House in the Hills Read online

  They never spoke except in whispers, but they did begin passing messages to each other. Even that was dangerous. The girls were forbidden to have anything to do with boys, but as time went on this rule became more and more difficult to obey. To be discovered would result in great shame, the cane laid across a spread palm or knuckles; all privileges, such as they were, severely curtailed. Even leave to go home at holiday time could be withdrawn and penance imposed. Catherine was not willing to give up going home to Aunt Lopa. Umberto, who was growing more handsome and more likeable with the years, was of the same mind.

  With the use of whispers and gestures, they used the Bible to send each other messages by using chapter and verse numbers. If any were intercepted, all anyone would see was a series of numbers; chapter numbers and verse numbers from the Bible, but how innocent was that? To the nuns and the priests it would seem innocent enough, though if anyone had taken the trouble to check, they would have been surprised at how often lust and passion featured in Holy Scripture.

  ‘You two are going to get caught falling into temptation one day,’ said one of her friends, a girl named Theresa who aspired to become a nun but wasn’t sure whether black actually suited her complexion.

  Catherine was watching Umberto as he knelt and gave veneration to the altar. He did it gracefully and when he raised his eyes to the cross, for a moment she thought she detected true veneration in his eyes. As she watched she considered what Theresa had said about diem both falling into temptation.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she whispered back. ‘But once I’ve left here we’re not likely to meet again.’

  ‘It could happen here,’ Theresa retorted.

  Catherine grinned and nudged her friend’s arm. ‘Can you imagine Sister Sophia’s face?’

  The two girls burst into giggles. They were still girls and the future was far ahead.

  Eleven

  Ellen Shellard dusted the dirt from her clothes. She had been out riding, enjoying the freshness of a Portuguese spring. Her little dog, Teddy, was there to greet her, springing up at her on his sturdy, and very short, back legs.

  Self-assured and worldly-wise, Ellen Shellard was of medium height and had a womanly figure. Two children and a miscarriage had left her more curvaceous than before their birth, but she consoled herself with the fact that she still had a waistline. She wore her hair in two thick plaits, looped and fastened with a big black bow at the nape of her neck. Her hair was tawny and her complexion was freshly girlish, her cheeks naturally pink and matching her lips which formed a perfect cupid’s bow.

  Having been born into money, she walked with a certain confidence, which only someone without a care in the world could do.

  The big passion of her life besides her husband and her children was her clothes. She loved clothes and Walter had indulged her passion, encouraging her to go on trips to Paris, London and Rome. Today she was wearing riding britches – a fact which had drawn scandalized expressions from some of the locals more used to seeing women wearing skirts and riding side saddle.

  She took off her bowler hat and shook her tawny hair clear of the plaits and bow that had loosened during her ride.

  Her little dog leapt and barked all the way across the stable yard, staining her britches with mud and scratching at her knees.

  She bent down to pat him away. ‘Teddy, you’re like a bouncing ball,’ she said, laughing. ‘Stop it. Stop it this minute.’

  The little dog was rough-coated. His eyes were black as boot buttons, and seemingly his legs were made of rubber. A groom took her horse while she made for the door that would take her past the wine vaults and into the house along the servants’ corridor.

  Just as she passed from sunlight into the shadow thrown by the main house, the children appeared at the back door. The youngest, Aaron, nestled in his nurse’s arms. Germaine, her daughter, was jumping up and down with as much excitement as the dog.

  ‘They’ve missed you,’ said the children’s nurse, an affable young woman with warm brown eyes that matched her hair. She had been Walter’s choice. ‘We need someone young to look after our children,’ he’d said. ‘And English. English is the only language they need to know.’

  Ellen, who’d learned to accept her husband’s decisions without argument, laughed and kissed each child in turn. ‘I’ve only been gone just over an hour,’ she said, bringing her face level with her daughter.

  ‘It was a long, long time,’ Germaine responded, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck.

  Untangling herself, she took hold of her daughter’s hand. The sun-baked yard she’d left behind was in direct contrast to the corridor and the cellars at the back of the house. Four steps on the other side of the door and the temperature dropped from too hot to too cold.

