The next morning, I looked for Simon to return, but as the time sped on, I realized that it was likely I’d miss him. But where was he? What had held him up?
I wrote a hasty note and left it with Mrs. Hennessey, and then there was nothing for it but to find a cab to take us to the railway station. I even looked over my shoulder before we turned the corner, to see if Simon’s motorcar was in sight.
The train was crowded, as usual, and Lydia and I had difficulty finding two seats together. She was embarrassed that I had to pay for her ticket, but she promised to see that I was recompensed as soon as she reached Vixen Hill.
I said as we pulled out of the station into the misting rain, “Won’t it be awkward—a guest arriving without any warning? Perhaps we should have sent a telegram. After all, your family is in mourning.”
“I’d considered that, but I think it will be best just to walk in without fanfare. And Roger will very likely be as grateful as I am for your presence. There’s the awkwardness, you see, of meeting for the first time. I have no idea what to say—or what he’ll do. It’s so difficult to know, isn’t it?”
She’d persuaded herself that my presence would make all well again. But I had my doubts. Quarrels were not always settled so easily—or so amicably. Roger Ellis could see her flight to London as a more serious infraction than his blow. I was beginning to see that Simon was right, this was a more complicated business than I’d foreseen. Mainly because Lydia herself was far more uncertain than I’d realized.
“Are you sure,” I asked, “that this is the right thing to do? Perhaps we should have waited another day until you’re more comfortable with returning. It would be simple enough to get down at the next stop.”
“Oh, no, I want to put it behind me as quickly as possible.”
We talked for some time after that, exchanging information to make it appear more likely that she’d known me for some time.
“Wasn’t it difficult,” she asked at one point, “to work with badly wounded men? I know how distressing it was to care for Alan in his last days. Roger was wounded, you know. In the shoulder. He never told us, and it mustn’t have been severe, because he wasn’t sent back to England.” She bit her lip. “It was George who mentioned it. He’s a friend of the family. He’d run into Roger in France. But I hadn’t seen Roger for three years. Not until he came home because of Alan. And he treated me like a stranger. As if he couldn’t remember those months before the war when we were so happy.”
“War does change people,” I pointed out. “And of course there was his brother.”
“Yes, I know,” she said wistfully. “I shouldn’t have pressed. But I wanted so badly to have a child. Someone to love, if—if the worst happens. That’s what we quarreled about, you see.” She touched her face. “The hurt went deeper than the blow. That’s why I couldn’t stay at Vixen Hill.”
This was the truth, finally.
“We are a house of widows,” she went on. “For all intents and purposes these last three years, I have been one as well. Roger’s mother and his grandmother live with us, and I could see that their children have been their salvation. He may never come back from France, once he leaves. This could be our only chance.”
“Was Alan married? Did he have children?”
“He was married, yes. But he and Eleanor had no children. And neither do Margaret and Henry. She’s Roger’s sister, she lives near Canterbury.”
“And Juliana?”
“No. Of course not.”
She was silent for a time. Then she said, “Sometimes I think they’re cursed. Margaret and Alan and Roger. Mama Ellis told me once that Juliana’s death was devastating. It scarred all of them. Roger’s father couldn’t accept it. He tried, but in the end he went out into the heath and shot himself.”
I was shocked. “She’s dead?” It was all I could manage to say.
“She died when she was only six years old. Of a mastoid tumor. Roger won’t speak her name. It’s as if she never existed. He was closer to her in age than Margaret and Alan. Alan, when he came of age, turned Vixen Hill over to Roger. He felt he couldn’t live there, and he bought a house in Portsmouth before joining the Navy as a career officer. Margaret married young. I think to escape. Although it turned out well enough. She and Henry have been very happy.”
“Did you—were you told these things before you married Roger Ellis?” I asked.
