by Anna Jacobs
Legacy of Greyladies
ANNA JACOBS
Dear readers,
I often get asked what inspires me to write a story. All sorts of things, to tell you the truth! The way a family greet each other at an airport, weeping for joy. The way ordinary people you see on the TV news deal with major life problems, becoming suddenly magnificent and heroic.
But with the Greyladies series, it was something very specific that started me off: Avebury Manor in Wiltshire and the slightly smaller country houses in similar style that you drive past in the countryside nearby.
If you want to see for yourself, do a search online for ‘Avebury Manor’ and you’ll find photos of a large house with steep roofs and gables. The image of this wonderful old house kept creeping into my dreams and eventually I had to write about a similar house. Who could have built it? What were the original occupiers like? And then the ‘grey ladies’, nuns in grey clothing, began to walk round the house of my dreams.
I knew about the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII – and my little nunnery wouldn’t have survived that. So what did my grey ladies do after they were thrown out of their abbey?
Well, of course Anne Latimer, the strong-willed abbess, would have saved them by marrying and bringing up a family in the old house, rather than letting it be destroyed. The villagers called it Greyladies, for obvious reasons.
Anne loved the house so much that her spirit stayed on there to guard it and her descendants. And having seen nuns thrown out on the streets and in great distress, she founded a charity to help other women in trouble.
Finally, since men have done most of the inheriting of stately homes in England, I thought I’d even things up a bit. I decided to let this house pass down the female line.
And away I went, into that magic state where a story forms in my mind and characters inhabit my dreams.
I have loved writing every word of this series. It’s set in one of my favourite eras, too, the first two decades of the twentieth century, and includes the Home Front in World War I.
For the time being, Legacy of Greyladies is the third and final book in this set of stories, but if you think I can leave the house behind completely, you’re wrong.
I’ve got another idea forming in my mind … a story taking place somewhere nearby. Give me a little time to let it brew, dear readers, and I’ll be off again on another exciting adventure.
Happy reading,
Anna
This book is for Teena Raffa Mulligan, who is not only a friend, but a fellow writer and who acts as my assistant, doing a wonderful job.
Everyone should have a friend like Teena!
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
By Anna Jacobs
Copyright
Chapter One
Wiltshire, December 1915
As soon as she entered the house, Olivia heard Cecily sobbing and her heart sank. She prayed nothing had happened to Donald, who had suddenly been posted to France a few days ago, due to a shortage of officers.
As Olivia entered the sitting room, Cecily raised a swollen, tear-stained face but didn’t get up from the sofa. ‘My Donald’s been wounded. He’s going to die, like your Charles did, I know he is! And then what shall I do?’ She held out a piece of paper in one trembling hand.
Olivia stiffened at this tactless remark, waited a moment to control her own emotions, then took the letter. It was from a hospital in London and said that Captain Donald Ballam had been shot in the leg, brought back to England and operated on at the hospital. He was as well as could be expected and would be sent home to recuperate, arriving the following Monday afternoon.
‘I don’t think Donald’s life can be in any danger if they’re planning to send him home so soon.’
But Cecily ignored that, clasping her hands at her bosom and shedding a few more tears. ‘To think that my darling was injured and I never even knew!’
‘How could you possibly have known?’
‘I should have sensed it.’
‘Rubbish. And think about the positive side. Your husband will be home for Christmas.’
The tears stopped. ‘He will, won’t he? Oh, dare I hope?’
Olivia had had enough of this weeping and wailing, so decided to turn Cecily’s thoughts to the practical needs of her husband. ‘If Donald has been injured in the leg, he may not be able to climb the stairs, at first. We may have to make up a bed for him downstairs … in the dining room, perhaps.’
‘But where would we eat if we did that?’
‘In the kitchen. You and I ought to have our meals there anyway, to make life easier. You only have a daily cleaner now.’
Cecily’s voice was faint with shock. ‘Eat in the kitchen! Donald would never agree to that! He always insists on maintaining standards.’
‘He may have to lower his standards if he can’t get up and down the stairs.’
But Cecily didn’t seem to hear her. She’d gone over to the mirror and was setting her hair to rights, murmuring, ‘Home for Christmas.’
Olivia left her to primp and went into the kitchen, which the daily help had left immaculate, as always. She put the kettle on to boil, thankful for the modern gas cooker. It made such a difference to a woman’s life to have instant heat to cook on instead of having to keep a stove fed with coal. And the gaslights here made it so easy to read in the evenings. Well, they would do if Cecily would stop talking and leave her in peace.
She decided they’d make do with sandwiches for their evening meal. It didn’t really matter what she cooked, Cecily only picked at her food.
No wonder her cousin’s wife was so slim and dainty, eating so little. Donald often commented on how pretty and ladylike his wife was, looking pointedly at his cousin as he spoke.