  Ellen shivered. Outside she’d wanted to escape the heat. Now she missed the sun baking her shoulders and easing the sweat from her forehead.

  Uncaring of cold or the company he was in, the little dog ran on ahead of them, his claws making a tick-tacking sound on the rough stone floor. His stubby white tail danced up and down as he ran.

  ‘Have you been a good girl?’ Ellen said, looking down at her daughter.

  ‘Yes,’ Germaine replied; her smile wide though toothless at the sides.

  By the time Ellen looked up, Teddy and his stubby white tail had disappeared.

  ‘Teddy!’

  Ellen frowned. Walter hated the dog. He’d only allowed her to keep it as long as it didn’t stray away from those rooms frequented by her and the children.

  ‘I’ll find him,’ said Germaine, slipping her hand out from her mother’s. ‘Teddy! Where are you?’ Her voice echoed along the narrow corridor where the chill of the old stone permeated the air and sent shivers down the spine.

  Ellen called after her, a twinge of concern upsetting the day’s equilibrium. Due to the chilly atmosphere, her imagination sometimes got the better of her along this corridor. She wondered if ghosts walked over the old stone floor in the hours of darkness. She shivered and vowed to get out of this place as quickly as possible. But first she retraced her steps in order to find Germaine and the dog.

  The doors to the vaults and cellars were of stout oak and studded with iron nails in the English style. Usually they were closed, but today someone had left one of the doors ajar. The smell of cold stone, damp oak and dusty bottles hung like a curtain across the opening. Germaine dashed in.

  Straightaway she could hear Germaine calling the dog. ‘Teddy, I can see you.’

  ‘Germaine? Where are you?’

  ‘Teddy’s stuck,’ her daughter shouted back.

  Ellen sighed. There was nothing else for it. She had to venture further into the cool gloom past the two barrels on either side of the door and the bottles stored in huge racks the length of the room.

  Telling Mary to take Aaron back upstairs, she set off after her daughter.

  The vault was colder than the corridor. She rubbed at her upper arms and suppressed a shiver.

  She found Germaine trying to wedge herself between two racks of wine bottles. The racks were at least twelve bottles high and twice as wide.

  Ellen had worrying visions of her daughter being buried under a heap of broken glass. Her reaction was immediate. ‘Germaine. Come away from there, darling. You’ll get hurt.’

  Her daughter twisted her head round so she could face her mother. ‘Teddy’s in here. I don’t know if he is really stuck. He’s found something. He won’t come out. I want what he’s found!’

  Ellen sighed. Just like her father, Germaine insisted on having her own way. Resigned to the task, Ellen bent down, peering between the two racks. At the same time she eased her daughter out from the gap, thankful that the racks had stayed upright, the bottles unmoved. No damage had been done.

  Going down on all fours and easing her shoulders sideways between the racks, she could just about see the little dog chewing at what looked like a bundle of rags. Germaine had been telling the truth. He’d found somethi
ng wedged behind one of the racks and was growling as he attempted to tug it out.

  ‘Teddy! Teddy! Bring it here boy.’

  She reached her arm in as far as it would go and gave his stumpy tail a quick tug.

  ‘Teddy!’

  The dog, who up until now had seemed totally engrossed in the bundle, now became aware of her presence and gave one last tug. Both he and the item he’d fought so determinedly to free from the gap popped out.

  Ellen grabbed him. ‘What is that?’ she asked, prising the thing from his mouth.

  She felt Germaine’s hand come to rest on her shoulder. Germaine sucked in her breath. ‘It’s a doll!’

  ‘It’s dirty,’ said Ellen, noticing that its dress was made of pink satin, its underskirts of pure cotton trimmed with very pretty – and extremely grubby – broderie anglaise. Its hair was silky beneath the grime and although its straw hat was dusty, beneath the dirt it was sunshine yellow.

  Unconcerned at how filthy it was, Germaine grabbed the doll with both hands. Seeing its grimy state, Ellen jerked it away.