“I told myself I’d make Roger forget Juliana. But you can’t really change people, can you? We took a house in London for the first six months, and then I could tell that he missed Vixen Hill. Alan could walk away, you see, but Roger couldn’t. And so we returned to Sussex.” Putting a hand to her head, she said, “I wish this pounding would stop.”
I didn’t remind her about her promise.
We pulled into a station at that juncture, and in the flurry of people getting down or settling into seats, conversation was impossible. Lydia closed her eyes, and I thought she slept for a quarter of an hour or so.
We reached the station just outside of Hartfield in the early afternoon. I was glad, for the train was stuffy and so crowded we could hardly hear ourselves think. I said, as Lydia and I stepped down into a small station hardly worthy of the name, “How far is it to Vixen Hill?”
“Not far, as the crow flies,” she said, handing in our tickets. “There’s a carriage we can hire to take us there. I was so fortunate the day I left—a neighbor was on her way to Hartfield to do her marketing, and she was willing to take me to the station. I wouldn’t have wanted to walk—I’d have missed my train for one thing. But I would have walked, you know. I was that desperate to get away.”
We found the carriage without any trouble, and the driver, an elderly man with a foul-smelling pipe, was more than willing to take us to Vixen Hill. We were soon on our way through the village of Hartfield. It was prosperous enough, with cottages and houses leading into a street of shops and an inn. I could see the tower of a church up a side street, and farther along, I glimpsed the doctor’s shingle on a house facing a small shop selling dry goods.
Several people turned to stare, but I thought that had more to do with the fact that I was a stranger than with Lydia’s bruised face and blackened eye. Still, she kept her gloved hand raised, as if to keep her hat from blowing off.
I heard her murmur, “I knew this would be an ordeal.”
“It will be over soon. There’s the end of town in sight already.”
We came to a slight bend in the road just before the outskirts, and I turned to my left, aware of someone watching us. My gaze met that of the village constable standing there.
I was used to the constable who walked past Mrs. Hennessey’s house each evening and paused to pass the time of day with her. And to the constable in Somerset whose children brought us fresh strawberries from his garden every spring. Comfortable figures who kept order and were a part of the fabric of our lives.
This man was cut from a different cloth, and I thought perhaps he’d been in the war, wounded and discharged, for his face was hard, his eyes cold, as if he remembered too much and had no way of forgetting.
And then Hartsfield was behind us, and the heath, encroaching on the outskirts, as if lying in wait, quickly surrounded us. I was used to the moors in Devon and Cornwall. But this was dramatically different, low, black twisted branches of stunted heather and gorse filling the horizon now as far as the eye could see.
The land was sour, bare in places, in others dotted with blighted shrubs and what appeared to be the struggling remnants of grasses and other vegetation that had given up long ago.
“This is where you live?” I asked, surprised. I’d been to Sussex before, lovely villages and a countryside that was inviting. This was quite different.
“Ashdown Forest,” Lydia murmured. “I hate it. In winter it sucks the life out of you, leaving you as twisted and dead as it is. Winter bleak, that’s what it is.”
Apparently, from what she was telling me as we held on tightly on the now bumpy ride over winter-rutted tracks that bore little resemblance to roads, Ashdown Forest had been a hunting preserve of kings. A ditch had surrounded it to keep the animals in and the peasant poachers out.
“You can still find bits of the ditch if you know where to look. But the forest has long since disappeared. There are stands of trees here and there, mere remnants of what used to be.”
I could see why she called it winter bleak.
The day was overcast now, and that did little to make the drab brown and black landscape more appealing. In the far distance I glimpsed sheep grazing, which must have meant that this wiry and unappealing growth was nourishing. But there was so little color to this palette. Even the moors in the West Country were greener and more inviting.
I said, “Is it always so dreary?”
