Thornhall Manor
Page 3
I suppose we had been travelling about two hours on our return journey.
“You’re very quiet, William. Penny for your thoughts, my lad.”
“Who’s Beckie, Steve?”
After a long silence he said, “Why do you ask?”
“Between your snoring last night, many times I heard you shout out the name.”
“That was our baby girl - beautiful baby - taken away from us the day we were arrested.”
“You’ve never mentioned your daughter before, Steve.”
“William, after years of tears, and realising we could do nothing, we kept the pain to ourselves. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what became of her.”
Chapter Eight
BACK AT THE TOWN HOUSE
John walked across the room and opened the curtains to let in the early morning sunlight.
“William, you must get some rest.”
His voice fell on deaf ears, for his brother was slumped in the fireside chair, fast asleep - his big brother, who was always there when he needed him when they were children. As he tucked a blanket over William’s arms and legs, it was hard to imagine he’d suffered so much over the years.
Chapter Nine
MR PEGINGTON
“Where’s Paul, Clare?”
“He’s in the loft, Grandma.”
“Ned, you’d better check and see what he’s up to.”
“He’ll be all right. Nothing to worry about up there.”
Clare, standing by the window, said, “It’s still raining, Grandma.”
“I think it’s a day in for you today, young lady.”
Getting up from his armchair and putting tobacco in his pipe, Ned said, “He’s very quiet, Mary. Maybe I’d better see what he is up to.”
Slowly he climbed the loft steps.
“It’s quite a few years since I’ve been up here, Paul.”
“Grandad, look what I’ve found.”
He opened the lid of a large tin trunk, revealing books, dolls, toys and other things. He lay them out on the floor.
“What’s this, Grandad?”
“That’s a riding whip. You don’t want that, Paul. Put it down.”
Paul dropped it instantly, alarmed at Grandad’s tone of voice, and for a few moments an uneasy silence followed. Ned realised he’d overreacted. He could see the surprised look on Paul’s face.
“Look - there’s an old portrait of Grandma. That’s many years ago, Paul. My, she was a beauty.”
“Who’s the big man in that painting, Grandad?”
“That’s William.”
“He looks like the man who picked me up on the church path.”
“Clare, are you awake?”
“Go to sleep, Paul.”
“Clare, there’s something I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“You remember when I fell and cut my knee and Grandma was bathing it? I mentioned the man who picked me up.”
“Yes, I remember. Now go to sleep.”
They both stopped talking. There was an uneasy silence.
“Today Grandad shouted at me.”
“What for?”
“I’d taken a riding whip out of an old trunk in the loft. I am sure there’s a mystery in that trunk, Clare.”
“Your imagination, Paul. Mother used to say you were too sensitive for your own good. Now let’s go to sleep.”
If there was a heaven, it was there at Rose Cottage. Each day was wonderful. If the children weren’t fishing with Ned, they were helping Mary prepare meals, or exploring the countryside with Annie. These things were exciting and wonderful, but every now and then a great sadness entered their thoughts. No longer was their dear mother there to guide them on their way through life’s problems.
“Clare, are you sure you’ll be all right?” asked Mary one day. “I have asked Annie to call in. She should have been here by now.”
“Don’t worry, Grandma.”
“It’s market day and there are so many things I require. Ned, are you ready?”
Paul, standing by the open window, announced, “It’s here, Grandma.”
They both watched Mary and Ned getting into the trap. They were still waving when they had gone out of sight.
“Give me your hand, Clare.”
She climbed the last steps into the loft. It was like opening presents at Christmas. She could see old garden tools, oil lamps, clocks, dressmaker frames, large paintings, jugs and ladies’ bonnets. She made her way over to Paul, who was standing beside a large trunk.
“How do I look, Clare?”
There he was with his grandfather’s pipe in his mouth and a riding whip in his hand.
“Don’t be silly, Paul. Put them back, please. We shouldn’t be up here. Let’s go down.”
Clare’s plea fell on deaf ears.
“Look at these.”
Paul had found some old oil paintings stacked against the wall at the back of the loft.
“Look, Clare - Grandad and Grandma.”
Although many years had passed, there was no mistaking their grandparents.
“Who’s the little girl holding the doll? There’s writing on the back: ‘Thornhall Manor. Mary, Ned, Rebecca’. That’s Mother, Paul. And here’s the doll.”
She took the doll from the trunk, the doll’s dress now grey-white with age. They spent several minutes studying the other paintings. Clare noticed a strange look upon Paul’s face.
“What’s wrong?”
He pointed to a portrait of a gentleman in riding breeches, with a whip in his right hand and their mother at his side. Right away Clare noticed that the man bore an uncanny likeness to her brother Paul.
A long silence followed.
Suddenly Clare exclaimed, “Paul - what’s the matter?”
He seemed to be in a dream, just standing there, whip by his side.
“Give me your hand, Clare.”
Annie looked concerned when she saw Paul bringing a painting down from the loft.
