Everything To Gain

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Roses were my favorite flowers, and I had always gravitated to this particular garden at Kilgram Chase. But I did not plan to visit it this trip; I knew it could only be bereft, without color or life, just as everything at Indian Meadows was brown and faded. It was a bleak period for a gardener like me, these cold, cheerless months when the earth was hard as iron, the air sharp with frost, and all growing things lay dormant and still.

  Glancing out the car window, I noticed that many of the giant oaks, which stood sentinel at intervals along the driveway, were already shedding their leaves, now that it was November and the first chill of winter had settled in. Everything was dying. Winter was a time of death in gardens and in the countryside; quite unexpectedly I felt melancholy, and I filled up with sadness. Shivering, I hunched further into my coat, pulling it tightly around me. But the death of the land in winter only meant its rebirth in the spring, I reminded myself, attempting to shake off this curious sense of sadness which had enveloped me. I shivered again. Some poor ghost just walked over my grave, I thought.

  And in less than a moment it was gone, the sadness, for suddenly there was the house, rising up in front of us in all its glory. Kilgram Chase. It stood there under the shadow of the moors, proud and everlasting as it had been for four centuries, seemingly untouched by time. My heart lifted at the sight of the lovely old manor. Its pale stones gleamed golden in the clear morning air, and the many mullioned windows shone brightly in the sunlight. I lifted my eyes, saw smoke puffing out of the chimneys, curling up like strands of gray-blue ribbon thrown carelessly into that silky, shining sky.

  How welcoming it looked in all its mellowness and charm-my husband's ancestral home, the place where he had grown up.

  The car had hardly come to a standstill in front of the house when the great oak door flew open and Diana appeared. She ran down the steps; her smile was wide, her face glowing with happiness at the sight of us alighting.

  "Hi, Ma," Andrew cried, waving to her.

  I rushed toward her and hugged her close. "Diana!"

  "Aren't you the best girl in the whole wide world," she greeted me, "getting this obstinate son of mine to come up here after all."

  Laughing, I pulled away from her and shook my head. "Not me, I didn't persuade him, Diana. He had a change of heart on his own accord. Late last night, far too late to call you. And we left so early this morning, at six, we didn't want to disturb you. That's why we asked the hall porter to phone. He did, didn't he?"

  "Yes, darling." Turning to her son, she embraced him and went on, "As long as you're both here, that's all that matters. We'll have a nice cozy weekend together, and I know Parky plans to spoil you both."

  Andrew grinned at her. "We expected nothing less." Leaning closer, he said, "Before I let the car go, should I ask the driver to come back for us tomorrow night? Or can we cadge a lift to town with you on Monday morning?"

  "Of course you can. Anyway, it's hardly worth coming up here, if you don't stay through Sunday night. And I'll be glad to have your company and Mal's on the way back to London. In fact, you can drive part of the way, Andrew dear."

  "You bet," he said, "and thanks, Ma. There's just one thing: We'll have to leave here fairly early on Monday morning. About six-thirty. Is that all right?"

  "I usually set out about that time," Diana answered.

  Andrew nodded and hurried off to speak to the driver.

  Diana took hold of my arm and drew me toward the stone steps leading up to the front door. Joe Parkinson was hovering at the top of them. He came striding down.

  "Morning, Mrs. Andrew," he said, giving me a big smile. "It's lovely to have you back, by gum it is."

  "Thank you, Joe, I'm really glad we could come up for the weekend."

  "I'll just get along, help Mr. Andrew with the luggage." And so saying Joe moved down the steps, calling out, "Nay, Mr. Andrew, I'll do that. Let me handle them there suitcases." glanced back over my shoulder and saw Andrew and Joe shaking hands, greeting each other affectionately. Andrew had been eight years old when the Parkinsons had come to work at Kilgram Chase. Joe had taught him so much about the countryside and nature, and they had always been firm friends. As Andrew said, Joe was the salt of the earth, a real Yorkshireman through and through, hardworking, canny, wise, and loyal.

  "It's a raw morning," Diana said, shivering and pulling her cardigan around her. "Come on, let's go in and have a cup of tea."

