The House of Hopes and Dreams

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Most of my contacts told Daisy exactly that, when she got in touch with them for the new series,’ he agreed, grinning.

  Daisy, his ex-girlfriend, was the Director’s assistant on the series.

  ‘When she moved out, she took my address book with all their contact details in,’ he said. ‘But they’re all in my laptop, too, of course, and on my phone.’

  ‘She didn’t get in touch with me. Maybe there wasn’t any stained glass involved in the new series.’

  ‘Or it was because she knew we were best friends and you’d just turn her down flat? They’ve finished shooting the new series and it should be out in early spring,’ he added.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that popular without you,’ I said dubiously. ‘For a start, it was based on your ideas, after you’d restored that first cottage you bought as a wreck and wrote a book about it!’

  ‘Not according to the minute print in my contract, I discovered. I’m to get one mention in the credits saying the series is “from an original concept by Carey Revell”, and that’s it.’

  ‘That’s completely unfair!’

  ‘It’s certainly taught me to read the whole of any document before I ever sign anything again – and my agent’s still in the doghouse,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you that Daisy’s been shacked up with Seamus Banyan for months?’

  ‘No! She didn’t hang about, did she?’

  ‘The moment she saw me lying in a hospital bed after the accident, she decided to cut her losses,’ he said, his wonderful, almost violet eyes darkening slightly. ‘I’m trying not to hope the new series bombs and she regrets dumping me, especially when she discovers what I’ve got up my sleeve … if it’s a success, of course.’

  ‘I knew it! You’re really only here because you want me for a new project!’ I joked, though shaken by the slight note of self-doubt in his voice. He was usually so full of confidence and practically incandescent with energy and enthusiasm.

  But then he grinned at me and I saw the old Carey was still there. His face might have been etched by recent pain, but it was all the more attractive and buccaneering for it.

  ‘I wanted to see you anyway, but something surprising has come up, and I’m going to need your help. And it seems my timing couldn’t be better, because it sounds like you need me just as much as I need you. Everything could work out really well for both of us.’

  I looked at him blankly. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Carey,’ I said patiently.

  ‘Oh, no – so you haven’t,’ he agreed. ‘Well, just before Christmas I unexpectedly inherited a house from my father’s older brother, who I didn’t even know existed until his solicitor tracked me down.’

  ‘Now who’s been keeping secrets?’ I demanded. ‘So, the lost heir of the Redclyffes rides again?’

  ‘Not quite, because there’s very little money and the house is in need of some serious TLC.’

  ‘Is it a spooky gothic mansion with a resident ghost and a ghastly secret?’

  ‘No, it’s not huge and the main part is relatively modern, though one wing is Elizabethan and there’s an ancient tower and some cellars that are even older.’

  ‘That sounds pretty substantial to me.’

  ‘It’s rambling, but it’s no stately home, and it’s been very neglected for years.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see where you’re coming from,’ I said resignedly.

  ‘It was Nick’s idea. As soon as he heard about it, he persuaded me to let him shoot a pilot for a series he wants to call Carey Revell’s Mansion Makeover. And after all, it’s what I’ve been doing for years on a smaller scale, so it makes sense.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it would be an intriguing challenge, but should you be taking on so much work so soon?’ I suggested, even though I knew I was wasting my breath.

  ‘Nick already has footage of me hobbling out of rehab and on Friday he came up with the crew to film me pretending to see the place for the first time, even though I’d been shown over it by Mr Wilmslow when I arrived the previous day. He’s coming back on Wednesday, too.’

  ‘Who, Nick?’

  ‘No, Mr Wilmslow, the solicitor. Nick’s bringing the crew back later, when I’ve settled in a bit.’

  His eyes suddenly glowed with all of his old enthusiasm, as if the sun blazed behind them. ‘The house is wonderful and it’s mine. Just wait until you see it! But I’ll have to make it pay somehow if I want to keep it, and the series would be a start, if Nick can sell it.’