Paul said, “That’s Mother, isn’t it?”
Annie’s face turned deadly white as she gazed at the portrait.
“Yes, Paul, that’s Rebecca. Paul, life’s not always as we would like it. Things happen which we must accept. It’s called growing up and that’s what you must do now. One day when you are older I will tell you, but now is not the time. Your grandparents were devastated by your mother’s death, as you both were. Now, be a good lad and return it to the loft - and not a word to Mary and Ned.”
“Now, you two, off to bed.”
As the children made their way upstairs Ned called after them: “Goodnight to you both.”
“Ned, they seemed uncannily quiet tonight.”
“Yes, I thought so - being on their own today, I suppose. I’ll have to make it up to them tomorrow - fishing, or perhaps a walk in the woods. We’ll see.”
Clare lay there for what seemed like hours, looking up at the ceiling, shadows dancing about in the flickering lamplight. Outside they could hear the occasional cry of a fox and the hoot of an owl.
“You asleep? Look at this, Clare. I went back and found a painting of four children - three boys and a little girl holding a doll. One boy’s black, Clare.” She sat up in bed as Paul drew the painting out from under his bed.
“You shouldn’t have taken it.”
Paul never answered.
Though faded, written on the back was ‘Rebecca, William, John and Samuel’. There was a large mansion in the background.
“This must be Thornhall Manor, Paul.”
Once again he never answered. She noticed a strange expression on his face.
“What’s wrong, Paul?”
“No
thing - go to sleep.”
Clare woke to a fine sunny morning. She enjoyed helping her grandmother clear away after breakfast, especially now she was beginning to know where things went.
“Is Grandad not well, Grandma?”
“It’s his legs - old age. They play him up at times, me dear.”
“Anyone there?” They had a visitor.
Grandad’s voice was heard next: “Come in and sit you down, Peg.”
“That’s Mr Pegington, Clare. His horse won’t move until she gets her knob of sugar.” Reaching up, she took three large knobs of sugar from a jar. “Now, Clare, go and give these to the horse. Keep your hand flat, like this. Her name’s Sally.”
As she ran down the pathway, Clare turned her head. She could hear Paul behind her.
As they walked back to the cottage, after feeding the horse, they could hear laughter, and they soon learnt how funny talkative Mr Pegington was with his round face and white beard.
“He can tell a good story. Makes them up as he goes along. He’s a loveable old rascal, our Mr Pegington,” said Mary, introducing her grandchildren to Mr Pegington.
“Now, your grandad’s under the weather today, so how would you and your brother like to come with me and Sally, me dears?”
“May we, Grandma?”
“Of course you may. Now, look after them, Peg.”
“Now, are you two comfortable?”
“Yes, Mr Pegington.”
“Call me Peg. Now, don’t worry, Mary. They’ll be fine with me. Now, what about a kiss before we go?”
“Be off with you!”
Grandma, waving, disappeared into the distance.
“Grandma tells me, Mr Peg, that you’re a tinker.”
“That’s right, me girl.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means pots and pans, knives and forks - everything for the kitchen. I’m also an odd-job man.”
As they bumped along the unkempt highway, Mr Peg never stopped talking.
“Whoa, Sally. I’ll be stopping here for a moment or two,” he said, jumping down and selecting some pots and pans from the back of the cart.
We watched him making his way up a garden path to a small cottage. The door was open and in he went. It wasn’t long before laughter could be heard.
“Until the next time. Goodbye. Good luck to you both.”
“Now, me darlings, on to see Joe Sheppard; then back to Rose Cottage in time for tea.”
As we clattered along the tree-lined dusty highway, we laughed at Mr Pegington’s many stories of days gone by.
“Were you ever caught poaching, Mr Pegington?”
“Only once,” he replied, pulling hard on the reins and bringing Sally to a stop, “by a villain who owned that place down there.” He pointed through the trees and there in a valley we could see the ruins of a large mansion. “That’s Thornhall Manor.”
Paul’s face lit with excitement - Thornhall Manor.
Flicking the reins, Mr Pegington said, “Come on, Sally. There’s a good girl,” and slowly we moved forward.
“Mr Pegington, please tell me more about Thornhall Manor.”
A long silence followed.
“They say it’s haunted. No one goes there now. Murdered he was - never found the body. They do say his ghost walks at night.”
“Whose ghost?”
“The squire’s nephew, Peter Nesbit. It was a sad day when he arrived at the manor.”
Without a command, Sally stopped outside a tiny rose-covered cottage.
“I won’t be long, me dears.”
The children watched him walk up the garden path and disappear into the cottage. In no time at all the cottage door opened again and a tall, thin lady with a wrinkled face appeared.
“There you are, Sally. Now, you two, jump down and follow me,” she said in a commanding voice. “You sit there, young lady, and you there, young man.” Upon this she presented us with a large glass of cold milk. “Now tell me: have you enjoyed your trip with Mr Pegington?” Before we could answer: “Hark at them in there!”