  Waiting for us in the small entrance hall were Edith Parkinson, Joe's wife, whom Andrew had called Parky since childhood, and her daughter, Hilary. Both women welcomed me warmly, and I returned their greetings.

  Parky said, "If only the little ones were with you, Mrs. Andrew, they'd be a sight for sore eyes."

  Smiling at her, I said, "Don't forget, they'll be here next month for Christmas, Parky. In fact, we're planning on staying through the New Year. Mr. Andrew promised."

  "That's just wonderful," Parky exclaimed, beaming at me. "I can't wait to see the wee bairns." Glancing at Diana, she added, "We'll have to have a big Christmas tree this year, Mrs. Keswick, and maybe Joe'll play Santa Claus, get dressed up in his red Santa suit and whiskers, like he does for the Sunday school class at the church."

  "Yes, that's a marvelous idea," Diana agreed. Taking my coat, she hung it up in the hall closet. "Now, let's go into the kitchen, Mal. Parky"s been busy for the last hour whipping up all sorts of things. Andrew's favorites, of course."

  The kitchen at Kilgram Chase was as old as the house itself, and it had altered little over the years. Painted cool white, it was long in shape. The ceiling was low and intersected with dark wood beams. The floor was still covered with the original flagstones, so ancient they were worn in places by the steps of centuries, steps which had gone from the fireplace to the window and across to the door, and back and forth, time and time again, so that deep grooves now scored the stones.

  The fireplace at the far end of the kitchen was high to the ceiling and wide, made of local brick and stone and braced with old wood beams to match the ceiling. It had a great, raised hearth, an overhanging mantel shelf, and old-fashioned baking ovens set in the wall next to the actual fireplace. The ovens had not been used for years and years; long ago Diana had installed a wonderful Aga, that marvelous English cooking stove I would give my eyeteeth for. I agreed with her that this was the best stove in the world, and it also helped to keep the rather large kitchen warm the year round. It was welcome, since the kitchen with its thick old walls and stone floor was always cool even in the summer months.

  A butler's pantry, which opened off the kitchen, had been updated and remodeled by Diana, so that it better served her and Parky. She had put in a double-sized refrigerator, two dishwashers, and countertops for food preparation; above the counters were lots of cabinets for storing china as well as all of those practical items that made the wheels of a kitchen turn.

  A series of mullioned casement windows opened onto a view of the back lawns, the pond, and the ever-present moors reaching up to touch the edge of the sky. Opposite the window wall an antique Welsh dresser took pride of place, and this lovely old piece was filled to overflowing with willow-patterned china of blue and white. Nearby, in the center of the room, there was an old-fashioned country table with a deal top and stumpy legs, where Andrew and I now sat. A green Majolica jug filled to the brim with branches of bittersweet stood on the table, and I couldn't help thinking how perfect it looked.

  Marching along the mantel shelf was a diverse collection of wood and brass candlesticks in the barley-twist style bearing white beeswax candles, and underneath the mantel were all kinds of horse brass that glittered and winked in the bright firelight. And everywhere there was the sparkle of copper in such things as jelly and fish molds and pots and pans all hanging from a rack on the ceiling, and in ladles, spoons, and measuring scoops on a side table.

  I had always loved this kitchen, thought it one of the most welcoming I had ever seen; it was not only cheerful in its ambience but comfortable as
well. As Diana said, it was the hub of the house, a room you could easily live in.

  Diana was over by the Aga stove making a pot of tea; she carried this over to the table but suggested we let it stand for a few moments.

  "Aye, that's right, Mrs. Andrew, don't pour it yet, it has to mash," Parky instructed.

  "Yes, Parky," I said dutifully and smiled at Andrew. She had been telling me this for ten years.

  Pervading the air in the kitchen was the tantalizing smell of bacon sizzling on top of the Aga and the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread just out of the oven. Parky had left the loaves and tea cakes to cool for a few minutes on one of the countertops, and the mere smell made me salivate.