“To be fair, in the spring when the gorse blooms, it’s touched with green and gold. And in summer the ling—the heather—flowers. A carpet of lavender, and it comes right to the edge of the lawns. But I know winter is coming when I see the ling blooming, and that’s depressing. Winter seems to last longer than any other season. When my brother was alive, I’d find an excuse to go to Suffolk for a week or so. We were close, he and I, and while I like his wife well enough, sadly we have very little in common. After he was killed, I began to feel like a guest there on sufferance.”
Roger, I thought, sounded rather selfish. And so did her brother’s widow, for that matter.
She fell silent, as if bracing herself for what was to come.
As we moved deeper into Ashdown Forest, the landscape became even more bleak, if that was possible. The occasional sheep or cows, the handful of horses, seemed overwhelmed by the silence. From time to time we moved into the shadow of trees, their bare branches arching over our heads like the high ribbed ceiling of a cathedral nave. Occasionally I saw narrow, overgrown paths leading off into denser growth, mysterious, almost secretive.
I was hard-pressed to tell one featureless track from the other as we made our way across the heath. I found it difficult to imagine that this was once a great forest, with deer and whatever else a king chose to hunt confined here awaiting his pleasure. That was a chilling thought, that the animals were all but penned here, until he and his cronies came again to slaughter them. I was beginning to feel rather vulnerable myself in this strange world, and I compared it to the blighted landscape of France where war had destroyed every vestige of grass and trees and fields. Very different—and yet in some way, very much the same. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the similarity until I realized that no one seemed to live here either. A wasteland of man’s making. No Man’s Land. Just then I saw the distant broken arms of a windmill, but the house attached to it was not visible.
We turned off the track into a lane, bordered by a line of ash trees, that led in turn to a red brick house whose lawns ended abruptly at the edge of the gorse and heather. As if a line had been drawn, and the wildness told not to cross it. Or had the wildness told the grass to encroach no farther?
I wondered if the house had begun life as a hunting lodge, because there was a tall central block that appeared to be older than the wings to either side, the brick a mellow rose. High above the door, an oriel window broke the plainness of the facade, the panes dark and lifeless under the dull sky. Gardens graced the lawns where the lane became a drive looping back on itself. But at this time of year the gardens too were dead, bare beds with no promise of spring, not even a brave bit of green from a tulip or daffodil poking tentatively up.
I thought of the old legends of cursed land. Or Mr. Conan Doyle’s tale of great black hounds haunting the moors. One could believe in them in such a place. I couldn’t help but remember the comfortable drowsiness of Somerset, a soft green countryside where I would be now if I’d gone home with Simon.
“Vixen Hill,” Lydia said. “Home.” There was a hint of melancholy in the words.
As we came out of the looping drive, I could see the pair of holly trees standing guard on either side of the doorway, their tough, glossy leaves like armor in the pale light, the rich red berries bright against the brick. Whoever had planted those hollies, I thought, must have been hungry for even a small bit of color.
The carriage drew to a halt before the massive door, arched and faced with stone, barred with iron. It was either very old or a Victorian replica that had weathered well. I looked up at the long oriel window, and thought I saw a flicker of movement there. But it was only a trick of the light as the clouds scudded overhead.
Lydia gripped my hand like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline. I could see, glancing at her face, that she was more likely to turn around and leave than get down and walk to the door. “I feel sick,” she whispered.
But it was too late to walk away. She would have to face whatever lay beyond that door. I wondered what role Roger’s mother and grandmother might play in this reunion. I hadn’t thought to ask Lydia about that.
“I’m here,” I said quietly. “Chin up, and take your courage in both hands. You’ve come home of your own free will.”
She smiled, a shaky one at best, but a smile nonetheless. “Is that what you tell your patients when you send them back to their regiments?”
“Of course,” I lied, paying the driver and grateful to be seeing the end of that pipe. What I told my patients was very different. Take care. And God go with you. Only I never spoke that last aloud. It was a silent prayer that they would survive another week, another month, another year. So many of them didn’t.