  ‘It’s filthy, darling.’

  Germaine’s face crumpled with disappointment, her dimples replaced with a downturned mouth. ‘I want her.’

  As her mother held the doll at arm’s length, Germaine did clutching movements with her fingers.

  ‘I want it,’ she whimpered, a few seconds away from crying.

  Ellen sighed. Knowing when she was beaten was something she’d learned quickly since marrying Walter. Despite her being a girl, he had spoilt the child, though had been less indulgent since Aaron had been born.

  It’s only a doll, thought Ellen, and once it’s cleaned up it shouldn’t be too bad, in fact it should be quite nice. It certainly looks of good quality.

  It was easy to give in. ‘Yes, you can keep it, but on one condition. The doll and her dirty clothes have to be washed.’

  Germaine scowled.

  ‘She’s covered in spiderwebs,’ Ellen pointed out, guessing this would swing her decision.

  ‘I don’t like spiders,’ said her daughter, her attitude changing in seconds, her grasping hands swiftly disappearing behind her back. ‘They’re horrible. I hate them.’

  ‘I know,’ murmured Ellen, straightening up. ‘I was counting on it.’

  Hand in hand they went back upstairs to the north quadrangle and the rooms she’d renovated at the time she’d been expecting Germaine. Walter had suggested they’d best suit children because they were cool and never received direct sunlight on the side that faced north, and there was a corridor between the rooms and the central courtyard. She’d had no problem accepting his advice; it seemed the sensible thing to do.

  The shutters of the nursery windows were left wide open. The clear white light, unadulterated by sunlight, gave the room a cool brightness. The colours she’d had it painted – a soft lemon below a painted frieze, the latter dating from the seventeenth century – were still as bright and fresh as when they’d been decorated. She’d salvaged a Chinese rug, its pastel shades muted by age but still inspiring thoughts of silk-clad, slant-eyed ladies and dangerous voyages by Portuguese merchants.

  She gave the doll to the nurse to be cleaned. ‘Germaine is not to have it until it is.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the nurse replied.

  Germaine began to squall. ‘When can I have my doll?’

  Ellen had done her utmost to be a good mother, but sometimes she wondered whether she was really cut out for the job. She wasn’t very good at discipline and did like a quiet life. Like now.

  ‘We can all help wash it,’ she said, aware that tantrums could still happen if Germaine wasn’t involved in what was going on.

  Water was boiled and a block of carbolic soap and a scrubbing board were fetched from the laundry room.

  Ellen eyed the doll before handing it over to Mary and then stopped. For some inexplicable reason, she was drawn to undress it herself. Her frown deepened the further she progressed. The doll’s clothes were of good quality; besides the satin dress and pretty underwear, and not forgetting the straw bonnet, the doll wore a pink pearl necklace. She examined each piece before handing it over to be dunked in warm soapy water.

  As she turned each item this way and that, her frown – one of curiosity – persisted. ‘Its clothes are very well made. And it doesn’t look Portuguese.’

  The nurse also examined the doll and its clothes. She shook her head. ‘No. Most definitely not. See?’

  She pointed out the name and address on the dress label: S. Brundle, Dollmaker, Redcliffe Hill, Bristol.

  This was a surprise. The deep frown persisted on Ellen’s silky-smooth brow. It looked very expensive and not that old. She searched for a suitable reason for it to be here. ‘It must have belonged to one of my husband’s female relatives. A cousin perhaps.’

  She thought it a little strange that he hadn’t mentioned having had close relatives stay here. She knew William hadn’t been here for years, only revisiting a few times since just after she and Walter married. There again, William didn’t have any children. Diana preferred the bottle – and a few male friends – to children if rumour was correct.

  It occurred to her that it might have belonged to a servant.

  ‘Can you ask members of staff who it might have belonged to?’ she said to Mary.

  ‘I’ll try, though they’re not always that forthcoming with me, ma’am,’ she explained. ‘They treat me as though I’m a spy. Sometimes they pretend that they don’t understand English, though I know full well that they do. But I’ll do my best, ma’am.’

