Imogen Robertson: Island of Bones

‘But Harry. .’

‘Set the date, Rachel. But I fear I shall have no time to assist in the arrangements for some time. Crowther and I leave for Cumberland in the morning. His sister has discovered a desiccated corpse there and we mean to go and see it.’

Rachel flushed. ‘This is some joke!’

Harriet smiled tightly. ‘No joke at all. We are invited by Mrs Briggs, the most respectable owner of Silverside Hall. I have never seen the Lake Country and yet I am constantly being told how charming it is. Do you remember when the Rollinsons went there last summer? All the women in the family were driven into verse by its charms. I only wish they had confined themselves to nature poetry rather than composing odes on the anniversary of James’s murder. As for the other matter, I have never seen a desiccated corpse before either. It has all the novelty of the landscape, and there is no danger of it inspiring poetry — a great advantage. Someone took the trouble to place it in a tomb, you know. Someone else’s tomb, I mean. On an island. It’s most intriguing.’

Although Rachel had turned away, Harriet could see the colour on her cheek. She might have a reputation for her sweet nature, but she had courage to match Harriet’s when it was called on, and a stubbornness that was no less powerful for being better concealed. ‘And what is to become of us, while you are gone?’ she demanded now. ‘Stephen, baby Anne and myself? I am grieved we do not provide sufficient novelty, Harry, but you cannot simply throw a dust-sheet over our heads when you wish to be somewhere else.’

Harriet hesitated for a moment, and then said: ‘I shall not leave you and my daughter here alone. You may all decamp to Thornleigh Hall and Mrs Service can chaperone you in my stead. As to Stephen, I intend to take him and his tutor with me. I am sure the visit will be most instructive.’

‘You wish to show him the corpse?’ Rachel said, shocked.

‘No, of course not. I mean the mountains and lakes, and so forth.’ Harriet waved her hand in the air to describe the extent of the educational possibilities available. ‘Though there is no point in being too precious with Stephen. If he continues in his wish to enter the Navy, he will see corpses enough before long.’

‘He has already seen his father’s,’ Rachel murmured, and the air left Harriet’s lungs rather suddenly. ‘I suppose you may dispose of us as you wish, Sister.’

The bitterness in her voice was such Harriet held out her hand again, but Rachel would not take it. She continued instead, ‘You seem very courageous to some, Harry, but you and I both know you are simply running away. When did your home become such a prison to you?’

Harriet found she had no breath to reply, so unwillingly adding weight to her sister’s words, she got to her feet and left the room.

Tuesday, 15 July 1783, Keswick, Cumberland

Stephen Westerman enjoyed the preparations for the journey from Sussex to Cumberland immensely. At nine years old he was unencumbered by the necessity of taking any part in planning the arrangements, so was at perfect liberty to enjoy all the fuss taking place around him. The trip had been prepared for in a single night. The house at Caveley, so quiet since the death of his father, had been thrown by his mother’s sudden decision into a state of busy confusion. Firstly the family at Thornleigh Hall were consulted, and a warm invitation to Rachel, little Anne and her nurse was immediately extended and gratefully accepted. Her family thus dispensed with, Harriet had set about her arrangements. The rooms became busy with orders and requests, the scratching of pens and the creak of leather bands tightening round chests and boxes. It made a stirring in Stephen’s heart. He ran from room to room, fetching and carrying until his feet were sore.

Years of service with a family used to the demands of the Royal Navy had made the servants quick and efficient packers. However Mr Quince, Stephen’s tutor, was not used to such sudden changes of residence and Stephen could not help noticing his mother’s eyes begin to flash and her foot start to tap as the man tried to slim down his library of leisure reading and instruction manuals to a size suitable for travel.

The candles had burned all night, and in the confusion no one remembered to send Stephen to bed until midnight had passed. This, and watching his shirts packed flat and the lid slammed shut over them confirmed him in the idea that he was about to embark on a great adventure. He had often been told that travel and exploration were in his blood. His parents had circled the globe before his birth and he himself had been born at sea. However, his own experience of travel was confined to the occasional visit to London, and once going to meet his father at Portsmouth on the return of his ship to home waters. Now at last he was going to see the world, or at least some other part of it. The only thing that gave him pause was realising that his favourite possession, an elaborate model of his father’s last command, HMS Splendour , was too large and delicate an object to take on a journey of this sort. He consoled himself by finding it a station on the table in the nursery where its tiny crew could examine the park beyond the window in his absence.

The following days of travel were crowded with novelty. He slept soundly in a number of strange beds and ate with relish whatever was put in front of him at the inns where they stopped to change horses. His mother spent part of each day travelling with him, his tutor and the majority of the luggage in the second carriage, and they competed to point out elements of the landscape to each other as the countryside began to subtly shift its shape. It was a delight to have so much of her time, and she laughed more often than she had been used to of late. The accents of the postilions and servants in the inns began to change, then change again, and under the guidance of his tutor and mother, Stephen began to get some creeping sense of the variety of his country.

The final day of the journey had begun very early, and as his mother was travelling with Mr Crowther, Stephen slept deeply as only the young can in a jolting carriage. So he found himself being gently shaken awake by Mr Quince as the carriage began its approach to the ancient market town of Keswick. His tutor smiled at him and told him to look out of the window.

‘That river you see is called the Greta,’ the young man said. Stephen hauled himself forward and peered out of the window. Mr Quince consulted his guide to the area, a present from Thornleigh Hall. ‘Greta is the name of the family who used to own much of this land in the past. Do you remember our discussions of the Rebellions of 1715 and 1745, Stephen? Can you tell me anything of them?’

Stephen yawned. ‘In 1715 the Old Pretender landed in Scotland but was driven off by the Duke of Argyll. Then in 1745 Bonnie Prince Charlie had a try at it and Cumberland did for him at Culloden in 1746. Why do you ask, sir?’

‘Lord Greta joined the Old Pretender in 1715 and was tried for treason the following year. He escaped into exile. I think it was after that, that Mr Crowther’s family came into possession of this land.’ He looked as if he wished to press Stephen on his history further, but the boy quickly pointed upwards.

‘What is the name of that mountain, Mr Quince?’

Mr Quince checked in his book. ‘That is the mighty Skiddaw.’

It was mighty indeed, Stephen thought. The huge flanks of the mountains rose up around him like fairytale giants, their sides mottled and softened with bracken, becoming more broken as they rose with rocky outcrops. It was as if a massive stone fist were gradually tearing through a green mantle. He gripped the edge of the window and stared for a moment, then turned back to Mr Quince. ‘Do you think there are dragons living there, sir?’