Page 79 of The Uprising
George noticed a tightness cross the man’s mouth.
‘We don’t enter Willow Manor, Sir.’
‘And why is that?’
‘The gates are locked, and the place has been derelict since I was a boy. If you want to go in, you’ll have to make your own way over the wall or around the back; the best I can do is wait for you here.’
‘Right, I see, thank you,’ said George, surprised. He’d presumed the innkeeper was a superstitious type and was over-reacting, which wasn’t unusual in Victorian England.
The driver leaned closer to him. ‘When I was a boy we used to sneak into the grounds and play,until one day, my friend wandered into the house to look for our ball that had slipped through a broken window, and he came out trembling—he was white as a sheet, swore he saw a ghost. The place is haunted, Sir. We stayed away after that and if you’d like me to turn around and take you back to the inn, there’s no shame in it.’
George could see the man wouldn’t be persuaded to drive any closer to the house, and they probably couldn’t access the gate, anyway. ‘Thank you. I appreciate the warning, but I will have a quick look. Please wait for me and I’ll be as quick as possible. I just want to get an idea of the look of the place as I’m thinking of buying it.’
It wasn’t a lie—he couldn’t tell the driver he would buy the house two hundred years into the future—and he didn’t want to arouse suspicion, with rumours of a visitor from London breaking in. He knew how fast gossip spread, and he wanted to keep his visit under the wire. The more low-key he kept his entry, the better.
He tried to push the gate open, but it was locked. There was a large rusty padlock which he didn’t fancy his chances of unpicking, so he walked around the side of the property to scope out an easier way in. The surrounding grounds were overgrown and neglected, but he glimpsed the top floor of the house looming over the high walls. It looked eerie, as though it hadn’t been lived in for years. The wall which surrounded the front of the estate was crumbling, and many of the stones appeared missing or loose.
He reached out to touch one section and it came apart beneath his hand; the stones and dust scattered and coated his shiny black shoes. He spent several minutes trying to locate a piece of the wall that looked sturdy enough to bear his substantial weight; there was no point risking breaking his neck in his effort to transport the key to the twenty-first century.
If he had another accident, he would risk messing up the timeline, and losing his one hope of returning to his present-day life. No—he must be methodical and take great care to keep the timeline exactly as it was supposed to be. He inspected the stones, section by section, until his persistence paid off and he spotted a part of the wall which had broken and was lower than the rest but seemed solid enough for him to climb over. He had purposely left his coat in the carriage,so it wouldn’t catch on the jagged pieces of stone and hamper his progress as he climbed.
A few minutes later, after some precarious footwork where he slipped and had to reposition himself, he landed on the other side of the wall in a bed of tall weeds in what must have once been a handsome flower border. He was rewarded for his efforts with a view of the gloomy remains of Willow Manor standing forlorn and godforsaken before him. One wing wastinged with black and grey; presumably the remnants of the fire, and another side of the house had crumbled completely. He wondered if that was where the carriage driver’s childhood friend had gone to seek his ball and experienced his close encounter with the ghost of his ancestor.
A heavy sadness descended upon George and for a few minutes he stood looking at the remains of his family home: the home he had been born in and lived many happy years with his parents and Cara and his children, in Tudorville. He knew, partly from memory, and partly from stories Cara had told him, that Willow Manor had been an impressive property in those days. His father, George Cavendish, had been the lord of the manor and was highly respected, long before George was independently created an earl by King Henry VIII, for his services to the Crown. He couldn’t fathom why his father’s descendant would throw it all away and permit the estate to fall into such disrepair.
The innkeeper’s words kept ringing in his head:he was driven quite mad with love.Emotion ripped through him and he was surprised to find himself close to tears, as if he himself had experienced the trauma of losing everything.
He wondered why his ancestor tried to burn the house down. George shook his head, trying to clear his foggy brain. He reminded himself he was only here to hide the key and mustn’t let his complicated karmic connection to Willow Manor stop him from executing his mission.
He wandered around the neglected grounds, and images of the meticulously tended gardens of the present-day hotel flitted around his mind like an old movie. Whatever happened here was indeed a tragedy, and he realised he was shaking. He resolved to hurry and find somewhere to hide the key, so he could escape the oppressive gloom of this place and leave for London at once.
And then his eyes lit on the perfect hiding place...
Chapter 24
Rose Cottage, York - Present day
Cara’s heart lightened as she saw Eddie’s name flash up on her phone.
‘I bring a message from the past,’ he said, a lilt in his voice.
‘Well, I can certainly do with one,’ said Cara, flicking her hair out of her eyes, and perking up at the sound of Eddie’s reassuring voice.
‘George asked me to let you know he managed to hide the key in the grounds of Willow Manor, so you can go and look for it and then hopefully retrieve the painting from the Bank of England.’
‘Oh brilliant! Where exactly do I find it?’ she asked.
‘He said that in 1848, Willow Manor was derelict following a fire some years previously, so he didn’t want to risk hiding it inside the house. He had to find a spot in the grounds that would still be accessible after the hotel conversion.’
Cara said, ‘How awful. I wonder what happened.’
‘I don’t know; that’s all he told me.’
‘So where did George stash the key?’
‘There’s a beautiful old stone fountain at the centre of the rose garden. He said you used to leave each other hidden love notes in Tudorville before you were married. He thinks it may be called the Lovers’ Fountain...’
‘Oh yes! We walked in the gardens and I told him all about it when we stayed at the hotel.’
