Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Sturgess looked serious. ‘I am sure your contributions are invaluable, Mrs Westerman. Mr Crowther is lucky to have you.’ The Vizegrafin sniffed, and Harriet was relieved to see Mrs Briggs looking rather amused.

Before anything further could be said, Crowther and his nephew came into the room. Harriet noticed that Crowther was looking bored, and Felix rather deflated. She suspected he had ignored her advice and chattered over his wine. It seemed unlikely they would bring any great cheer to the group so she was pleased when they were almost immediately joined by Stephen and his tutor, summoned from their own amusements to spend a little of the evening with the company. After the various introductions and explanations required by the gathering of the party, Mr Quince took a chair a little removed from the rest of them, produced his guidebook from his pocket and began to read. Stephen, however, began at once to tell them of his adventures in the wood and the talking jackdaw. He turned to Crowther.

‘Can all birds speak, sir? Do they have throats as we do? Mr Quince said he did not know.’

Crowther looked steadily at him and brought his fingertips together. ‘What do you think, Stephen?’ The boy bit his lip. It was also a habit Harriet had when she was thinking. Crowther wondered if her son had mimicked her, as one generation of birds mimics the songs of its forebears.

‘I think if all birds could talk, I should have met one before now. And the crows near our house sound a little like people at times, do they not? So perhaps they are more like us than sparrows or jays.’

Crowther nodded. ‘That seems a sensible speculation, though of course you would have to make careful experiment to support your theory.’

A look of wary concern crossed Stephen’s face. ‘But not on Joe, sir? He is a nice bird and I would not like to see him hurt.’

‘We shall not steal and cut up someone’s pet, Stephen.’ Crowther lifted his chin to look across at Mr Quince. ‘I can recommend a book or two about the anatomy of the throat to your tutor, if it would interest you. And I believe there are some interesting works on birds in the library here. My own experiments in anatomy began with the study of the canaries of a neighbour here — my father’s solicitor, then my own — a Mr Leathes.’

Mrs Briggs clasped her hands. ‘He looked after all our business at Silverside until he passed the practice to his son. He has his aviary still.’

As the conversation continued, touching the various persons still living on the lake shores that Crowther and his sister had known in their youth, Felix seemed to sink further into his chair, and Harriet thought she saw a jealous glint in his eye. She suspected Crowther had not offered to lend him any books.

Stephen smiled and reached into his pocket. ‘I am glad you shan’t cut up poor Joe. It would seem unfair when all he has done is learn to say “good day”. Mr Grace gave me this too.’ He produced the carving of the Luck and handed it to Crowther.

‘Very pretty,’ he said simply, and passed it to Mrs Briggs.

‘Oh yes. These are the ones that Mr Askew sells in his museum.’ She looked up at Harriet. ‘The Lost Luck. Well, Luck left the Gretas certainly. The last Lord Greta lived out his life in exile, and his younger brother was taken in 1745 and executed for treason the following year. An unfortunate family. These hills are so magnificent, but we have made all sorts of bloody histories between them.’ She suddenly remembered her audience and looked up very pink. The Vizegrafin was staring at her with horror; even Mr Sturgess looked uncertain.

‘Very true, madam,’ Crowther said.

No one seemed quite sure how to continue the conversation, but Stephen spoke, unaware of the strained silence in the room. He had picked up the snuffbox and was examining the inside of the lid with his eyes screwed tight. ‘What little writing!’

Harriet turned to him. ‘Where, Stephen? What does it say?’

‘ Semper fideles. Greta ,’ he said slowly as he read. ‘That means always loyal, does it not?’

Mrs Briggs put her hand to her mouth. ‘Why, Mrs Westerman — it is much as we thought! A follower of Lord Greta’s from 1715 — this proves it. How interesting !’

‘There is a date here, too, Mama.’ Stephen held it out to his mother. ‘It says 1742.’

Harriet took the box from him and turned it over in her hand. The writing was indeed tiny. She wondered if her eyes were growing old. ‘So we have not quite solved the mystery as yet, Mrs Briggs. Tell me, Crowther, who owned Saint Herbert’s Island in the forties?’

Crowther cleared his throat and put his fingertips together. ‘In 1742? The island was owned at that time by my father, Sir William Penhaligon, later made First Baron Keswick. He made a number of purchases after Lord Greta’s lands were forfeited. He bought Saint Herbert’s at the same time as he bought the land on which to rebuild this house and create the gardens — 1720 or thereabouts.’

Mrs Briggs looked surprised. ‘Perhaps the dead man was a follower of Lord Greta’s brother then, who came over in 1745. But Lord Greta’s brother was taken at Preston — not near here. What would one of the family’s followers be doing in these parts at that time?’

For the moment, no one had any reply to offer her.

From the collection of Mr Askew, Keswick Museum

From the English Post , 12 July 1712

Some remarks on the Luck of Gutherscale Hall

Sir ,

On a recent journey to the North of England, I had the honour of being received in the ancient and beautiful seat of Edmund de Beaufoy, 7th Earl of Greta, namely Gutherscale Hall on the shores of Keswick Lake. The Hall is based round the ancient pele tower which offers a delightful prospect over his wild lands, so long held and defended by this noble family, though in the current Lord’s father’s time the Hall was much extended to create a number of generously-sized apartments befitting the standing of the Greta name. At that time, and through the kindness of my host, I had the pleasure of seeing there the fabled Luck of Gutherscale Hall. I made some notes as to the folklore surrounding this remarkable item and its appearance which I am happy now to share with my fellow readers of your excellent magazine, should you find room to print them .

The Luck is kept in the Hall in a strongbox made on purpose and to which only Lord Greta owns the key. On viewing it, one can readily see why such a precaution is necessary. The Luck is a cross roughly the size of a grown man’s hand spread wide, and fashioned of gold. Its surface is studded with a number of fine gemstones, including a large ruby in its centre, four considerable diamonds inter alia, and its edges are studded with good quality pearls. Though one hesitates to assert a definitive opinion I would hazard it is Byzantine in origin. When I offered this opinion to Lord Greta he was happy to inform me that the local legend claims that the cross was presented to an ancestor of the Greta family by none other than the fair-folk when he disturbed their celebrations in the local stone circle! Legend further informs us he was warned that, if the Luck ever left the ownership of the family, disaster would follow. The current Lord does not seem of a superstitious character, though he laughingly told your correspondent that many of the local people still regard the cross with great reverence as a gift of the fairies, given to celebrate their acceptance of Christ as their Lord, and he means to keep it under close guard rather than earn their wrath .

Yours c M.C .

Wednesday, 16 July 1783

Ever since her husband had died Harriet had woken early; it was no different here. For a while she tried to climb back into her dreams but they were lost to her. The house was still. She rose, finished her letter to Rachel, then decided to walk. The mention of the ancient family of Greta the previous evening had intrigued her, so she dressed as simply as she could and leaving Silverside still sleeping behind her, set out along the path that she thought would lead her towards their ancestral home, Gutherscale Hall.