The horses moved restlessly, steaming in the cold air. Lydia got down and marched to the door like a man walking to the gallows, upheld by pride alone. I followed her. The carriage was on the point of turning in the drive, and as she realized it, she called to the elderly man who had brought us here, “No, wait.”
At that moment, the door swung open, and it was a middle-aged woman in a dark blue uniform who greeted Lydia with relief, staring anywhere except at that bruise as she said, “I thought I heard the carriage. Mrs. Roger? You’re all right then?”
“Hello, Daisy. Is Mr. Ellis at home?”
“I was told by Molly that he’d gone out again to search for you. He’s been that worried.” Her gaze moved from her mistress to me, politely curious.
“I’ve brought a guest with me. Miss Crawford, from London.” Lydia’s voice was steady, but I heard the undercurrent of nervousness. I hoped Daisy didn’t.
Daisy swept me an old-fashioned curtsey and welcomed me to the house, then took my valise and led me inside.
If I’d thought this was once a hunting lodge, I was proved right as I entered the hall. The ceiling was high, there was a massive stone hearth on one side, and displayed on the walls were an array of weapons and the mounted heads of game staring down at me.
Lydia, noticing my appraisal, said, “When the house was rebuilt in the late seventeen hundreds, this room was kept. The rest is more comfortable, I promise you.” Turning to Daisy, she asked, “Where is everyone?”
“Your grandmother is resting. Mrs. Matthew is putting together the menus for the guests she’s expecting. And Miss Margaret has gone out for a walk.”
Lydia said contritely, “Oh, dear, I’d forgot we’re to have guests. It completely slipped my mind. Mama Ellis will be wondering what on earth I was thinking of! Could you put Miss Crawford’s things in the room overlooking the knot garden?” And to me she added, “You’ll like that room. It looks away from the Forest. Nowhere near as gloomy as most of the other rooms. And you won’t mind, will you, Bess, if we speak to my mother-in-law before we go up?”
We crossed the hall, passing the stairs built into the wall on one side, and Lydia opened a door at the far end of the room. Beyond was a passage that branched left and right, leading to the two wings of the house. Lydia turned to her left and opened another door into a very pleasant, very feminine little room. She said tentatively said, “Mama?”
Over her shoulder I saw the woman seated at the desk by the window look up and stare for a moment, then rise to embrace Lydia.
“My dear. Your poor face!” she exclaimed. I remembered that the blow must have been just a red splotch the last time she’d seen Lydia, and that the bruising must have come as something of a shock. “Can nothing be done for it? Are you in any pain?”
“It’s all right, Mama. I promise you. I’ve been in London—visiting a friend. She’s come home with me. Elizabeth Crawford. She’s a nursing sister, just back from France.”
Mrs. Ellis smiled at me. “Welcome to Vixen Hill, Miss Crawford. I’m Amelia Ellis, Roger’s mother. I hope you’ll be comfortable here. Has Lydia shown you to your room?”
“Not yet,” I said, taking the hand she offered me. “I look forward to my stay. It’s a lovely house.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, not with arrogance but with pride in her home. “I’ve been happy here.” But even as she spoke the words a shadow crossed her face, as if this was not the whole truth. “You must be in need of tea, after that cold drive from the station. I need a bit of distraction myself. I’ve spent all morning on menus and arrangements.”
Lydia said contritely, “And I was not here to help.”
“Never mind,” Mrs. Ellis said cheerfully. “There’s still much to be done.”
She led us from her small sanctuary to the sitting room next door. There were long windows letting in what light there was, and a tall music box in a beautiful mahogany cabinet stood between them, the sort of music box that played large steel discs. The rest of the furnishings were a little shabby, as if this room was used often. The chair I was offered was covered in a pretty chintz patterned with pansies faded to a pale lavender and rose, each bunch tied by a white ribbon. Mrs. Ellis crossed to the hearth and rang the bell beside it.
