Page 118 of The House of Hopes and Dreams
I slept little for the rest of that night. Now my eyes were opened, I understood Mr Browne’s jealousy and Ralph’s despair when his friend seemed set on moving away from Mossby. They had loved each other – perhaps still did, despite the ever more frequent arguments and reconciliations.
How much I had learned and understood since yesterday! Yet, compared to the awful events that had befallen Lady Anne, my discovery paled in comparison, though of course mine affected me more nearly.
I had no appetite to eat breakfast but, quite worn out, meekly accepted the cup of hot milk Honoria brought me, and then fell into a deep sleep, while outside the warm early September sun shone and the birds sang, as if there were no cares in the world.
41
The Skeleton Key
When we went back into the warm kitchen, it felt like a million traumatic years had passed in one day.
Fang, who had been curled asleep in his basket, got out and slowly stretched.
‘Fang’s a search-and-rescue dog: he deserves an extra special dinner tonight,’ Carey said, bending down to give him a pat.
‘We all do, but even though I feel totally limp and I’ve still got my headache, I want to know what’s in that packet I found first!’
He grinned. ‘Me, too. Look, let’s order a takeaway and then open it. And then later, some more headache pills and an early night.’
He didn’t specify in which room I’d be spending my early night, and I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined that passionate kiss after he’d rescued me!
While he rang to put in the food order, I fetched my nail scissors and then we snipped apart the threads holding the binding and carefully began to unroll the brittle paper within.
‘It’s quite long and written on both sides,’ he said. ‘But then, good-quality paper was a luxury at that time.’
‘If Lady Anne wrote this, then she must have been well educated, because the writing is quite elegant.’
‘Yes, I think it’s what they call a fine italic hand,’ he agreed, as we flattened it out and weighed down the corners. ‘And it is hers; it says so at the top.’
He read it out in his lovely, honey-over-gravel voice:
Being the true confession of Lady Anne Revell, in the year of our Lord, 1655.
He paused, and then carried on very slowly, stopping from time to time while we figured out the obscure bits, for the spelling was odd and inconsistent, and she had a strange way of expressing herself.
I hope to bring ease to my mind by writing this account of the death of my husband, Phillip Revell, in 1644, for the awful circumstances leading to this event lie heavily on my soul.
But then it will be best to hide it in a place known only to myself, though I have caused a window to be made that will reveal all, should any have the wits to discover it long hereafter.
I looked at Carey, puzzled. ‘Her husband was a Cavalier and killed in battle, wasn’t he?’
‘So I’ve been told. I wonder what on earth these mysterious circumstances could be.’
‘Well, go on reading it aloud and we might find out,’ I urged, though when he did, it appeared that the lady was now skimming through her earlier years:
I must go back a little way, to tell how I came to marry Phillip Revell, a childless widower who owned the small but ancient estate of Mossby, in west Lancashire.
I was of noble birth but, being an impetuous and romantic girl, I made an imprudent runaway match at fifteen, instead of the advantageous one planned for me. My family cast me off and my husband’s likewise, so that our means were very straitened. My husband’s fondness for me quickly waned after the birth of our only child, Lydia. He was carried off by a grievous ague in her tenth year, leaving me lacking any means of sustenance, so that Iwas forced to beg my uncle, who had succeeded to my father’s title and property, for help. He grudgingly took us under his roof and Lydia shared the schoolroom with his daughters, while I became little more than a servant, constantly at my aunt’s beck and call, expected to show gratitude for every morsel of bread that passed my lips.
This miserable existence might have continued for ever, had not a party of visitors arrived to stay, bringing Phillip Revell with them. Although I did not put myself forward in any way, he seemed to well like my company and oft times joined me when I walked in the garden. This much displeased my uncle and his wife, who pointed out what I well knew: that a handsome man of comfortable means could have no serious intentions towards a penniless widow.
But when he professed his love for me and did offer marriage, they pressed me to agree to the match, seeing it would spare them the expense of keeping me. I was nothing loth, especially since he spoke with kindness to Lydia, who was then a very pretty child of twelve and said she would be as his own daughter.
‘Cinderella,’ I said, looking up. ‘Though sadly, the prince gets killed fairly soon afterwards, so they don’t live happily ever after for very long.’
‘That doesn’t exactly sound the stuff of confessions,’ Carey pointed out, before going on:
Mossby was a strange house, the main portion being in the old black and white style and, being built at the time of Catholic persecution, had many secret ways and chambers within the walls, for the family at that time were papist.
