mother’s death, she continued to add to it, as women did then, often passing them on for several generations. But at the front she still signed herself as Alys Blezzard, so I don’t think she ever really considered herself to be a Winter. She was the last of that particular branch of the Blezzards too; her father married three times, but had no more children.’
Like a curse, I thought, shivering. I noticed that Charlie was looking fixedly at a point behind me, his tail wagging, but when I turned there was nobody there—or nobody visible.
‘I keep having the feeling that there’s someone standing right behind me, Aunt Hebe. Is the house haunted? I mean, apart from Alys.’
‘Oh, yes. When you were a little girl you called your imaginary friend Alys—I had forgotten. And you were quite convinced that she talked to you! But of course she does haunt the house, because of her tragically early death, and there are several other ghosts including the robed figure of a man from about the same time. They say the family was hiding a Catholic priest who was taking gold back to the Continent, to further the work of the Church, but he was betrayed and is still searching for his treasure.’
‘You’d think if he hid it he would know where it was, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so, though each generation has made major alterations to Winter’s End so he might be a trifle confused. There are several other legends too, for of course there had been a dwelling on this site for many centuries before Winter’s End was built. If you are interested in such things, there is a book in the library called Hidden Hoards of the North-West…unless Jack still has it. He’s been fascinated by the idea of hidden treasure since he was a little boy,’ she added indulgently, ‘and I had to read to him from that book at bedtime every night.’
That caused me another unworthy pang of jealousy. ‘You used to read to me from a scary Victorian book of bible stories, Aunt Hebe!’
‘But you were an ungodly child,’ she said severely, ‘born of sin.’
I didn’t think I had been particularly wayward, just mischievous, but I let it go. ‘Have you seen any of the ghosts?’
‘I thought I saw a Saxon in the garden once, at dusk, looking for the hoard he had hidden before a battle. But it was probably just one of the gardeners.’
The windows of Lady Anne’s parlour looked out over the terraces at the back of the house and were curtained in a predominantly coral-coloured William Morris fabric. The walls above the inevitable dark wainscoting had been painted the same shade, and coral tones softly echoed in the faded, but still beautiful, carpet.
I felt as though the room was casting an aura of welcome around me and I could see myself sitting there in the evening, piecing together my crazy cushions. ‘Aunt Hebe, would you mind if I used this room? It’s lovely, and I’ll need somewhere to make my patchwork.’
‘I can’t say I ever much cared for sitting in here,’ she said, looking slightly surprised, ‘and though Mother was a skilled needlewoman and used to embroider beautifully, she did it in the drawing room after dinner. The firescreen in the study is her work.’
‘I’ll look out for it. Where do you like to sit in the evening, Aunt Hebe?’
‘Sometimes one place, sometimes another…’ she said vaguely, like an elderly Titania—which indeed, she resembled. ‘Though I often work in the stillroom until late, or go out—I am on several village committees. There is a TV in the library, but I also have one in my room, for William and I tended to live very separate lives.’
‘We didn’t have a TV in the commune and I’ve never really felt the need for one since, but we always had a radio when I worked at Lady Betty’s. I like to listen to Radio 4 when I’m sewing. You can’t really watch something and sew properly, can you?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never tried.’ She looked at her watch and then shooed me out along a tapestry-hung passage and up some spiral stairs. The door at the top opened between my bedroom and the arch leading to the upper level of the tower, which was a complete surprise—I’d noticed it, but thought it was another cupboard.
‘I don’t remember these stairs at all!’
‘That is because you were not allowed to use them. William insisted you were confined to the nursery and the kitchens, though we were forever finding you sliding down the Great Hall banisters. There are the stairs to the attic nursery floor over there, which you will recall, so we won’t bother going up—the rest of the roof space is now entirely given up to storage. I keep the door to that side locked, otherwise Grace sneaks off up there and smokes.’
She turned on her white, wellington-booted heel and sped off, appearing to be losing interest in the tour fast. ‘You know this bedroom floor already,’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘There are six bedrooms—eight if you include the nursery suite—but the Rose Room is never used.’
I fell down some ill-lit steps and bumped into her round the corner as she came to an abrupt stop.
‘Turn left and you enter the Long Room again, at the end of which is the door to the East Wing where there are further bedchambers, the Larks’ living quarters, and the backstairs to the kitchens. This one takes us onto the landing, of course, commonly called the minstrels’ gallery, and, since it projects over the hall, I expect they did sometimes have musicians there when they were entertaining. When Ottie and I were girls we had parties with dancing in the Great Hall, and the band sat up here and played.’
That must have been quite a sight—the tall, slim, blue-eyed Miss Winters, their red-gold hair floating as they danced the night away with their dinner-jacketed partners…
‘What sort of music did you dance to?’ I asked curiously, and would have loved to have known if she had a favourite partner too, had she been in the mood for reminiscence, but the past clearly held no fascination for Aunt Hebe. Ignoring my question as though I had never asked it, she carried on with her tour. ‘The Great Hall and the solar are much older than the rest of the house, but the Winters were forever knocking bits down and rebuilding them. You can see from the blocked fireplace halfway up the wall that the hall was once single storey with rooms over it, and then the height was increased and the ceiling plastered, leaving only the minstrels’ gallery.’
She clomped off and I could feel the gallery floorboards bouncing under my feet. ‘Most of the lesser family portraits are hung here, and on open days the visitors can come up. We lock the door at the end, but the family can still reach either wing of the house by way of the Long Room if they wish, without meeting a member of the public.’
‘It’s very dark; you can hardly make the portraits out. Does anyone actually want to come up here?’
‘Oh, yes, for Shakespeare is rumoured to have visited Winter’s End, and if so presumably would have stood on this very spot—if he came at all. But show me an old manor house in this part of Lancashire where he isn’t supposed to have been!’
‘Really?’ I said, interested. ‘I didn’t know that.’
She shrugged bony shoulders impatiently. ‘There is a theory that he spent the Lost Years here in Lancashire, in the employment of various local families, especially the Hoghtons—and he is supposed to have a particular connection with Rufford Old Hall, near Ormskirk, which is now, of course, a National Trust property. There is a book about it in the library, I believe.’
‘Really? I’ll