We could here the tinkling of glasses and laughter from the next room.
Paul said, “We passed Thornhall Manor on our way to you, Mrs Sheppard. There’s not much of it left now, after the fire.” Paul just had to mention Thornhall Manor. He seemed obsessed with finding out everything connected to the manor. “What caused the fire, Mrs Sheppard?”
“No one seems to know, me lad, but I have many happy memories of Thornhall Manor. Every year the squire and his lovely wife, Kathleen, held a grand ball. From miles around guests would arrive in all their fine clothes and grand coaches. The local farmers and tenants came too, with their wives and children. Feasting, music and dancing would go on late into the evening. It was at such an occasion that I met Mr Sheppard. I was helping Annie in the kitchen when in he came, picking at the food we’d prepared. Little did I realise the hand I slapped belonged to the man I was to marry. Annie - I often wonder what happened to Annie. Suddenly she left without a word. I don’t know why - something to do with her sister.”
“We’d best be off, me darlings, if we are to be back by teatime.”
Sally seemed reluctant to move.
“Now, come on, Sally - there’s a good girl.”
With a flick of the reins we slowly moved forward, waving goodbye to the Sheppards, who faded into the distance. Sally seemed to know her way home. Mr Pegington fell fast asleep, but he was woken with a jolt when we went over uneven ground.
“Too much rum, me darlings, too much rum. You’re very quiet, me lad.”
“Mr Pegington, did you know Annie at Thornhall Manor? She worked in the kitchen.”
“Annie? I knew her very well. I took a shine to her, me lad.”
“What was her second name, Mr Pegington?”
“Annie Potter. That’s it - Annie Potter.”
A long silence followed. The children looked at each other. It was their Annie.
“Mr Pegington, why did she leave the manor?”
“Now, that’s not for me to say, me lad.”
We continued our journey back to Rose Cottage, again passing Thornhall Manor.
Chapter Ten
STANSBY HALL, TWENTY YEARS EARLIER
Mr Wheller, standing in front of a large open fire, was gazing at a large portrait of Sir William Nesbit.
“I don’t believe it. It can’t be true. When did this occur, James?”
“Two days after you left on your business trip, sir.”
“Can nothing be done, James?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. Sentence has been passed and carried out.”
Enter Lady Nesbit, now married to Mr Vincent Wheller.
“Your precious son’s at the back of this.”
“You can’t blame this on him.”
“They found the jewellery on them.”
“One earring. What happened to the rest of your jewels?”
“They must have sold them.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. Why don’t you leave well alone?”
“Because I’ve known Mr Bradley and his wife Betty for over twenty years. A good and honest couple, incapable of what they have been accused of.” Lady Nesbit turned and stormed out of the room, little realising that her beloved son, Peter, was listening at the door.
“James, I’ll leave it with you. Find out all you can and report back to me.”
“Another brandy, sir?”
“Thank you, James. My stepson, Peter, will be the death of me one day.”
How true these words were to be!
Chapter Eleven
AT THE INN
“Another pint of your excellent beer, landlord, and pull one for yourself.”
“We don’t see you in here very often, sir. And may I ask how is Mr Wheller? In good health, I hope. A gentleman if there ever was one. Can’t say the same for that stepson of his.”
“Well, actually, that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find out more about William and Betty Bradley. Mr Wheller suspects Peter, his stepson, could be involved in some way.”
“He’s nothing but trouble, that one. Comes in here with his fancy talk. I can always tell when he’s had enough: he taps the side of his leg with his riding whip. I’m glad to see the back of him, but Mary-Ann is infatuated with him. She’s the one you should talk to. Sit you yonder there, sir,” he said, pointing to a dark corner of the inn.
After a few moments a buxom-looking wench approached.
“You wish to see me, sir?”
Chapter Twelve
MARY-ANN AND PETER AT THE UNKNOWN HOTEL
“I never told him anything.”
“The jewels - did he say anything about the jewels?”
“Don’t do that, you frighten me.”
He stopped pacing up and down and stopped slashing the whip against his leg, his angry look fading from his face.
A silence followed, then: “Mary-Ann, pack a few things. Not a word to anyone. We’ll go to Paris and I’ll make an honest woman of you.”
Mrs Peter Nesbit! Her wildest dream seemed to be coming true.
“Now, leave everything to me. I’ll book our hotel and the crossing. Now, I think it will be better if we travel secretly. That will stop wagging tongues. Remember, not a word to anyone.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE HARBOUR, FOLKESTONE
“Everything’s arranged, my dearest.”
“Oh, Peter, I’m so happy.”
“We sail at eight o’clock tonight. Until then, my dear, we will wine and dine in the Jolly Sailor.”
“More wine! Oh, Peter, I think I’ve had enough.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Drink up. You never told anybody about our plan, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“All aboard! Tickets, please.”
Up gangway. The moonlight was dancing on the glass-like sea. The stars were shining, the shore lights slowly disappearing. Suddenly there was a muffled scream, a splash.