Mariana (7 page)

The lane was quiet and deserted. On my left, through the closely planted trees, I could just glimpse the outline of the church, its yellow stone walls flatly dull in the absence of sunshine. The path hugged the churchyard around a smoothly curved corner, straightening out again for its approach to the manor house. Ahead of me loomed the garden pedestrian gate leading to the Hall's north entrance, a freestanding doorcase carved of pale limestone, surmounted by an ornamental cornice and ball. A sign posted to one side of the gate stated politely: 'Welcome to Crofton Hall. This wing is private. The public is requested to use the East Entrance, which may be reached from the High Street'

Rather a nice way, I thought, of telling people to get lost. Nor would they need to go through the bother of retracing their steps. A little swinging gate set into the low stone wall on my left led into the churchyard, offering a ready shortcut back to the High Street.

To my right, a long, low building with a stone-tiled roof stretched out level with the front of the imposing garden gate. The pleasantly pungent smell that drifted through its wide-open doorway identified it immediately as the stables
for the Hall. My hesitation was only momentary. I never had been able to resist the almost magnetic lure of the presence of horses. Forgetting all about the manor house itself, I wandered toward the big boarded doors, swatting idly at a fly that buzzed about my ear.

The stables were unmistakably old, built of rough gray stone that looked identical to that used to build my house. Sarsen stone, Vivien had called it. The fly buzzed past again, louder this time, and again I brushed it away. Inside, the stables were warm, and fragrant, and I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting.

There were seven window bays, and most of the two-light timber windows held the original leaded glazing, with blue flies humming contentedly against the glass. Of the nine straight stalls, six contained horses, ranging in colour from a pure midnight black to a sleek golden chestnut. But it was the gray horse, in the far corner stall, that caught and held my attention.

It was a stallion, standing fully sixteen hands high, with a proudly arched neck and regal face that spoke of blistering, windswept sands and the far-off kingdoms of the infidel. As I drew closer, the gray turned his head toward me, his dark eyes mildly inquisitive, and snorted softly. I reached out a hand to rub his velvet nose, and the finely drawn nostrils quivered slightly in response, inhaling my scent.

'Hello, Navarre,' I greeted him lovingly, 'you beautiful thing.'

The stallion nuzzled my hand, searching for an illicit treat. And he might have received one, had I not at that moment heard the sound of footsteps approaching—heavy, confident footsteps accompanied by a cheerful and tuneless whistling. I spun round guiltily, and stood facing the doorway with my hands held behind me like an errant schoolgirl.

But no one came in.

The flies sang more noisily in the windowpanes, drowning out the sound of my rapidly beating heart as I blinked
my eyes against the suddenly bright electric lights that had not been there a moment ago. Gone were the leaded windows, replaced by energy-efficient double glazing. Gone, too, were the straight stalls, and in their place were five larger, immaculately kept box stalls. And the horse behind me, when I summoned the courage to look, was no longer a gray, but a dark cherry bay, eyeing me curiously from the safety of the far wall.

I did not take time to
analyze
what had just occurred. I ran. I ran out of the stables, across the lane, and through the swinging gate into the silent sanctuary of the churchyard, and if I hadn't caught my foot on a snaking tree root, I would very probably have kept right on running.

As it was, I fell in a sprawling, inglorious heap among the tangle of weeds that grew against the churchyard wall, knocking the breath from my body so that I was forced to lie quite still for several moments. And as I lay there, gasping, hoping against hope that no one would see me in this undignified position, my gaze fell wildly on a weathered headstone a short distance from my hand.

It was an old stone, set at an impossible angle and thickly wreathed in ivy, the vine having encircled the stone so completely that one could only read the first name of the person who lay buried beneath it:

Mariana
...

Seven

The approach to Vivien's private rooms at the back of the Red Lion wound through one of the loveliest gardens I had ever seen—the sort of garden one comes across in the travel brochures above the caption 'An English Country Garden.' Or at least it would be that summer, in full bloom. Even now, in the middle of May, the garden was deliciously twisted and tangled, with tiny flowers clinging to every crevice of the old stone wall surrounding the yard. I stood on the back step for a moment, loitering in silent admiration.

'Coming up behind you,' Iain Sumner announced from several yards away. 'There,' he said, joining me on the steps, 'was that better?'

Laughing, I shook my head. 'I'm sorry, but no. I still jumped.'

'Ah, well,' he sighed, 'we'll think of something. I'd not want to give you a coronary.'

'Hullo!' Geoffrey de Mornay came round the corner of the house, looking oddly elegant in denim jeans and a casual shirt. His greeting was directed at Iain, but his smile, I fancied, was for me.

'Why would you be giving her a coronary?' he asked.
Iain grinned. 'I move like a damned cat.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'He keeps sneaking up on me,' I clarified.

Iain took offense at that, raising both eyebrows in mock indignation. 'A Scotsman,' he informed me, 'never sneaks.'

'Well, whatever. I never hear him coming.'

Geoff frowned. 'You could wear heavier boots, I suppose,' he suggested, but Iain shook his head.

'Can't get much heavier than these.'