  ‘So, am I to take it there’s lots of stained glass there that needs renovating, repairing or replacing and that’s where I come in? Because if so, you’re out of luck: I not only have nowhere to live, I’ve also lost my job and urgently need to find another – a paid one.’

  He brushed these minor quibbles aside like so many cobwebs. ‘Never mind all that, just wait till you see the place! There’s some really old heraldic glass in the Elizabethan wing and an unusual seventeenth-century window that needs repairing, only it can’t leave the house because of some weird family curse. The newer part of the house is Arts and Crafts and –’ he paused, as one about to announce the clincher – ‘one window and some interior panels were made by that woman you used to rave about when you were writing your dissertation on early female stained-glass artists, Jessie Kaye.’

  ‘Jessie Kaye?’ I repeated, astonished. ‘You don’t mean you’ve inherited Mossby?’

  ‘Got it in one,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you knew about the connection with Mossby, though. It only dawned on me when I got there and remembered you commenting on the coincidence of her having married a man called Revell.’

  ‘Yes, I did know. There wasn’t a lot written about her private life, but I found out that after her marriage she’d set up a stained-glass workshop in the grounds of Mossby and there was some of her work in the house. In fact, when I first moved up here, I wrote to the owner asking him to let me see the Kaye windows, but I never got any reply.’

  ‘That must have been my uncle Francis, but I think only the Elizabethan wing was ever opened to the public, and that only rarely and to pre-arranged parties,’ Carey said. ‘But never the Arts and Crafts house, which was always a private residence.’

  ‘I’ve actually seen the old part, because Grant’s wife, Molly, wangled me on to a WI trip. I heard the story about Lady Anne’s ghost and the cursed window, too, though not why it’s cursed.’

  ‘Mr Wilmslow only mentioned it in passing, along with a potted family history, but perhaps he’ll tell me more when he comes back on Wednesday. He’s going to show me the way to open a priest-hole, where there’s a chest full of family documents. There might be a hint in there somewhere about why the window’s cursed. It would make a good story for the series.’

  ‘It all sounds like the start of an Enid Blyton adventure book!’

  ‘You know, that’s exactly what I thought,’ he said.

  I cast my mind back to my visit and the windows above the stairs in the Elizabethan wing. ‘I seem to remember the windows I saw were all in reasonable repair, though they’d need checking over, especially the tie bars. The Lady Anne window was fine, too. I spent a lot of time looking at it because it was so unusual in design for the mid-seventeenth century. The motifs in the quarry panes were more like a sampler than anything I’d seen before in a window of that age.’

  ‘There’s been some recent damage to the top of it since you saw it, I’m afraid. I’m told a large bird flew into it.’

  ‘Well, if so, it’s a job for a skilled conservator,’ I said firmly.

  ‘You’re forgetting the family curse,’ he reminded me.

  ‘No I’m not, but you can’t just patch up a unique historic window on the kitchen floor, you know. And even if you decided to risk the curse and persuaded me into mending it, I’ve got nowhere to work on it now.’

  ‘But, Angelique …’ he began, in a cajoling voice I recognized of old, and I tried to harden my heart.

  ‘I’m staying wi
th Molly and Grant, but I can’t be their lodger for ever. My priority is to find a job and somewhere to live, and the chances are it will be London or the south. But … I’d love to see the Kaye windows before I leave,’ I added wistfully.

  ‘And so you shall, Cinderella. In fact, think of me as your Fairy Godfather, ready to grant all your wishes and solve all your problems,’ he announced.

  ‘Yeah, right!’

  ‘No, I mean it. You can come and stay at Mossby, because there’s enough room for a dozen people to rattle round in. And even better, there’s a stained-glass workshop in the grounds ready and waiting for you!’

  ‘What do you mean, a stained-glass workshop?’ I stared at him, and an incredible suspicion slowly formed in my mind. ‘You can’t possibly mean that—’

  ‘Yes, the workshop Jessie Kaye’s husband set up for her when they married is still there. I believe it was in use by a local leaded light maker until the thirties and has been shut up ever since.’