Olivia had her mother’s red hair and was tall and strong like her father’s side – like Donald himself. It seemed that strength and red hair were all right for him, but not for her. He had very fixed views about a woman’s role in life, but for all his bossy ways, he was the only close family she had left now so she didn’t want to fall out with him.
She sighed. Already she was dreading him coming home to convalesce for several weeks. She could put up with his bossy ways for a day or two, but the two of them were bound to quarrel if he was here for weeks. They always did.
Oh, how she missed her husband! She still turned round sometimes, thinking she heard Charles’s footsteps, half-expecting him to come bounding into the room like an overgrown puppy. He had been such a cheerful man and he had loved her being strong and energetic.
The only sadness in their marriage had been the lack of children. That seemed even worse now. If they’d had children, they would have been a legacy from Charles, a way of carrying on his life, not letting it end so completely. She didn’t know whether this lack was her fault or his, but he’d never blamed her, just said more quietly than usual that you had to accept whatever fate handed you, and at least they still had each other.
She put the plate of sandwiches on the table, opened a tin of peaches and one of evaporated milk and called, ‘It’s r
eady.’
Cecily appeared in the doorway to say faintly, ‘Do you really want to eat dinner in here?’
‘Yes. And it’s tea, not dinner from now on. You don’t seem interested in cooking and without full-time help in the house, we have to make things easier to manage.’
Cecily drifted over to the table and sat down with an aggrieved sigh. ‘It’s the fault of the government for letting women do men’s jobs. I believe some former maids are earning quite scandalously large wages in munitions factories. Two or three times what I used to pay mine.’
‘Good for them! How else can the government get the necessary jobs done with so many men away at war? And why should they be paid less than a man?’
But Cecily was pouring herself a cup of tea and didn’t answer that question. Her soft, whispery voice meandered on between mouthfuls about the shocking price of coal and the lack of some of her favourite foods in the shops.
‘Shipping is being bombed, so some food doesn’t get through to Britain,’ Olivia protested at one point in exasperation.
‘But it’s still not right to have so many shortages. The government should do something about it.’
Olivia concentrated on her own meal, eating twice as much food as her cousin. She nodded her head from time to time as if she was listening and agreeing, which seemed to satisfy Cecily.
She’d go to bed early and read, she decided. At least Donald had plenty of books in the house. He favoured tales of adventure and heroic deeds. Tales for men, but they were more fun to read than the books his wife favoured. Cecily read magazines and silly tales about ordinary girls falling in love with princes and dukes. As if that could ever happen!
Cecily regularly reread the four books she owned by a lady called Ethel M Dell. She had several times expressed a fervent hope that the war wouldn’t stop that author writing more of these wonderful stories.
Olivia had tried one out of curiosity and it was certainly full of passion and love, but also contained a surprising amount of violence. Having known true love with Charles, she didn’t find the emotions described in the stories at all realistic. She’d said that to the vicar’s wife one day and Mrs Simmons had agreed with her, saying disapprovingly that the books were rather racy, and she was surprised Captain Ballam allowed his wife to read them.
Donald would never notice what his wife was reading!
Olivia realised Cecily had finished her meal and was looking questioningly across the table.
‘Sorry. I was thinking about something. What did you say?’
‘Shall we clear the table and do the washing-up now?’
What else would you do after a meal? she wondered. Yet Cecily asked the same thing every evening.
It was two long hours before Olivia could escape to her bedroom. Even knitting socks for the troops didn’t help the evening pass more quickly. She’d never been fond of knitting. She and Charles had talked – oh, how they’d talked!
This way of life definitely couldn’t continue or she’d go mad with boredom.
The following day, Olivia was glad to get away for a few hours. She’d taken on a temporary job helping out in the village shop and it was a lifesaver in many ways. Not because she was desperate to earn money, though she didn’t mind adding the extra to her savings, but because it got her out of the house and away from Cecily for several hours.
She was sure she now knew more people from the village than they did, even though the Ballams had lived there for four years, ever since their marriage. Well, Donald would consider it beneath him to chat to common people. He was such a dreadful snob. She didn’t know where he got it from. None of their parents had had that attitude to the world.
As she was putting on her outdoor things, she decided her life couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. She’d stay until after Christmas, because she couldn’t leave Mrs Cummins at the shop in the lurch at this busy time. After that, she’d look for something more worthwhile to do with her life. Only, what?
Carefully she manoeuvred the silver hatpin into the crown of the wide-brimmed, navy felt hat, pushing it through her hair and out again to keep the hat firmly in place. The hat had flowers round the crown and was rather frivolous, but her navy tailor-made suit was very practical, with a hip-length jacket and gored skirt in the new shorter fashion. She liked having a hem several inches above her ankles, not needing to brush dried mud off the hem after wet days and being able to stride out freely.