As she turned back to us, she said, gesturing to my uniform, “You’re only just returned from France? What is it like out there? My son won’t tell me the truth. He says that the casualty lists are exaggerated.”
A sop to his mother’s fears?
“I only know how busy we are when there’s a push on,” I said, trying not to make her son out as a liar. “As you’d expect. But my father has high hopes, now that the Americans are coming over. He says their General Pershing knows what he’s about.” He’d also said that we badly needed fresh viewpoints at HQ, but I thought it best not to mention that.
“Crawford,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Not related to Colonel Crawford, by any chance, are you?”
“He’s my father.”
“My dear! How wonderful,” she exclaimed. “My husband met him briefly in India. Oh, years ago. Matthew had gone out on one of the mapping expeditions, and he hoped to do a little exploring while in the north. Your father—he was a captain then—was his contact in Peshawar. They got on well and corresponded until Matthew’s death. I wonder if Colonel Crawford remembers him.”
“I’m sure he will. I look forward to asking him.”
Another middle-aged maid appeared in the doorway and then stepped aside as a tall, vigorous woman with very white hair came in. “What’s this I hear about Lydia coming back?” She turned her sharp gaze on her granddaughter-in-law, but before she could say anything more, Mrs. Ellis asked for tea to be brought. The woman, whose name was Molly, quietly shut the door as she left.
“How did you come by that nasty bruise?” the elder Mrs. Ellis was demanding. “And don’t tell me that Roger inflicted it. I won’t believe it.”
“It’s true, Gran,” Amelia Ellis replied quickly, before Lydia could answer.
“Nonsense. The Ellis men don’t strike their women. Surely a little powder will make you more presentable? I don’t hold with powder as a rule, but in this case, it’s necessary. Regrettably.”
Lydia said, “It was my fault, Gran. Truly it was.” She gestured toward me. “May I present my friend, Miss Crawford? Matthew knew her father in India.”
“Indeed. Don’t change the subject, my girl. What will our guests think, to see you looking like that?”
“I’ll try powder, Gran, I promise.”
Her grandmother turned to me then. “A nursing sister, are you? I hope you’ve brought some other clothing with you. It won’t do to be the skeleton at the feast at dinner tonight.”
“Perhaps I can borrow something suitable from Lydia,” I answered politely. I’d brought one pretty dress with me, expecting to dine tonight, but it appeared that no one contradicted Gran.
Molly came in just then with the tea tray, and Gran inspected it with a frown on her face. “We’ve hit a new low, Amelia,” she said to Mrs. Ellis. “There are no cakes for our tea.”
“Yes, dear, I know. Cook has been holding back eggs and honey and flour for our guests. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I shall write to my MP and demand to know what England is coming to,” she said, taking the first cup of tea and moving to a chair by the fire. “We had no wars in the old Queen’s day. I don’t see why we must put up with them now.”
Mrs. Ellis smiled at me as she passed me my cup. “Yes, Gran, dear, I should think that would be a very good idea.”
“Don’t patronize me, Amelia,” the older woman snapped. “I’m not in my dotage.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, Gran. There are some biscuits here. Would you care for one?”
The elder Mrs. Ellis grudgingly accepted one, and then said, “It’s not what I’m accustomed to. Where’s Roger? He ought to be here. It’s already getting dark. He knows I don’t care for him to wander about on the heath after dark. That shoulder can’t be fully healed, whatever he tries to tell himself.”
“It’s been nearly two years. He’ll be in shortly—”
At that moment the sitting room door opened again, and a tall, fair man entered. He was wearing country clothing rather than his uniform. “Here you are,” he began, and then he saw Lydia. She set her cup aside and rose, unable to speak. But I could see the tears glistening now in her eyes.
He stared at her, several emotions flitting across his face. First surprise, then relief, and finally anger. But he came quickly across the room to his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. She flinched in spite of herself, and he dropped his hands at once. “My dear” was all he said, and she nodded, as if she understood without the need for words. He touched her face gently with one finger, and added, “I’m so very sorry.”