  ‘Really?’ My mind was whirling – it was like discovering the Secret Garden and Tutankhamun’s tomb all rolled into one.

  ‘I’ve simply got to see it,’ I declared longingly.

  ‘And so you shall!’ he declaimed, still in Fairy Godfather mode. ‘I’ve only had the quickest of looks myself, to see if you might be able to mend the window there. It’s in the grounds, so I thought the family curse might not kick in and I know there’s electricity and water connected, because it backs on to the stables and garages. You could set up your own business there, though it might all need a little updating, of course.’

  I thought that was probably the understatement of the year. ‘If it hasn’t been used since the thirties it would take a lot of money to turn it into a modern workshop and I don’t have much saved.’

  ‘I think you’re being a bit pessimistic – and it would be rent free,’ he said enticingly. ‘Your bed and board, too.’

  ‘Oh, yes, so long as I worked night and day helping you renovate the house for nothing, as well as repairing the windows?’

  ‘Please come, Angelique,’ he said simply. ‘I realize I can’t manage to do everything I used to on my own yet, and anyway, it’ll be more fun if we do it together!’

  I thought there was genuine appeal in his eyes: he really did need me. And then, there was a strange serendipity about it all, as if it was meant to be …

  ‘Why don’t you come and look at it now and then decide?’ he suggested. ‘You could stay at Mossby till you know where and what you’re going to do – have a holiday, cut yourself some slack!’

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ I said. ‘But … I suppose I could.’

  ‘Good, because I really do need you,’ he said, and I protested no more.

  Mr Revell returned to his home in the north. The arrangements for our visit were made and soon we followed him, travelling by train to Liverpool, which to me was an adventure in itself.

  A carriage had been sent to convey us to our destination and although at first it seemed to me that Lancashire consisted of mills, chimneys and rows of mean houses, we were soon out in the countryside and the ground slowly began to rise.

  Father had described Mossby, but it was still quite a surprise to see the white house sitting so boldly above us on a kind of bluff, with an artfully designed series of terraces leading down to the lake and woodland below. Weak sunshine sparkled off Father’s windows, with their central pattern of large octagons and smaller squares, and the plainer glazing of a kind of veranda between two curved bays.

  The carriage stopped for a moment so we could admire the vista and Father informed me that the square tower at one end was of great antiquity and now connected the Elizabethan wing, which lay behind it, to the new house.

  ‘Mr Revell told me that he demolished a hotchpotch of later additions to clear the way for the new building, but retained the major part of the Elizabethan house, since he much admired the craftsmanship of the construction.’

  ‘And perhaps he was also swayed by the story you repeated to me on the way here, Father, suggesting that the most awful doom would befall the Revells should they remove a certain ancient stained-glass window from its place there!’

  ‘Now, my dear, you know my opinion of such things, even though Mr Revell and his sister seemed to set great store by it,’ he said. ‘But the window is unusual – you will be interested to see it, for not only is it of great antiquity, it is unusual in that it was designed by a woman – Lady Anne Revell.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ I said eagerly.

  12

  Caged Beasts

  I told the others where I was going and before we left, I wrapped my personal set of tools in a piece of sacking and Grant promised to take those and my other stuff back to the cottage later, when he finished work.

  ‘How’s the leg?’ I asked Carey, though his limp, as we walked to where he’d parked his car up the lane, made me suspect I already knew the answer.

  ‘OK.’

  I stopped and gave him a look. ‘Don’t try and fob me off, Carey Revell! I want to hear the truth, not some über-macho lie.’

  He capitulated, running one hand ruefully through his thick, red-gold hair in a familiar gesture. ‘Well, if you really want to know, the physiotherapy was excruciatingly painful, but I know I’m lucky the bones have knitted so well and I haven’t come out of it with one leg shorter than the other, which might have happened.’ He paused, then added, ‘It doesn’t look a pretty sight, with all the lumps and bumps and patchy skin grafts, but at least it’s still there.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the main thing, and you’ll just have to be patient and build the strength back up in it slowly,’ I said pointedly. ‘Literally, don’t run before you can walk!’