On her way to work Olivia looked across the street and saw a woman she knew slightly, who had also lost her husband. The other was absolutely draped in black, with a veil on her hat to cover her face. Surely that made you feel worse about your loss?
She hadn’t had black clothes made, because when he volunteered for the army, Charles had forbidden her to go into mourning if he was killed. ‘Keep that lovely red hair of yours shining in the sunlight. Never, ever hide it.’ He’d emphasised that by planting one of his smacking kisses on each of her cheeks in turn. Oh, she missed those sudden kisses so much!
The worst had indeed happened and her husband had been killed in the second Battle of Ypres at the beginning of May. His commanding officer had written to inform her that Charles had been shot by a sniper and died instantly. She hoped it was the truth, but knew only too well many officers said that to soften the blow. But nothing could soften the news that the man you loved had been killed.
She had only just turned forty and some would say her life was over. Her cousin Donald had told her she should live quietly from now on until the time came for her to join her husband in his grave.
‘As if I’d live like that!’ she told her reflection fiercely. ‘Charles would be horrified if I sat around doing nothing. I may not have a husband, but I can still have an interesting life.’ Somehow. Once the war was over.
Mrs Cummins peeped into the room from the shop. ‘Did you say something?’
‘What? Oh no. Just talking to myself.’
‘My mother does that since my father died. Drives me mad. You’ll have to watch yourself now you’re on your own.’ The doorbell of the shop rang and she vanished to serve the customer, calling over her shoulder, ‘See you tomorrow, dear.’
Olivia gave a wry smile at Mrs Cummins’ tactlessness. The shopkeeper was famous in the village for saying exactly what she felt. Luckily the woman hadn’t a nasty bone in her body, so the blunt remarks were never unkind.
She walked briskly home to her cousin’s house, today’s groceries swinging by her side in a string bag.
It was all the fault of the scarlet fever epidemic, which had broken out in Swindon in November. Her cousin Donald had insisted she move to the safety of his home in the village of Nether Bassett. She’d not even argued, partly because Donald was like a steamroller when he wanted something doing and partly because it’d make a change. She’d desperately needed a change.
She left one of the Belgian refugees she’d taken in a few months ago to look after her house. Madame Vermeulen was a capable woman and could be trusted to see that everything was properly cared for.
To her surprise, Olivia was enjoying some aspects of living in the country, especially the way everyone knew one another. She’d said so one day and remembered how smugly Donald had smiled at her.
‘I knew it! You must stay here for the duration of the war, Olivia, and keep an eye on my poor darling for me. It’s what your parents would have wanted, if they’d lived, I’m sure. Besides, it’s not right, a woman living alone,’ he’d added.
She hadn’t allowed him to get away with that. ‘I was hardly living alone. I had five Belgian refugees staying with me.’
‘Foreigners, and two of them men! Highly unsuitable. I can’t imagine why you volunteered to take them in. After the war you must find yourself a female companion, another widow perhaps, and take a cottage in our village. You can help out at the church and go shopping with Cecily.’
She was about to say she’d rather die than dwindle into old age like that when he added, ‘And anyway,
Swindon is full of soldiers, so you can’t go back yet.’
‘What’s wrong with soldiers? You are one.’
He stiffened. ‘I’m an officer and gentleman, which is rather different, let me tell you. I’ve heard the men talking. They consider women on their own easy prey.’
‘None of the soldiers I met in the street was anything but civil to me.’
‘You were lucky, then. But when you live here after the war I’ll be able to keep an eye on you and help you manage your money. You haven’t given me the details of what you inherited from Charles yet, by the way. How can I advise you if I don’t know anything about your finances?’
‘I can manage my own money, thank you.’
‘Nonsense! Women don’t understand these things. Your husband would want me to look after you. In the meantime it’s settled: you will live here with Cecily till the war’s over and those Belgians can jolly well pay you some rent.’
It wasn’t Donald’s arguments but Cecily’s unhappiness and getting the temporary job that made Olivia agree to stay for a while longer. But just till after Christmas, when the job would end. She could only take so much of a woman whose conversation consisted mainly of worrying about her husband and wondering what comforts to send him in the next package. Chocolate, Oxo cubes, a cake maybe. She agonised over such decisions for days.
But her decision didn’t solve the problem of what she was going to do with her life after she got back to Swindon.
At Greyladies in another Wiltshire village, Phoebe Latimer took a phone call and heard her husband’s voice.
‘I’ve got five days’ leave for Christmas.’
‘Oh, darling, how wonderful!’
‘I’ll arrive sometime in the middle of the afternoon on the day before Christmas Eve.’
She hung the telephone’s earpiece on its hook and watched it swing gently to and fro till it came to rest. That was still a week away, but she was so excited at the thought of it she couldn’t settle to anything.