  Swinging around to face us, Parky said, "In case you haven't guessed, I'm going to make bacon butties. Your favorites, Mr. Andrew." She smiled at him fondly before turning back to her task of lifting the bacon out of the frying pan and onto a large platter. Parky had mothered him as a little boy, and he had been like a second child to her in some respects.

  "What a treat, Parky," Andrew exclaimed, and added to me, "You've got to make them for me, Mal, when we're home at Indian Meadows."

  Diana joined us at the table and poured the steaming hot tea into high blue-and-white cups, and a moment later Parky was beside her, serving the bacon butties. These were thick slices of the warm new bread, spread with butter and with rashers of the fried bacon between the slices-hot bacon sandwiches, really.

  "Here goes my cholesterol!" Andrew groaned cheerfully, "But oh, God, how wonderful!" he added after taking the first bite.

  "I know, they're sinful," Diana said, laughing, then cautioned, "But don't eat too many, Parky's making fish cakes and parsley sauce for lunch."

  "With chips," Parky cut in. "To be followed by another of your favorites. Treacle pudding."

  "Oh, God, Parky, I think I've just died and gone to heaven," he exclaimed, laughing, enjoying Parky and the fuss she was making over him. He had always had a soft spot for her.

  "But, darling, it is heaven here," Diana said, smiling at him lovingly. "Or had you forgotten?"

  Andrew shook his head, kissed her warmly on the cheek. "No, Ma, I hadn't forgotten. Not only that, I'm here with three of my four favorite women."

  "And who's the fourth?" I asked swiftly, staring.

  "Why, my daughter, of course," he answered, winking at me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I found the books on Saturday afternoon. And quite a find they were.

  After lunch Diana drove off to West Tanfield to do some errands; she asked me to go with her, but I declined, preferring instead to stay at Kilgram Chase with Andrew, only to discover that he wanted to work.

  "I must go over the rest of this stuff," he explained apologetically, holding up his briefcase. "I'm sorry, Mal."

  "It's okay," I said, although I was disappointed he was going to be poring over the papers in Diana's office for the rest of the afternoon, rather than going out for a walk with me.

  "I won't be long, about an hour and a half, two hours at the most." He shook his head as he paused on the threshold of the office. "Some of it's rather complicated, that lousy financial stuff I mentioned to you in London. I could use Jack's nimble brain. He's much better than I am when it comes to figures."

  "Maybe I could help you," I suggested.

  He smiled at me ruefully. "I'm afraid you can't, darling. Look, you don't mind if I work, do you? At least for a while. We'll go for a walk later, just before tea."

  "That's great, don't worry," I said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. I walked off in the direction of the library, which had always fascinated me. I loved to poke around in there, looking for literary treasures or family memorabilia. Unfortunately, I'd never come across anything remotely interesting or out of the ordinary.

  Like the kitchen, the library had not changed much in four hundred years, except, perhaps, for the acquisition of more and more books by the Keswicks over the centuries. And it seemed to me that they never threw anything away. It was larger than most of the other rooms at Kilgram Chase, since it was situated in one of the square towers, the one on the northeast corner of the house, overlooking the moors.

  The coffered ceiling was over thirty feet high, balanced by the huge window set in the middle of the center wall, a beautiful window of unusual dimensions and shape which filled the room with the most extraordinary light at all times of the day. Paneled in light oak, the library had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves throughout, and these held many thousands of volumes, most of them very old. A handsomely built fireplace of local limestone was set in the wall facing the window, and around this had been arranged several comfortable chairs, an oak coffee table, and a Knole sofa. Directly behind the sofa stood a library table, also of carved oak, and on this were stacked the latest magazines, many of them to do with antiques, as well as today's Times, an assortment of other national and local newspapers, and a few current novels.

  I did a cursory check of everything on the table, but there was nothing of particular interest to me, and so I began to wander around the room, my eyes scanning the lower shelves where everything was in easy reach. But, of course, because these shelves were readily accessible to me, I had looked at almost every book countless times before. There was nothing new.

  Suddenly realizing it was cool in the library, and shivering slightly, I went over to the fireplace, pulled out the damper, and put a light to the paper and chips of wood under the logs in the grate. Within minutes I had a good blaze going, and soon the logs had caught and the fire was roaring up the chimney.

