Secret Reflection (2 page)

Little did he suspect my plan for retribution
.

So, my darling Elizabeth, our vengeance has begun and his hell will indeed be without end …

May 27, 2000

Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England

Low dark clouds hung with ominous intent as Kelly Reid climbed from the taxi and took in the magnificence of the manor house before her. Tired as she was, a spurt of elation fired through her belly. The massive stone structure looked just as she imagined: ivy-covered pinkish-grey stone with a dark forbidding portal and narrow multi-paned windows – exactly like those from her favourite old-time movies.

To the side and behind the house stood a smaller building, perhaps a stable or garage. A pebbled drive, flanked by colourful rose gardens and low hedges, surrounded both buildings, and beyond those, gently undulating expanses of green spread outward to form fields. In the distance, between patchy stands of trees, she could glimpse a canal or stream with a tiny stone bridge crouched over it. Past the stream she could just make out the cluster of roofs of the nearby village of Garford.

Her nostrils flared as she drew in the unnaturally clean air.

A cool wind whipped around her, tugging at her hair as the taxi drove away.

Staring back at Stanthorpe House she felt a little like a character from some story by Poe or Du Maurier and wondered what secrets might lie hidden deep within its past. Quiet but for the occasional chirp of a bird, the silence wrapped around her like a comforting shawl and the travails of the past few months, her divorce from Frank, suddenly seemed a lifetime away.

The thought of Frank made the bile begin to rise up her throat so she was grateful when Nancy’s high-pitched squeal stole her attention. Nancy emerged from the shadowed portal and raced down the steps with her arms spread wide. Kelly dropped her bags and ran to meet her. She was a teenager again: the lonely little rich girl flying into the embrace of her English friend after a summer vacation that lasted far too long.

Just as they used to, she and Nancy hugged and spun and jumped in unison, babbling unintelligible nonsense at each other. To anyone else they’d appear silly, but Kelly didn’t care – it had been a couple years, a lifetime of change. For both of them.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here! I’d begun to think you’d missed your flight,’ Nancy said after they’d both caught their breath.

With a swift glance at the taxi as it faded into the distance, Kelly shrugged. ‘I think the driver decided to take the
scenic
route; the trip seemed to take a heck of a lot longer than you said it would.’

Nancy laughed and reached up to affectionately tuck a stray dark strand of hair behind Kelly’s ear. ‘Never mind, you’re here now and that’s all that counts.’

‘The weary traveller finally arrives!’ Tom, Nancy’s very English husband, stepped into the sunlight looking exactly the same as when Kelly had last seen him, nearly two years
before. In a checkered work shirt, and towering above her at over six feet three inches – he seemed more like a lumberjack than the owner/manager of a chain of exclusive hotels.

‘Hi, Tom,’ she said as he enveloped her in a big, protective hug. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘I don’t believe that for a minute, Kel, you always have too much going on to miss anyone.’ He lifted her heavy case as if it were filled with Kleenex, and tilted his head toward the portal. ‘C’mon, Nancy’s eager to show off our latest acquisition.’

Kelly followed her hosts through a short covered portico into a dimly lit foyer and her jaw dropped. The cathedral-like space seethed with whispers of the past. The scent of beeswax and lemons filled the air.

The staircase before her drew her eyes upward.

A profusion of small circular portraits adorned the walls alongside the stairs. At the landing, a massive mirror in a gaudy, gold frame took pride of place below a high clerestory, providing a distorted reverse image of the second floor gallery.

For just a second the world tilted.

‘Through here to the small salon,’ Nancy said, tugging Kelly along.

The sitting room, though cosy and seemingly informal, was no less mesmerising. All along one wall stood bookcases of dark wood, filled with old-looking volumes with titles that Kelly could only guess at, though she suspected she’d probably find all the classics. Several leather club chairs were strategically placed to catch the light of a window or the warmth from the marble fireplace. There were lamps, side tables of every shape and size, and blue Chinese vases filled with budded roses. Lots of brightly-stitched cushions were scattered about the furniture and ornamental plates or vases filled every niche. The room was rich and warm, and immediately Kelly felt that it would be the perfect place to capture the atmosphere she so wanted to convey in the gothic screenplay she’d begun to draft.

