income and expenses of the house for decades. Diaries written by the masters and mistresses who called it home. Gardening notes, left by long deceased gardeners for their replacements who were never hired.<
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“What an…oddly shaped library.” Hannah turned a slow circle.
“My grandfather was many things, but a reader he was not. He cut the library in half to enlarge the billiards room and give it a double-height gallery. Which is why there is no fireplace and the doors seem off centre.” Wycliff waved to the wall opposite the bookshelves and the offending room beyond that stole the library’s territory.
Hannah’s eyes widened and one hand went to her chest. For a bibliophile, Wycliff couldn’t have chosen a more horrific tale to tell. “What a monstrous thing to do. It is as though he cleaved the library’s soul in two.”
Wycliff agreed with her. He would much prefer a fine library than an ostentatious billiards room. “One day, I would like to remove this wall and restore the symmetry to the library, along with its missing shelves, rolling ladder, and fireplace. But I rather think a watertight roof is our priority now.”
“You will need to acquire a number of books when that day comes.” Hannah moved along the room to the only area with dusty tomes shoved in a haphazard manner.
“Do you think me a monster for selling the books that once sat here?” He tried to inject humour into his question. But the state of the library seemed to reflect how he felt about himself. Depleted. Neglected. Abused. In desperate need of a tender touch to restore him.
“No.” Hannah set down her lamp on an empty shelf and walked toward him. The lamplight caught in her eyes and lit the amber sparks within. “I see an opportunity to rebuild, and to restore this room to the grandeur she deserves. A situation is only ever irrevocable if you give up. It might take us years of budgeting to fill every shelf, but we will find a way. Together.”
His heart swelled and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He reached out with one hand and drew her to him for a slow kiss. Then he released her before he forgot their task. “Many of the books sold were boring and in Latin anyway. As a boy, I remember being terribly disappointed there wasn’t a single tale of pirates among them. We can start anew and create a collection that is to our particular tastes and interests.”
Hannah laughed and left his embrace to walk closer to the remaining titles. “I’m surprised the rapscallion spent any time in the library at all.”
“Well, I would have if it had contained books about pirates,” he huffed.
Wycliff dragged over an old ladder-backed chair and set a lantern on it, close to the shelf. The other he placed in an empty spot among the books. “These are accounts left over the years by various residents of Mireworth.”
“Which do you think are the earliest?” Hannah stood close to him and reached for the ledger in front of her nose. She opened the book and a puff of dust rose from it.
“They are not in any order, unfortunately. Nor do I recollect any that would be of a similar age to the enclosed tower. The most we can hope for is some bored ancestor who researched the history of this estate.” He scanned the diaries and ledgers, and tried to guess by the bindings which were the oldest.
“Bother. This handwriting is terrible and the lack of light makes reading the script difficult.” Hannah held a book at an angle beside the lantern.
“Perhaps we look for dates? Then we can take them to the study and you can examine them by daylight in the kitchen. Swift ensures the skylight there is kept clean for Mrs Rossett.” He returned one diary and selected another, scanning yellowed pages looking for any indication of a date.
“It must be lonely for her here, with the house empty and no other staff to enliven her days.” Hannah placed the book on the shelf and pulled another free.
“I offered her a cottage, but she wanted to retain control of her kitchen. We can afford to take on another staff member, especially if you wish to return here. Each time we stay at Mireworth, we can breathe a little more life into her.” Should he tell Hannah of his hopes—that he longed for her to call the musty, crumbling old pile her home? That it was more than desire for her that burned through his veins?
“Potatoes, leeks, and pumpkins should be planted to see Mrs Rossett through the winter.” She ran a finger down a page of script.
“Potatoes?” He stood on the cusp of stuttering out he loved her and she wanted to discuss potatoes?
“Yes, potatoes.” She tapped the ledger against his arm. “We are too late for spring plantings to be harvested in autumn. We will need to put in hardy vegetables that can be bedded down to survive winter. Does it snow here?”
The conversation moved from potatoes to snowfall as they worked and continued to examine the books, and Wycliff realised he had lost his opportunity.
After half an hour, Wycliff found something that might solve at least one mystery. “Here is the diary of the Wycliff who built the current house in the early seventeen hundreds. There is a date here of 1701. While it is earlier than the rise of Georgian style architecture, this house, with its symmetry and simplicity, is not like the fanciful baroque buildings preferred at that time.”