The three of us looked down at Iain's mud-splattered boots, our expressions contemplative, until the sound of a throat being ponderously cleared brought our heads up in unison.

'Hello.' Vivien smiled at us brightly from the open doorway. 'Would you three like to come inside, or should I join you out there?'

'Hullo, Viv.' Geoff leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. 'Thanks for inviting me.'

He brushed past her into the house, with Iain and I trailing after him. Vivien closed the door behind us, shaking her head. 'What on earth were you all doing?'

'Looking at
my
boots,' Iain supplied, kicking off the articles in question and strolling into the little kitchen in his stockinged feet. He, too, was wearing jeans and a flannel work shirt, and I might have felt overdressed in my skirt and sweater had it not been for the fact that Vivien was wearing a dress, a nicely cut navy-blue dress that set off her fair hair to advantage.

'You have a lovely garden,' I said to her, and she smiled.

'Thanks, but I can't take the credit. Iain's done most of the planting."

'Is there anybody's garden he
hasn't
worked on?' I wanted to know.

'Likely not,' Iain himself answered over his shoulder, rummaging in the refrigerator. 'I like gardens. Hate to see them wasted.' He straightened up with a sandwich in his hand. 'There used to be a nice garden up at your house,
come to that. Old Eddie let it grow over. Didn't want to be bothered with it.'

'The garden where the Green Lady appeared.'

'That's right,' Geoff spoke up, seating himself on a long sofa in the open-plan sitting room. 'You have been digging up the local legends, haven't you?'

'I find it fascinating. I've never had a ghost before.'

'You don't necessarily have one now,' he pointed out. 'The Green Lady hasn't been seen since I was in short pants. Unless you've seen her yourself, lately?'

'No, I'm afraid not.' I shook my head, as Vivien drifted across from the dining area and handed a glass of pale amber liquid to Geoff.

'She has been finding old letters stashed about, though,' she told him. 'Was there a Mariana lived there, do you know?'

'Mariana ...' Geoff sipped his drink thoughtfully. 'I'm not sure. Do you know what her last name was?'

'Farr,' I said. And then, in response to Vivien's questioning look, 'I found her grave in the churchyard.'

'Mariana Farr. No, I don't remember. But she may be mentioned in here.' He tapped the thick file folder he'd brought with him, which now lay on the low coffee table at his knees, flanked by trays of carefully arranged cheese and dry biscuits.

'You'd better sit beside Geoff, Julia, so you can see better,' Vivien maneuvered smoothly. 'Iain, did you want some Scotch as well?'

'Single malt?'

'Blended.'

'Then I'll just have one of these, thanks.' He lifted a bottle of imported beer from the refrigerator and joined us in the lounge, settling himself on the love seat that faced the sofa across the coffee table.

'And what would you like, Julia?' Vivien asked. 'To drink, I mean.'

Every time I had been asked that question in the past, I
had, without fail, managed to choose the one item that my host did not have. This time, I tried a new approach.

'You're the bartender.' I smiled. 'I'll let you choose.'

'Trusting soul,' Geoff remarked, as Vivien went to get my drink. 'So, tell me. What, specifically, are you interested in?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Historically. Just your property?'

'Mainly, yes. But I'm also quite interested in the history of your Hall.'

'Are you really?' He looked pleased.

Iain groaned audibly. 'Here we go,' he said, through a mouthful of beer and sandwich.

"Why? What did I say?'

'Nothing,' Vivien said, returning with two tall glasses filled with a pale drink. 'It's just that Geoff does tend to get stuck in a rut, sometimes, when he launches into a history of the Hall.' She set my drink in front of me and took her seat beside Iain, who shot her a sideways glance.

'That's putting it kindly,' he commented.

I looked at my drink, curious, and Vivien smiled. 'There's rum in that,' she warned me, 'but the rest of the ingredients are top secret.'

My first experimental sip was a pleasant surprise. 'It's wonderful. Thanks.'

'You're welcome. Now then, Geoff, on with the lecture. I suppose you'd better take us right back to the Benedictine priory and go on from there, since Julia's interested.'

'Right.' He opened his file folder and cheerfully arranged the papers inside, just like a schoolboy exhibiting a class project. 'That was in 1173, I believe....'

'Seventy-four,' Iain corrected, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

'... when Henry the Second granted a plot of land to one Thomas Killingbeck, for the purpose of building a Benedictine monastery. The Benedictine order was pretty big in those days.'
'Henry the Second,' I mused, leaning forward. 'That's Richard the Lionheart's father, isn't it? The one who had Thomas a Becket murdered?'

Geoff turned approving eyes on me. 'Yes, that's right. Not many people remember that.'

'Well, it's my brother's name, you see,' I explained. 'Thomas Beckett. I sort of paid attention to that part of the history lesson at school.'

Iain stretched his legs out in front of him, slinging one arm along the cushioned back of the love seat. 'Your brother's name is Thomas?' His gray eyes twinkled in amusement. 'Rather appropriate naming on your parents' part, wasn't it?'

'Rather.' For the benefit of Geoff and Vivien, I explained. 'Tom's a vicar in Hampshire, not far from here.'