“No, it was my fault,” she said tremulously.
Gran, watching them, interjected, “Do have some tea, Roger. You must be frozen.”
The emotional moment between husband and wife was broken, and he stepped back, took the cup his mother handed him with a wry smile, and said, “I was worried. We looked everywhere.”
“I went to London,” Lydia said. “To think, actually. Bess, out of kindness, took me in.”
He turned to me, and I felt the power of his gaze as he thanked me for being such a good friend. My first thought was, He doesn’t believe her. Then where did he think she’d gone? And was that why he wasn’t in London, scouring the city for her? I remembered too her refusal to let Simon bring us here comfortably in his motorcar.
“We ran into each other unexpectedly. I was glad, we hadn’t seen each other in several years.”
“Indeed.”
I looked him in the eye. “I’m glad to meet you at last,” I said, to give him something to think about. “Lydia has told me so much about you.” It was a common enough remark when meeting someone related to a friend, but I gave it the slightest emphasis, on purpose.
He had the grace to flush at that. He knew exactly what I meant, that she had confided in me about the bruises. And I suspect he understood as well why she had brought me home with her. A buffer, in the event he was still angry.
“Welcome to Vixen Hill,” he said, and I knew we had a sound grasp of where each of us stood now.
He accepted a biscuit from the plate his mother held out to him, then went to sit down next to Lydia.
Gran said, “You were careful with that shoulder, I hope.”
“Yes, of course,” he answered impatiently. “But the doctor instructed me to exercise it to bring it back to full strength. You know that.”
“Exercise and walking off a black mood are two very different things,” she retorted, and reached for another biscuit.
Mrs. Ellis mentioned the guests they were expecting, and Roger said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Mother?”
“Yes, why not? Eleanor will wish to see Alan’s stone in its proper place, and Margaret is already here. What’s more, I think it will be good for George. He wasn’t able to stay when Alan was so ill. ”
“I doubt it will be good for him,” Roger argued. “He’s changed, Mother, whether you wish to admit it or not. First Malcolm’s death, and then Alan’s. I’m surprised he hasn’t killed himself, to tell you the truth.”
Her son’s bluntness made her wince.
“He was best man at your wedding. Your oldest friend,” Mrs. Ellis reminded him. “Have a little charity, Roger. He needs patience and understanding.”
“He’s moody and unpredictable these days. He’ll cast a pall over the entire event. I hope he’ll change his mind and stay in Hampshire.”
“You have also been moody and unpredictable, my dear.” Her voice was very gentle. “I think Sister Crawford will agree with me that it’s what war does to one’s spirit.”
Roger said nothing, but I could see that he felt otherwise. It struck me that I’d been right about his selfishness.
“It’s starting to rain harder,” Gran reported, rising to walk to the window. “I hope it won’t last for days the way it usually does. The tracks will be nearly impassable. The ceremony spoiled.”
I looked toward the windows and could see that indeed it was raining, the wind picking up to blow it in sheets against the glass. I could just make out the lawns, and the dark line of heath beyond, visible as if through a veil. I was glad we weren’t traveling in an open carriage from the station just now.
Lydia rose. “Bess, I’ll show you the house, shall I? So that you can find your way.”
I thanked Mrs. Ellis for the tea, and went with her. Out in the passage she sighed. “It wasn’t as difficult as I’d expected. I thought—well, never mind what I thought. But I was very glad you were there, all the same. My backbone, as it were.” She smiled, but there was still a touch of anxiety behind it. “My head was thundering in there. It’s better now. The passage is so much cooler.”
But it wasn’t aching from the heat of the fire on the hearth. I said, “You should rest. It’s been a very tiring day.”
“No, I’m fine. And there’s so much to do.”
I said only, “Lydia, if your mother-in-law is expecting a family gathering, I shall only be in the way. Meanwhile, will you at least speak to your family’s physician? It will set my mind at rest.”