‘Sit,’ Nancy ordered. ‘Tom’s organising afternoon tea, and then we’ll show you to your room.’ She busied herself with the fire. ‘It might be spring but some days are still bitter.’

Kelly strolled about and inspected the artworks and knick-knacks. ‘How old is this place?’ she asked as she took a step back and tipped her head to survey a portrait of a stiff-looking young man whose torso seemed too long for the rest of his body.

‘About 400 years, I think. We’ve bought an unlimited twenty-year lease from Lord Stanthorpe who found the taxes a bit too steep. His place is about half a mile south along the river.’

Exhausted, Kelly all but threw herself into the nearest chair and made use of the ottoman with a deep sigh. ‘A lord – does that mean he’s royalty?’

Nancy snorted as she poked at the kindling. ‘Not at all – Lord Stanthorpe’s a viscount but his real name is Richard Ditchley. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him while you’re here.’

A silver tea trolley materialised in the doorway and Kelly giggled at the incongruous image Tom made as he drove the delicate cart into the room.

‘Aren’t you supposed to have servants to do those jobs, Tom?’ Kelly teased.

‘Actually, we have hired a full staff but most are currently training in London. Only Martin, one of our porters, is on site – so we have to make do until a few days before the opening.’

Tom handed Kelly a translucent china plate with teacakes and cookies before pouring tea from a gilt-edged pot adorned with pink cabbage roses. ‘Eat up, Kel, you’re skinny as a rake.’

The heavy brass hinges screeched in protest as the door swung inward. John Tarrant had heard the commotion downstairs a short while ago and knew the person he awaited had almost certainly arrived. From his narrow vantage he watched intently, every muscle taut in anticipation as the aged oak swung away again to reveal his visitor.

A woman.

Praise his maker! A woman was always easier to convince, always more open to the possibility than a man. Only a child proved more willing – though children, he had found, were always slower to overcome their fear. No – while he couldn’t smile quite yet, at least he knew that he had hope. Perhaps, after all these years, this time …

Turning in a slow circle, Kelly’s intent gaze darted from the gilt-edged 18th-century landscapes to what looked to be an antique cello that rested in a small circle of sunlight by the window.

An odd piece of bedroom furniture
, she thought. Perhaps it belonged to an earlier occupant – though knowing Tom and Nancy, more likely a prop they’d placed there to add to the ‘historic’ ambiance of the room.

An uncomfortable ache filled her chest as she caught sight of her travel-worn reflection in the monstrous mirror, some six or seven feet tall and just as wide, that filled almost half one wall. Opposite sat the largest four-poster bed she had seen outside a museum. An intricately carved writing desk with its matching tapestry-upholstered chair sat beside it.

‘Oh, Nance …,’ Kelly marvelled, ‘you actually own this place?’

Nancy stuck her blonde head through the doorway and grinned. ‘Leased … but as of last month, yes.

‘Just dump the bags on the bed, thanks, Martin. The garment bag can be hung in the dressing room.’

Martin, laden with Kelly’s suitcase, garment bag and attaché case, followed her through the room. ‘Will do, Mrs Wentworth.’

Kelly intercepted him and took the attaché case from under his arm. ‘This stays with me,’ she said with a wink for the dour-looking young man as he struggled under the weight of her suitcase. She preceded him into the walk-in closet muttering exclamations as she went.

‘What’s through here?’ she called, though she’d already turned the knob to the door at the opposite end of the closet.

‘Heck, Nance, have you seen the size of this bathroom?’ Kelly’s voice echoed in the enclosed space.

‘Of course,’ Nancy replied as she entered the brightly lit chamber. ‘It still needs a bit of work, and if you look closely, you’ll see that almost everything is fake. The bath and toilet are obviously recent additions … but the tiles and cabinets are as close an approximation to the 1700s as we could manage with our budget.’

‘Well it is all stunning. The cello is a great touch, by the way.’

Nancy shook her head. ‘Not our doing, Kel. Like the bed, it belonged to someone who occupied the room more than a century ago.’

‘I’m going to sleep on a bed that’s over a hundred years old?’ Kelly asked as she headed back to the bedroom.

‘Probably two hundred, if the assessor is correct.’

Kelly shivered. The idea of sleeping on a bed with such a long history seemed slightly irreverent, but then again, perhaps it would inspire her when she wrote.