Geoff laughed. 'Not really? Well, if he makes Archbishop of Canterbury he'll certainly turn some heads, won't he?'

'I don't think he's that ambitious. Tom likes the country life. Anyhow, I'm getting off the subject. What happened to the priory?'

'Well, the monks did just fine until Henry the Eighth decided to nationalize the monasteries. The last prior was hanged for resisting royal authority.'

'He's one of the ghosts, isn't he?' Vivien asked.

'Supposedly. Quite a few people have reported seeing a ghostly monk floating around in the hallways, but whether it's the prior's ghost is open to speculation.' He spoke with surprising frankness, as if seeing a ghost in one's hallway were an everyday occurrence. 'At any rate,' he carried on, checking his notes, 'the property was sold in 1547 to Sir James Crofton, who started building a house on the site of the ruined monastery. The house gets its name from him. In the old maps it's referred to as Crofton's Hall, and as time went on, people just began leaving
off the s.
He only lived there fourteen years, before selling the place to Nicholas
Hatch, who gave it to his son Edmund as a wedding present.

'Edmund Hatch didn't have much time to enjoy the house, either, because he died in 1594. Some sort of shooting accident, apparently. He left the estate to his wife, Ann, and she, bless her heart, promptly married my forefather, William de Mornay.'

'What did William do for a living?' I asked.

'He was a retired soldier. I don't know why she married him—she was barely out of mourning, and the old codger was twice her age.'

'Maybe he was rich,' Iain suggested.

'Possibly.'

I was inclined
to
disagree. If
Geoff’s
charm and looks were at all inherited from his ancestors, then I thought I knew exactly why the widowed Ann Hatch had hastened to marry William de Mornay.

'Ann and William had one son, also named William, just to add to the confusion. Dad had an awful time trying to sort out which papers were talking about William the Elder and which ones were about William Junior. William Junior, any rate, was a bit of an interesting character. During the Civil War, when the country was divided between King Charles the First's followers and those who supported Cromwell's Parliament, William Junior made the fatal, if noble, mistake of siding with his king.

'When the king lost his head, William Junior lost his manor, and was thrown in the Tower for his troubles. He was let out of prison in 1660, when Charles the Second was restored to the throne, and his lands were given back to him, but he never regained his health. He died within the year. There's quite a good portrait of him in the dining room at the Hall—I think I've got a photograph of it, here ... yes, here it is. That's William Junior.'

He slid the photograph across the table to me, and I leaned closer for a better look. My earlier supposition had been correct. The good looks were definitely inherited. William de Mornay cut a dashing figure in his vibrant portrait, with his curling dark hair and Vandyke beard, and languid dark eyes that hinted at a sensual nature. In his scarlet coat and breeches, one hand upon his sword hilt and the other resting defiantly on his hip, he looked every inch the gallant cavalier.

I handed the picture back, reluctantly. 'It's a marvelous portrait.'

'Yes. We've never been able to find a record of any of his children, but he must have had some, because the manor passed to his grandson, Arthur de Mornay. Bit of a mistake, that. Arthur seems to have been something of a compulsive gambler, and not only lost the family fortune but ended up selling off the manor itself, to pay his debts. So the de Mornays lost their land a second time. We didn't get it back until my father bought the Hall in 1964.' He turned a few more pages with an absent frown. 'I really ought to get back to this, you know, one of these days. My father had a passion for genealogy—spent days shut up in the Public Record Office, looking for wills and things. But he rather lost interest in it, toward the end, and I just never seem to have the time

Iain shifted in his seat. 'Gets a bit boring after old Arthur, don't you think, Geoff? Why don't you find us something about Julia's house?'

'What?' Geoff looked up blankly, then smiled. 'Oh, right. Just a minute, I'll have to look around a little.

I watched his hands, fascinated, as he shuffled the papers round. He had beautiful hands, lean and strong and suntanned, and there was a certain casual elegance in the way they moved.

'Aha!' He pulled a sheet of paper from the pile. 'Here it is. Greywethers. According to the surveys, it was built in 1587 by a man named Stephen Sharington, a farmer who rented his land from our old friend Edmund Hatch. The house was inherited by Stephen's son John, who sold it in 1626 to one Robert Howard, merchant. You all right?'
I nodded. 'J
^ust
a chill. Please, go on.'

'The Howards kept the house until the early 1800's, when they sold it to Lawrence Alleyn. He was kind of a fun character—fought with Wellington at the battle of Waterloo, no less, and spent a few years out in India. He only had one child, his daughter, Mary, who was a little ahead of her time. Wore trousers and wrote novels.'

'Horrible novels,' Vivien elaborated with a slight shudder. 'I read one, once. Typical Victorian stuff. Full of long descriptive passages and dry as a bone.'

'Nevertheless.' Geoff smiled indulgently. 'She died in 1896, and the house was sold to Captain James Guthrie.'

'That was the "Captain Somebody" the lads were telling you about, the other day,' Vivien said. 'I asked my aunt about him. She said he was a naval
officer, or
something, sort of mysterious. Some people thought he was a spy. He ran the house like it was one of his ships, apparently. Had three daughters, who were hardly ever allowed to go out, poor things.'