She wouldn’t hear of it. I persisted.
“It wouldn’t do if you had problems with a house full of guests. What’s more,” I added, “the blame would fall on Roger, wouldn’t it? I mean to say, that’s the most conspicuous injury, your hair covers the other.”
She stopped in the passage and regarded me for a moment. “What could I say, that wouldn’t be a reflection on Roger? You don’t know Dr. Tilton.”
“Tell him you slipped on the stairs. It’s true.”
“Will you go with me?”
“Of course.”
“Then tomorrow. Before your train leaves.”
With that out of the way, Lydia seemed to be as relieved as I was. We went first to my room, and on the landing I could see for myself the sharp edge of the square mahogany newel post. The cut in her scalp was proof enough of how hard she’d struck it. Hard enough indeed for a concussion.
A fire had been lit on the hearth, taking away the damp chill of the day, and the drapes had been drawn against the rain. I went to the window anyway, and pulling them aside, looked out. The knot garden lay spread out below, an intricate design of boxwoods and flower beds that seemed at odds with a house on the edge of a heath. Around the garden were planted tall evergreens as a shield against the wind and also, I thought, to shut out the landscape beyond.
“It’s my favorite view,” Lydia said, coming to stand beside me. “And in high summer, it’s beautiful. It was put in for Gran, you know. A wedding gift from her husband, Roger’s grandfather. Her room overlooks it too.” We returned to the hall by the main stairs, and Lydia said, “Everything starts here. Those stairs along the wall lead up to the oriel window above. You saw it as we came up the drive. The formal rooms are in the right wing, and the family rooms are in the left. Go through the door—the one over there, that we used when we first arrived—and turn to your right in the passage and you come to the drawing room. Well, we call it that, although it’s not all that splendid these days. After we were married, Roger’s mother told me I could redecorate it to suit my tastes, which was very kind of her. Before I could really set about it, the war began.” We were walking through the door and following the passage now. “That door is the dining room, this one the drawing room, and beyond it is a small library. Across from the library is Roger’s grandfather’s study. Gran uses it sometimes, when she isn’t in the mood to sit with the family.” We retraced our steps, and she opened the door into the formal dining room. It was elegant in dark green upholstery that set off the well-polished wood, and the tall, handsome sideboard. Long dark green velvet drapes trimmed in cream framed the double windows. The carpet was a paler green and cream in a floral pattern.
Lydia pointed to the fox mask carved above the sideboard. The chairs at the head and foot of the table had smaller versions at the ends of the arms. “The house is said to have been built originally over a vixen’s den. That’s where the name comes from. But one story has it that Roger’s ancestor used the lodge for assignations, and when his wife found out, she killed him and blamed his death on a rabid fox.”
“How charming,” I said with a smile.
“Yes, I felt the same when I first came here. Sadly, the room is used very seldom now. With just the three of us, Gran and Mama Ellis and me, we usually take our meals in the sitting room.”
I could see why. The table would seat twenty comfortably, and with only one hearth, it must be very cold in winter. I noticed the paintings hanging on the walls, mostly landscapes from Italy and Switzerland and by a very accomplished hand.
“Gran painted them. On her honeymoon. Roger’s grandfather had them framed and hung as a surprise for her after their first child—Matthew, Roger’s father—was born.”
She closed that door and turned to the one across the passage, opening it into the drawing room. It faced the drive, and even on such a dreary afternoon, it was well lit and very pleasant. Stepping inside, the first thing that drew my eyes was the lovely hearth of Portland stone—and above it the most astonishing portrait.
The child was beautiful, fair haired and sweet faced, with an impish gleam in her blue eyes, and she had been captured in an informal pose, glancing toward the artist over one shoulder, her smile so touching I stood there in amazement.
“That’s Juliana,” Lydia was saying in a flat voice.