  He grinned. ‘I know, and I realize doing too much too soon would only set me back. I’ve accepted my leg is never going to be quite as good as it was, either, but eventually I’ll be able to get rid of the stick and lead a normal life.’

  ‘Your version of normal isn’t everyone’s, but I’m sure you will.’

  ‘The physio gave me a set of exercises and I’m supposed to do them every day.’

  ‘Then you’d better!’

  He draped his free arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. ‘There you are, you see – I need you to boss me around, now I haven’t got the nurses and physios to do it.’

  ‘I’m not bossy,’ I protested and he gave a derisive snort.

  ‘Assertive, perhaps,’ I conceded. ‘But when you’ve got the bit between your teeth on some project or other, Carey, someone will have to stop you overdoing it.’

  And at least, I thought, my role if I moved into Mossby wouldn’t be that of a carer, as it had been with Julian after his stroke. Instead of coaxing Carey to do things, I’d instead be trying to prevent him doing too much.

  ‘I’m going to get plenty of exercise just going over the house and grounds, getting some idea of what’s there and what needs doing, even before I start work on restoring it,’ he said, confirming my thoughts. ‘I’ve only had a quick look so far, but the house is on different levels, with lots of stairs up and down in the old part, not to mention the attics and cellars. I haven’t explored those yet, apart from the first cellar with the boiler in it.’

  His strangely coloured eyes glowed with enthusiasm and Hendrix’s ‘Purple Haze’ started playing in my head. He had that effect on me sometimes, usually when I was about to be swept into one of his crazy schemes whether I liked it or not.

  ‘Along with the tower, the cellars are supposed to be the remnants of the earliest building that stood there.’

  ‘Wasn’t it because there were too many stairs that you decided to sell your flat?’ I asked.

  ‘Partly. I mean, I knew four narrow, steep flights would be a bit much for quite some time, but I never wanted to live permanently in Dulwich anyway, it was Daisy’s idea,’ he said. ‘And actually, my uncle had a small lift put into the tower that goes up to the bedroom level, so I can use that if my leg aches. Or a
ches more than usual,’ he amended honestly.

  Carey had spent the money he’d inherited from his father to purchase a tiny old cottage in Devon, which he’d used as a base while he moved around the country, working with stone masons, blacksmiths, thatchers, carpenters, upholsterers … learning myriad skills. Then he’d renovated and restored his own cottage, and the book he wrote about that led to commissions to restore and make over other cottages, and finally to his hugely successful TV programmes.

  ‘Have you sold the flat now?’

  ‘Yes, it went almost instantly and I’m about to complete on the sale, so that will give me some capital to use to start restoring Mossby, along with the bit my uncle left me. I’ll have to find some means of making the house pay its own way eventually, though. Maybe Nick will sell the pilot about the restoration and a new series, that would be a start. And I expect we’ll come up with some more ideas,’ he added optimistically.

  I noted the royal ‘we’.

  By now we’d reached the lay-by and he opened the door to a large, nondescript estate car in an odd shade of limey-gold.

  ‘This is a bit different from what you usually drive, Carey?’

  ‘The old Land Rover wasn’t going to be easy until my leg was stronger, or any manual car, so I looked for an automatic. This will still be roomy enough for when I need to transport bulky materials about.’

  ‘The colour reminds me of those chocolate lime sweets we used to get from the village shop when we were little—’ I began, settling into my seat, then broke off abruptly as I registered an ominous low, rumbling growl right behind me. Turning quickly, expecting to be facing an angry lion at the very least, I found myself instead almost nose-to-nose with the most ill-favoured black Chihuahua I’d ever seen in my life.

  It was staring at me through the mesh front of a pet carrier, which had been strapped to the back seatbelt fittings. Its eyes glowed like dark coals and two over-long front canine teeth stuck out as it lifted its lip to growl again.

  I’d seen more prepossessing animals, but then, I’d always had a soft spot for an underdog, and it was kind of cute in a little-demonic-gremlin kind of way.