rel="nofollow" href="#u9d4f380a-0fd4-5fac-84bf-26b58b616b6d">Chapter Three
Michelle Styles
For the students and teachers of Crystal Springs Uplands School, class of 1982, in particular for the head of the English Department—Mrs Norma Fifer.
Truly an inspirational teacher.
1847 Haydon Bridge, Northumberland
‘I kept my promise, Father.’ Tristan Dyvelston, the new Lord Thorngrafton, placed his hand on his father’s grave and his fingers touched the smooth black marble, tracing his father’s name. He glanced down at the weed-infested grave.
‘Your brother has died,’ he said solemnly, repeating the vow he had made on this very spot ten years ago. ‘I have returned to take the title. I will be above reproach now. But while my uncle was alive I wanted him to think the worst about me and to fear for the future of his beloved title.’
He bowed his head and stepped back from the grave. One part of his oath was complete.
The late morning sunlight broke through the cloud and illuminated the ruins for a single glorious moment, making it seem like he had stepped into one of John Martin’s more evocative paintings. Tristan tightened his grip on his cane. Here was no picture to be admired. The scene showed how much had to be done. How much would be done.
He was under no illusion about the enormity of his task. His parents’ graves lay under a tangled mass of nettles and brambles. In the ten years since he had last been here, the entire churchyard had fallen into decay, echoing the state of Gortner Hall, some fifteen miles away. He would put that right, eventually. His uncle was no longer there to object.
He traced the lettering on his mother’s grave. How would the county greet the return of the black sheep? He had heard the tales his uncle had spread—the gossip, the scandal and the plain twisting of the facts. His uncle had sought to deny him everything but the title and the entailed estate, a dry husk, long starved of any funds. Tristan took great pleasure in confounding his expectations.
The clicking of a gate caused him to turn. Irritated.
A blonde woman with a determined expression on her face tiptoed into the churchyard, glanced furtively about and raised a shining object into the air. The sunlight glinted on it, sending a beam of light to dance on the yew trees. Tristan relaxed slightly. She was not someone he had ever encountered before and therefore was unlikely to recognise him. But there was something about the way the petite woman held her head that intrigued him.
Why would anyone come here?
She wrinkled her nose, fiddled with the object again and finally gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘I told Cousin Frances that a moonlight aspect would work better than a Gilpin tint, and I was correct. She will have to retract her scornful words. The church could be romantic in the moonlight. One would have to imagine the hooting owl, but it could be done. It could be painted.’
Tristan jumped and considered how best to respond to the statement. Then he gave an irritated frown as he realised that the woman was not speaking to him. He regarded her for another instant as she peered intently at the object in her hand. He gave a wry smile as he realised the object’s identity—a Claude glass, a mirror that prettified the landscape and allowed the viewer to see it at different times of the year, or hours of the day, simply through changing the tinted glass. It all made sense. She had come in search of landscapes.
If he was lucky, it would be just the Claude glass and a few ladies to coo and ahh at the ruins. If he was unlucky, they would have brought their watercolour paints, brushes and easels, the better to capture the romantic ruins. He lifted his eyes towards heaven. God preserve him from ladies wielding Claude glasses, their pursuit of culture and their self-righteous indignation that others should not share their same view of the world, interrupting his first chance to pay his respects to his parents. Tristan frowned. Not if he acted first.
‘Precisely how many more of you are there?’ he asked, making sure his voice carried across the disused churchyard. ‘How many more are there in the horde?’
The woman spun around, her mouth forming an O. She had one of those fashionable china-doll faces—blue eyes and pink cheeked in a porcelain oval. The lightness of her complexion was highlighted against the darkness of the yew hedge, giving her almost an angelic appearance, but there was a sensuousness about her mouth, a hint of slumbering passion in her eyes. Her well-cut walking dress hinted at her rounded curves as well as revealing her tiny waist. A temptress rather than a blue stocking.
‘You are not supposed to be here,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips and gesturing with her Claude glass. ‘Nobody ever comes here. Cousin Frances told me emphatically— Haydon Church is always deserted.’
‘Your cousin was obviously mistaken. I am here.’
‘My cousin dislikes
