Page 1 of The House of Hopes and Dreams
1
Fallen Idol
Carey
Late November 2014
Carey Revell lay on his hospital bed, propped in a semi-recumbent position by an efficient nurse and rendered temporarily speechless by the astonishing information his visitor had just imparted to him.
Though Mr Wilmslow was a country solicitor of a prosaic turn of mind and not usually given to flights of fancy, it suddenly occurred to him that with his large frame, gentian-blue eyes, thick, red-gold hair and the stubble burnishing his face, his new client resembled nothing so much as a fallen Viking warrior.
He had the typical Revell looks all right – there was no mistaking his heritage – though on a much larger and more resplendent scale.
Carey’s left leg, the flesh scarred, misshapen, patched by skin grafts, and also bearing the marks of the pins that had held it immobile in a metal cage while the shattered bones finally knitted, was mercifully hidden by loose tracksuit trousers. The nerves and muscles still twitched and jangled painfully from his earlier physiotherapy session, but the news his unexpected visitor had brought him had for once relegated this dismal symphony of discomfort to the background.
‘Do you have any questions? I know it’s a lot to take in at once,’ said Mr Wilmslow, breaking the silence.
‘Yes, it certainly is,’ agreed Carey rather numbly, wondering for an instant if he might be still under the influence of heavy painkillers anddreaming all this. His eyes dropped once more to the letter the solicitor had brought him and he read it through for the third time.
Mossby
April 2014
To Carey Revell,
I will not address you as ‘Dear Carey’ or ‘Dear Nephew’ since we have never met and nor have I ever wished to do so. I will not go into the circumstances that led to your father’s total estrangement from his family at such an early age, but suffice it to say that we were entirely disgusted when he continued to use our revered and respected family name throughout his stage career.
However, since you are the last of our branch of the Revells, and I suppose retribution for my brother’s sins need not be visited upon his son, I feel it only right that you should inherit Mossby in your turn. I am signing a will to this effect today, my ninety-first birthday. My solicitor, Mr Wilmslow, will give you this letter of explanation after my decease.
Do not think I am bequeathing you great wealth, a mansion and a vast estate, for Mossby is a modest country residence, much of it rebuilt in the Arts and Crafts style at the end of the nineteenth century. Besides which, it has not of late received the care and attention it merits, due to the steady decline of my investment income. In fact, I have recently been forced to live on my capital.
On to your shoulders now falls the burden of finding a way to make Mossby pay its own way, before the remaining money runs out. From what I have discovered, you seem to be a young man of some enterprise.
Ella Parry, my stepdaughter by my second marriage, has been pressing me to make a will for some time, assuming, I am sure, that it would be in her favour. Due to the rift with your father, she had no idea of your existence, so was sadly disappointed when I told her of my testamentary disposition. However, I have neverconsidered her as my daughter and, since she and her husband have for many years received handsome salaries for acting as my housekeeper and gardener respectively, besides living rent free in the Lodge, she can have no real cause for complaint. I also paid for their daughter, Vicky’s, education.
I hope you will take a pride in your heritage. You will find the family papers in the secret chamber in the Elizabethan wing, which Mr Wilmslow will show you the secret of. I always meant to sort them and write a history of the Revells of Mossby, but never got round to it. Perhaps you will do so.
Your uncle,
Francis Revell
‘Secret chamber in the Elizabethan wing?’ Carey muttered incredulously, feeling as if he’d strayed into an Enid Blyton mystery. Then he became aware that Mr Wilmslow, who was a slight, be-suited and altogether unremarkable personage to be the bearer of such astounding news, was stuffing papers back into his briefcase as a prelude to departure.
‘Among the papers I’ve given you is a copy of the will. Probate should be granted before the New Year, though you can take up residence at Mossby before that, should you wish to … Health permitting, of course,’ he added delicately.
‘I’ll be out of here before Christmas and intended staying with a friend while I decided where I wanted to live. I’ve put my old flat on the market because carrying things up four flights of stairs is going to be out of the question for quite a while,’ Carey said. ‘I’ve lost my job, too – I’ve been replaced. You know I presentedThe Complete Country CottageTV series?’
He’d not only presented it, it had been his own idea … and being credited in the new series with ‘From an original concept by Carey Revell’ was not going to be much consolation. He ought to have read the fine print in his contracts more carefully – and so should his agent.
Mr Wilmslow nodded. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but you may findMossby just the place to convalesce, while deciding what to do next,’ he suggested, snapping the lock of the briefcase closed with some finality. ‘In the meantime, you have my card, so do contact me if anything occurs to you that you’d like to ask.’
Carey said uneasily, ‘This stepdaughter he – my uncle – mentions …’
‘Ella Parry. Her husband, Clem, is an excellent gardener. Your uncle always thought it worth putting up with Ella Parry’s cross-grained ways because he kept up the grounds almost single-handedly. She was the residuary legatee, by the way. Had you been killed in that accident just before your uncle’s death, she would have inherited all.’
‘Right,’ Carey said, thinking Ella Parry didn’t sound the most delightful person to have around the house, especially if she was bearing a grudge. But then, as his uncle’s stepdaughter, it did seem a little harsh that she had been left with nothing.
When he said so, Mr Wilmslow reassured him.
