Barbara Erskine - House of Echoes

Your ever affectionate cousin, Lydia Manners.

Lydia Manners. Joss turned the sheet of paper over in her hand. The grandmother after whom her mother had named her when she was born. She pulled another small bundle of letters out of the Bourne and Hollingsworth box. Tied with pale blue ribbon they were labelled, ‘Father’s letters’. It was not Laura’s writing. Joss frowned as she leafed through them. Different handwriting, different dates, different addresses, addresses which meant nothing to her. Then another, from Belheddon Hall. It was short and to the point:

Our son little Samuel was born safely on 30th November. Please thank Lady Sarah for her note. I will write more soon.

Yr affectionate Cousin, Lydia.

The envelope was addressed to John Duncan at Pilgrim Hall. So, John was John Duncan, a relative of Philip’s. Perhaps his father and so her own grandfather? Putting down the letters Joss stared into the fire thoughtfully, listening to the voices echoing in her head, voices from her unknown past.

‘How about some wine now?’ Luke had been watching her for some time as she sorted through the box. Pushing aside his invoices with relief, he flung himself down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her. ‘You are looking too serious.’

She smiled, nestling up against him. ‘Not at all. Just learning some more about the past. My father’s family this time.’ She watched as Luke poured two glasses. The wine was delicious. It was dark brown and smoky, like a wood in November. She could feel the rich warmth of it running through her veins. After only a few sips she was feeling extraordinarily sexy. ‘Is it the wine, or just the suggestion,’ she whispered.

‘What suggestion?’ Luke tightened his arm around her, leaning back against the arm chair. His hand drooped lazily over her shoulder and fondled her breast through the heavy wool of her sweater.

‘That one.’ She pushed the box of papers aside with her foot and took another sip. ‘This wine seems very strong.’

Luke chuckled. ‘I suspect it was worth a fortune, but who cares, if we get our money’s worth? Shall we go upstairs?’ He was nuzzling her ear, gently nibbling the lobe.

‘Not yet. Another glass first. Luke –’ She turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask you this if I were entirely sober. You don’t regret coming here do you?’

‘Regret it! Certainly not.’ He inserted his hand under the collar of her sweater.

‘You are sure. We’ve no income to speak of –’

‘Then we won’t speak of it.’ As he would never speak to her of his nightmares about the business; the creditors lurking in the woodwork, the waves of depression which sometimes swept over him when he thought about Barry and what he had done to them. What was the point? That was all in the past. Putting his glass down he leaned across, pressing his lips against hers. ‘Come on. It’s time we went upstairs.’

Sammy! Sammy, where are you ?

The snow had melted; already snowdrops were pushing up through the frozen ground. The little boy ducked under the graceful boughs of the old fir tree and disappeared out of sight. When he reappeared, he was running down the lawn towards the lake.

‘Stop!’ Joss screamed. ‘Stop. Don’t go down there, please –’

Someone was in her way. Pushing against him she struggled to get past …

‘Hey! Stop it!’ Luke wriggled out of reach of her flailing fists. ‘Joss, stop it! What’s the matter?’

‘Sammy!’ She was battling up out of a fog of sleep, her mouth sour, her head thudding like a steam hammer. ‘Sammy!’

‘Wake up, Joss. You’re dreaming.’ Luke caught her hand as it struggled free of the entangling duvet. ‘Joss! Wake up!’

She was naked, her clothes trailed across the floor; her shoulders, bare above the duvet ached with cold. The moonlight, streaming across the floor showed the overturned glass on the floor beside the bed, the empty bottle on the table by the lamp. Dragging herself back to the present she turned her head on the pillow, still disoriented. ‘Sammy –’

‘No Sammy. No such person, Joss. It’s Luke, your husband. Remember?’ He stroked her shoulder, wincing at the ice cold feel of her skin, and drew the duvet higher to cover her.

‘Tom –’

‘Tom’s OK. Not a peep out of him. Go back to sleep. It will soon be morning.’ He tucked her up tenderly and remained, propped on his elbow looking at her for a few moments, studying her face in the strangely ethereal moonlight. Her eyes had closed. She had never really awoken. It had all been some frightening dream. Too much wine. He glanced ruefully at the bottle. He already had the beginnings of a headache. By morning it would have turned into something approaching a hangover. Stupid. He threw himself back on the pillow, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings while beside him Joss’s breathing slowed and settled back into deep sleep.

The shadow in the corner, ever watchful, stirred slightly, scarcely more than a flicker of the moonlight on the curtains, and a shiver of lust curled into the darkness.

Oavid had leapt at the idea of a weekend in East Anglia before he sat down and thought out the consequences. Peering now through the windscreen of his eight-year-old Vauxhall at the ancient, creeper-covered façade of Belheddon Hall he felt a pang of something near terminal jealousy. Then his better nature asserted itself firmly. If anyone deserved the fairy tale romance which had handed her this pile on a plate, it was Joss. He thought again of the few rough notes he had scribbled down for her and he smiled to himself. The house was far far older even than the architecture visible from where he sat implied, and it had an enviably romantic history.

Climbing stiffly out of the car he straightened to stretch the exquisite agony of cramp out of his bones before diving head first back in to withdraw suitcase, box of goodies from Harrods food hall and briefcase.

‘See here.’ He tapped a page of notes with his finger as they sat an hour later at the lunch table. ‘The church was built in 1249. I don’t know for sure, but I would think the foundations of this house go back that far at least. I’m no expert of course, but that glorious room of yours with the gallery looks fifteenth century if not earlier. Why haven’t you contacted this local historian chappy yet?’

‘We haven’t had time.’ Joss whisked off Tom’s bib and wiped his face with it while David watched with horrified disgust. ‘Wait while I put this young man down for his rest, then we’ll talk some more. Put the coffee on, Luke.’ She hauled the child out of his high chair and straddled him across her hip. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to see you, David.’ She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as she passed. ‘I need to know about the house.’

David frowned as she disappeared through the door. ‘Need to know is rather a strong term.’

‘It’s weird for her, living here.’ Luke filled the kettle and put it on the hot plate. ‘Imagine it. Generations of her ancestors and yet she knows almost nothing even about her mother.’ Sitting down he leaned forward and cut himself a generous lump of cheese. ‘She’s been having a lot of nightmares. Some tactless old biddy who lives locally told her that both her elder brothers died here in accidents. She’s got a bit obsessed by the thought.’

David raised an eyebrow. ‘I can hardly blame her for that.’ He shivered. ‘How dreadful. Well, the more distant past seems to have been more cheerful. A junior branch of the De Vere family lived here for a couple of hundred years. One of them got his head chopped off in the Tower.’