“Perhaps that Wycliff was before his time in his tastes? If he did construct the house, his journal might offer some clue about the mysterious tower.” Hannah placed the current book she held on the discard shelf and leaned in to peer at the straggly writing.
“Now that I think about it, there should be drawings here somewhere. Even if his diary does not mention the tower, it will be obvious on the original plans.” Wycliff gazed at the shelves and tried to remember anything concerning the construction of Mireworth. His information was second- and third-hand at best. He had never met his grandfather, who might have known more. His father had little interest in the origins of the house, his priority being only to spend the money generated by the estate. A vague memory nibbled at him of drawings rolled up in a leather case. But they could have been for the house, the gardens, or the wider estate. “I seem to remember plans rolled up somewhere. Possibly in the crates in the study, or in storage in the billiards room.”
“Oh! That would be marvellous if we could find them. Tomorrow I shall tackle the library window and remove some of the dirt to let a little more light in here. Then I can continue my search during the day while you are occupied elsewhere.” Hannah picked up a lantern and paced the shelves, peering at each one.
The flickering yellow light made him think of women lighting candles in the windows of their homes for husbands lost at sea. That thought led to another—he had yet to make good on his promise. “I am sorry I have not yet had the opportunity to teach you to swim. It is a valuable skill, living so close to the sea.”
“I wonder that I need the ability. It seems the ocean chooses whom it will claim regardless of whether the person can swim or not.” The ghostly light swung over the corkscrew of wrought-iron stairs that led to the gantry and the next level of empty shelves.
He ran a hand through his hair and considered what to say to alleviate her concerns. “Perhaps when your mother is here we could ask her for a buoyancy spell to keep you afloat?”
Hannah’s next comment was murmured so quietly, it could have come from a ghost. “Mrs Rossett said you knew Lisbeth Wolfe.”
A spectre rose from his past. One with haunted eyes. Wycliff blew out a long sigh and tossed a journal back on the shelf. “Her father was the previous estate manager. Since we both lacked siblings and were of a similar age, we spent much time together.”
“I am given to understand she was a great beauty.” Hannah spoke to the empty shelves, her back to him.
He conjured up his memories and picked them apart objectively. Lisbeth had certainly been a beautiful child, and she had grown into a stunning woman. But it was the deep vein of mischief that had made them firm friends, not her appearance. It had also been she who had dared him to stick his head through the railing. Lisbeth had convinced him that at a certain angle he would see a different image in the patterned floor tiles below. “She would have been much in favour during the Renaissance, with her pale skin and black hair.”
“Do you know the circumstances of how she came to drown?” Hanna
h turned and leaned against the shelves.
Wycliff swallowed and an old ache resurfaced in his chest. He had failed to help Lisbeth when she needed him most. If he had been at Mireworth that summer, could he have saved her? He wiped his hands over his face. “Her cottage is perched near the end of a promontory where the winds howl past. It is thought she lost her footing, or possibly the cliff gave way—they are quite chalky here.”
“How terrible.” On silent feet, Hannah approached him until she stood before him.
“Enough of maudlin thoughts. Shall we take the journal you found to the study, where the light is better?” Ghosts stalked his every footstep and Wycliff wondered what it would take to be free of them. Or was he stitched to events from his past, as Frank was attached to the souls of the bodies used to construct him?
11
The next morning, Hannah sipped her hot chocolate as snatches of conversation swirled through her mind. She thought of her first day in the village and the phrase that had snagged her curiosity and wouldn’t let go. Don’t start with that old nonsense. She glanced at Mrs Rossett, who had a battered recipe book propped open before her. Would the housekeeper be able to shed any light on the odd phrase, or would she think Hannah terribly nosy for asking?
With another sip, she made up her mind. Wycliff’s boldness rubbed off, and Hannah had learned that if one sought information, one had to ask questions to extract it. “Mrs Rossett, have you always lived in Selham?”
“Oh, yes. Born and bred. As I told you, I entered service here as a girl and have never left.” She beamed over the top of the book. She had done well to rise through the ranks to her position in command of the staff. Not that Mireworth had any in its current state.
Hannah placed her cup in its saucer and turned the handle to one side. “I am curious about something I overheard the other day. In reference to Sarah’s tragic death, one of the village woman was about to say something when her companion said, ‘Don’t start with that old nonsense.’ Do you know what they might have been referring to?”
Sixpence and Selkies Page 9