  That night, once the children were in bed, Ellen took the doll, now washed, brushed and dressed in her laundered clothes and sponged-off bonnet, to show to Walter.

  He was sitting behind his big desk in the library, a masculine place of dark woods and books bound in blood-red, olive-green and chocolate-brown leather. The little light that entered glittered off gilt-figured spines.

  When she entered he was holding a pen in his right hand as though about to enter something on the open file before him. His head was still lowered, only his eyes regarding her with what she couldn’t help but interpret as irritation. His thin lips were stretched in something that wavered between a smile and a sneer. Although she sensed her presence was unwelcome, she decided to persist.

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  He looked far from pleased to see her. ‘Ellen, you know how I hate being disturbed when I’m in here.’

  Apologies fell from her tongue like raindrops. ‘I do apologize, darling, but Germaine was so pleased with what she’d found and wanted you to see it too! Look.’ She held up the doll. ‘With Teddy’s help I must add.’

  She smiled innocently as she glanced between the shiny clean doll and his face, curious to gauge his reaction.

  Walter’s eyes narrowed. The strained smile froze on his lips then defrosted – all in the space of a few seconds. The reason for this hit her immediately. The sight of the doll had unnerved him, but he didn’t want her to know that. He’d covered his disquiet swiftly. The half-smile-half-sneer returned.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ He spoke casually, as though it was of little concern.

  Her heartbeat quickened. ‘In the first wine cellar. Teddy dragged it out from between two wine racks. It was filthy and covered with cobwebs.’

  The moment of disquiet passed from his features as quickly as sun follows rain. His attention went back to the paperwork piled in front of him. ‘Really.’

  His expression was unyielding.

  For some reason she couldn’t accept his offhand manner in the matter of a simple doll. Neither could she quite understand her own misgivings. Why should the doll be affecting her like this?

  A warning voice inside her head counselled her to let the matter drop. But she couldn’t. For some reason she simply could not!

  Ellen studied the strong lines of her husband’s face. He was no longer in the first flush of youth, and yet he was so totally male. She remembered an o
ld saying of her mother’s in the days when Walter was courting her. ‘Rather an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.’ She need never worry about money. He would always provide. Unfortunately, there was a price to pay. Walter brooked no opposition to anything he decided. His word was law.

  But the doll rankled. She hesitated before finding the courage. ‘Who did it belong to?’

  His head jerked up. His features were rigid, almost as though his face had been cast in iron.

  ‘The doll,’ she said with a light laugh, pretending to think he hadn’t heard. ‘I was wondering who the doll belonged to.’

  The cast-iron countenance loosened, but only a little. ‘I would imagine one of the servants. A number of them have children.’

  She was about to mention that the doll had been made in Bristol, but something held her back. She sensed he would cut her dead.

  With the passage of time she had discovered that a different man lurked beneath the charming façade that had captured her heart. She had always known him to be a respected and successful businessman. She had not been prepared for his ruthless ambition and his continual need to have his own way. Sometimes she commented to him jokingly that he was married to his business. He’d laughed with her, but only lightly. The truth burned in his eyes. Power, success, wealth; they were in truth what he lived for. She often wondered what would happen if he ever had to choose between business and family.

  And in the matter of this doll, judging by instinct alone she knew there was a worrying truth to be found out.

  ‘It’s just a doll,’ he said, returning his attention to the work on his desk. ‘Do as you will with it. I have work to do. Now go. Leave me in peace.’

  She was about to open her mouth again and press the point, but suddenly his chin whipped upwards. His eyes, now full of warning, bored into hers.

  ‘Get out, Ellen. Get out before I lose my temper.’

  The doll tucked beneath her arm, Ellen felt herself flowing rather than walking to the door. Once she was outside and six paces along the hallway, she leaned against the wall, her heart pounding, her mind whirling with possibilities. One cast-iron truth had come out of this confrontation. He didn’t love her. She wondered whether he ever had. She wondered whether she’d ever loved him or whether she’d merely fallen in line with what was expected of her. A woman without a man had no place in this world. That was the way it seemed.