Hebe was losing interest in Shakespeare. ‘One of the volunteer stewards, the Friends of Winter’s End, stands at either end of the gallery, and they have a fund of anecdotes concerning his apocryphal visit and stories about Alys Blezzard. That portrait in the middle is supposed to be her, but it is some dreadful affair painted by a jobbing artist, from the look of it, more used to depicting prize bulls and sheep.’
‘Hard to tell,’ I agreed, peering at it. ‘It looks as if it has been dipped in Brown Windsor soup. In fact, most of the paintings I’ve seen seem in want of a cleaning.’
‘Only a few in the Long Room were cleaned when your grandfather was searching for something to pay the death duties with. But once they found the Stubbs, that sufficed.’
She started to descend the stairs, but I paused and ran my hand over the curved banister, remembering the small Sophy who used to climb up onto it, clinging on for dear life as she swooshed down…
The Great Hall looked dark and yawningly empty below me, but not half as big as I recalled—nothing was. The house, which had seemed so huge in my childhood memories, had in reality shrunk to quite modest proportions, though it would still be a worryingly monumental task to restore it to its former glory.
‘Do you ever light the fire now?’ I asked, joining her at the bottom of the stairs.
‘The fire?’ She turned to look at it, as if, by magic, flames would appear. ‘We always used to—but I suppose no one has given the orders since William died.’
She pointed at a stack of screens against one wall. ‘On open days all these are set out into a display of the history of the house, the supposed Shakespeare connection—and Alys Blezzard’s story, of course. You know the legend is she was distantly related through her mother to the Nutters, who were known witches?’
‘Yes, Mum told me all about that. She said Alys really was a witch.’
‘Yes…Susan was always a fanciful child,’ Aunt Hebe said dismissively. ‘A knowledge of simple herbs and their curative effects does not mean one is versed in the black arts and in league with the devil.’ She pulled out the corner of a screen: ‘This one is the history of Winter’s End and the Winter family. Then there is the story of how the original Elizabethan plans for the terrace were discovered and the restoration begun—and about the missing part for the lower terrace.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes, torn off and not anywhere to be found. William and Seth were still arguing about what might have been on the lower terrace right up until the end. Indeed, the arguments kept William’s spirits up amazingly.’
‘Seth?’
‘The head gardener—so called.’
‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten, though his name’s pretty apt for a gardener, isn’t it? Sort of Cold Comfort Farm. I only hope there isn’t something nasty in the woodshed.’
‘Only wood,’ she said seriously, ‘and spiders—did you mean spiders? I am not fond of them myself, but freshly gathered cobwebs make an excellent poultice for wounds.’
The tour ended in the kitchen, where Mrs Lark was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the Aga knitting, with the radio on. Charlie lay in a position of blissful abandon on a rag rug at her feet. His stomach, as round as if he’d swallowed a small football, rose and fell to his stertorous breathing.
Aunt Hebe again consulted the watch attached to her flat bosom by a bow-shaped golden brooch. ‘Time to go—but before I do, I will be happy to pass you these.’
And she literally did pass me the most enormous bunch of keys, some of them museum pieces in their own right. ‘But Aunt Hebe, I can’t take these from you!’ I protested.
‘There is no reason why not, for this bunch is mainly symbolic. We hardly ever lock anything away—except the Book, when we had it, and a fat lot of good that did us. Indeed, I have no idea what half of the keys are for, and in any case I was only ever nominal housekeeper, for Mrs Lark does it all. No, my business is the walled garden—which that Seth Greenwood is forbidden to touch! I grow practically all the fruit and vegetables for the house and I have bees and chickens. And of course, the stillroom through there is for my use only. You may look at both,’ she added grandly, ‘but not poke and pry and stick your fingers into what doesn’t concern you!’
‘Yes, Aunt Hebe,’ I said meekly, hearing the echo of the same words in the voice of an eight-year-old, curious to know what her witchy ancient relative was cooking up.
‘I expect Mrs Lark will show you her apartment herself, though perhaps after your long journey you might wish to put off any further inspections of your realm until another day,’ she said slightly acidly, and departed back through the swinging, baize-lined door to the hall.
She left a snail trail of silver sequins behind her: she must have caught a loose thread on something.
Chapter Eight: Sovereign Remedies
Sir Ralph asked mee whether I was of the Old Religion and I said I was. I swore to it, and he was well pleased. I know them to be Catholics like Father, despite their outward show of compliance to the new faith; they do not know that the old religion I swore to is not the same as theirs…
From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1581
Mrs Lark said, ‘Don’t you worry about her—she never took any interest in the housekeeping, but she’s kept us in fruit and vegetables for years—and honey, chickens and eggs too. Now, do you want me to show you our rooms? Up the backstairs, they are.’
‘I would—but not today, if you don’t mind, Mrs Lark. So much needs doing that I think I need to go round in daylight with a notebook and write down a list of priorities,’ I said, though actually, what I really wanted to do was run about the house shrieking, ‘It’s mine, mine—all mine!’ at the top of my lungs, now that Aunt Hebe was no longer there to depress my pretensions.
‘The whole house is falling to pieces and that filthy I’m ashamed of it,’ Mrs Lark said forthrightly. ‘I clean my own rooms, but though poor Grace does her best with the rest of it all, it’s too much for her. And I do the cooking and ordering, but further than that I don’t go—not at my time of life.’
‘Of course not. You shouldn’t have to do anything else. It isn’t your job.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed, less defensively. ‘My Jonah, he’s butler, valet, handyman—whatever’s wanted—though he started out as groom when Mr William used to hunt. But he’s a man, so he doesn’t notice what wants doing, never has—you have to tell him.’
That explained the lack of a fire in the Great Hall then: it was merely that no one had thought to give the orders! I mooted the point.
‘I’ll tell him when he comes in,’ she said. ‘September to March it’s always kept lit, because it takes the chill off the whole place.’
‘What do we usually burn?’
‘Logs. The gardeners cut and stack them in the old stables—there’s always plenty. Ecologically sustainable,’ she added conscientiously,