  Glancing around, I saw the set of polished mahogany library steps at the other side of the room, and I pulled these over to the fireplace wall. On either side of the fire there were shelves rising to the ceiling, and since I wanted to stay warm, I decided to investigate these first.

  Climbing up, I examined a series of books covered with dark green leather that I'd never noticed before, undoubtedly because they were placed so high. Much to my disappointment most of them were old atlases and maps of Yorkshire and other counties.

  Leaning my head back, I looked up, scanned a higher shelf immediately above me, and spotted a large-sized volume bound in purple leather. The royal color of the binding intrigued me, and I climbed a bit farther, until I stood on the top step. I stretched my arm, endeavoring to reach the book; I had no idea what it was, but naturally, because it was beyond my reach, I wanted to look at it.

  I tried once more but lost my balance and almost fell. I clutched frantically at the nearest shelf and managed to steady myself. I took a deep breath; my heart was suddenly pounding hard. That had been a close call. After a few seconds, when I recovered, I made a slow descent, moving carefully, having no wish to fall off the library steps. And once I was on the floor, I let out a sigh of relief. Hurrying out, I went in search of Joe.

  I found him in the kitchen talking to Parky, and after explaining what I wanted, I returned to the library.

  Within a few minutes he came in carrying one of the very tall stepladders he kept in his workshop.

  "That is a big one, Joe," I said, eyeing it.

  He nodded. "Aye, it is that, Mrs. Andrew. I need it for cleaning the chandeliers. And doing some of the windows. I've got a brush with an expanding handle, o'course, but t'brush isn't always long enough, you knows. Windows in the tower rooms, like the library here, are right high, for example, and difficult to get to, by gum they are. Now, then, where exactly do you want this ladder, Mrs. Andrew?"

  "Here, Joe, please. I would like to look at that book on the shelf up there." I pointed to the shelf in question.

  Joe followed my gaze. "What's it called?"

  "I don't know, but it's the purple leather one. Next to the one with the torn, moldy-looking binding."

  Almost immediately I realized he wasn't quite focused on the shelf I meant, and so I said, "Don't worry, Joe, I'll go up and get it. Just hold the ladder steady for me." As I spoke, I moved closer to him.

&nbs
p; "Nay, Mrs. Andrew, I can't let you climb up there! Goodness me, no! What if you had a fall? Mr. Andrew would be right vexed with me, that he would, and so would Mrs. Keswick. The whole house would be in an uproar, you can bet your last shilling on that." He shook his head vehemently. "Oh, no, no, no, you can't go up there. I'll bring the book down for you. Now, just let me get on the ladder, and then you can direct me to the volume you mean."

  "All right," I said, knowing it was no use arguing with Joe. I had tried to do so in the past without success. He was very stubborn, and once he had made up his mind, it was hard to persuade him or to coerce him into doing anything against his wishes. Obviously he thought I was incapable of climbing that ladder, and I wasn't going to make a fuss about it. After all, I'd almost had a mishap on the library steps.

  After showing him where to place the ladder immediately behind the shelf, I pointed to the book once more.

  "I see it!" he exclaimed, and went up the steps with amazing speed and sureness of foot. Of course he was able to reach it without any problem, since he was taller than I and had much longer arms.

  "What is it, Joe?" I asked as he opened it.

  "It looks like a ledger. An accounts book, for carpentry items. It says, nails one halfpenny, and there are a few other things mentioned, but there's nowt much else in it." he said, leafing through the ledger. "It's got a date in it. 1892. By gum, almost a hundred years ago!"

  "Interesting. What's next to it?"

  "Looks like another ledger. This one's got a cloth cover." He turned the pages, then glanced down at me. "Definitely a ledger, only one entry. It says fresh fish two pennies. No nothing else in it, and no date."

  "And that torn book, which is still on the shelf? The moldy-looking one. What's that, Joe?"

  He took it down. After a second or two spent scanning it, he said, "Well, this one looks like a diary, aye, summat like that."