‘When the hotel opens this room will be kept for display purposes only.’

‘Why are you putting me here then?’

Nancy grinned. ‘Right now it is the only room, besides ours, that’s habitable. Unless you want to sleep with the smell of turpentine and wallpaper glue?’ she raised one brow in query.

‘This is fine by me,’ Kelly said. As she placed her attaché case on the writing desk and glanced about, she acknowledged this room was an ideal location.

‘What are these?’ she asked, approaching the mantle where a row of egg-shaped objects sat as if on parade. Stretching out a hand to touch the closest, she almost jumped when a jolt of static electricity arced through her fingertips.

Nancy laughed at Kelly’s reaction. ‘I’m told they’re called druid’s eggs.’

‘Druids …? Surely not …’ she glanced at Nancy with furrowed brows.

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Like the cello, they were already here.’ Nancy shrugged. ‘It was stange though, we put them in the foyer downstairs, but when we got up the next morning, they were back on the mantle. I guess someone thinks they belong here.’

‘Weird. Will I be able to plug in my laptop somewhere?’

Nancy grinned. ‘Sure – it’s 2000 here in England too. There’s a data outlet just behind that pot if you need it,’ she pointed to a large porcelain vase of oriental design beside the fireplace.

Kelly crouched next to the pot to assure herself that she’d indeed be able to go online.

‘We had to have the whole place cabled for the internet. But,’ she wagged her finger at Kelly, ‘this is supposed to be a vacation, so I don’t want to see you working. Unless, of course, it’s on Tom’s little project.’

Kelly turned sharply. ‘Project? Tom didn’t mention anything about a project.’

With a wave of dismissal, Nancy headed for the door. ‘Don’t sweat it, Kel. No biggie. Tom will explain over dinner. Now I’ve got some chores to do, so I’ll leave you to settle in and maybe take a relaxing bath. We dine at eight. Martin will come up and fetch you. Okay?’

‘Sounds great,’ Kelly agreed as she followed Nancy to the door and threw an arm around her shoulders. ‘Thanks – thanks for understanding and thanks for giving me somewhere to hide.’

‘Hey, what are best friends for? Just throttle back and forget all about Frank and the divorce, and concentrate on getting some colour into those cheeks, huh?’

Feeling the unwanted tears prick at the back of her eyelids, all Kelly could do was nod.

Nancy gave her a brief squeeze then let her go. ‘Get some rest. You’ll feel much better.’

After the door closed, Kelly stood for a long moment, staring into the mirror. Nancy was right. She looked pale and drained and in need of a few round meals. She’d lost more weight than she’d realised. Her jeans and blouse hung limp; if it wasn’t for the fact that her eyes had aged immeasurably, she would have thought the reflection she saw was some little girl playing dress-ups in her big sister’s clothes.

Extending her view, she studied the room in reverse. Now Nancy had gone, it looked heavy and almost oppressive in its opulence. In two dimensions the abundance of reds and golds in the drapes, the busyness of the striped wallpaper and the contrasting floral of the carpet, all seemed to crowd in on her. The intricate gaudiness of the picture frames and plethora of
objets d’art
cluttered the room to the point that a feeling of insignificance, of claustrophobia, swept through her. She supposed she was more exhausted than she thought.

Shaking her head, she marched into the bathroom to prepare her bath.

‘So,’ John mused as he watched the tiny, raven-haired woman from his hiding place, ‘a divorcee?’

While he wasn’t prudish, the revelation disturbed him somewhat. She would, in the way of women, undoubtedly be over-emotional and fixated upon her own problems, and would thus have little time or sympathy for a tired man who sought her help to find peace. Well, he would make do, as he had done each time in the past. God had dealt him his just reward and he could only hope that this time He would be merciful. And if this woman could not, or would not, render him aid … then he would simply go back to his waiting.

After all, time was the one resource he had in abundance.

The woman returned momentarily to fetch another pair of faded blue trousers from the portmanteau sitting open on the bed before she again disappeared through the dressing room and into the bathing chamber.

Kelly – an odd name for a woman – he’d known an Irishman called Kelly once, a groom, when he spent a brief time with the Queen’s Cavalry. He was a nice enough fellow,
though if memory served, the man had a lot more meat on his bones than this slip of a woman.