The Keepsake

by Julie Brooks

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; World War I; Historical Mysteries; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

A book of treasures. A wealth of secrets.

The Keepsake is a thrilling dual-time novel, with a fascinating, complex woman at its heart and a wealth of twists, turns and secrets.

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Saturday: Pot-au-feu for luncheon. Father willed away inheritance. Betrayed by Edward.

1832. The morning after her father's funeral, Prudence Merryfield wakes to the liberating thought that this is the first day of her new life. At thirty-five and unmarried, she is now mistress of her own fate. But a cruel revelation at the reading of her father's will forces Prudence to realise that taking only the most drastic action will set her free.

Present day. Eliza is gifted a family heirloom by her aunt - a Georgian pocket book, belonging to her ancestor, Prudence Merryfield, whose existence reverberates through the lives of generations of Eliza's family, the Ambroses. Intrigued by what she reads inside, Eliza is drawn more and more into the infamous 'Merryfield Mystery'. What happened to Prudence who so bravely dared to defy convention two hundred years ago - then disappeared?
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Praise for Julie Brooks's The Secrets of Bridgewater Bay:

'A sweeping tale of family secrets, betrayal, jealousy, ambition and forbidden romance . . . Fans of The Thorn Birds and Downton Abbey will love the epic scope of this novel' ALI MERCER

'I thoroughly enjoyed this immersive story which spans both generations and continents. The evocative details and impeccable research make for a delightful reading experience and I can pay it no greater compliment other than to say, I wish I'd written it' KATHRYN HUGHES

'This is an epic dual-time novel which draws the reader in right from the start and keeps you in thrall until the very last page. The writing is superb, the descriptions detailed, lush and evocative' CHRISTINA COURTENAY

'A gripping story full of family secrets: the price of love and loss within two generations . . . convincing and poignant' LEAH FLEMING

'Rich in evocative detail - the complex mystery kept me guessing right up to the last page' MUNA SHEHADI

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: September 29, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Her aunt’s house offered several inviting prospects for walks, and Bobby knew them all. There was the hedgerowed lane that meandered over an ancient stone bridge spanning the river, a folding landscape of fields ripe with lush grass or golden rapeseed, an ancient wood rising beyond the distant rooftops of Westcott Hall, and an avenue of elderly chestnuts that led to that decaying mansion. A veritable chocolate box full of fine prospects.

With a flick of the tail her dog set off across open pasture, taking a shortcut to the river, no doubt intent upon the scent of hare, vole or some other poor unsuspecting creature. Usually Eliza let him lead the way, content to amble along in his wake, but this afternoon she hesitated. Halting just outside her aunt’s garden, she found her gaze tugged from Bobby’s chosen route and drawn towards the pair of tall iron gates that guarded the entrance to the estate. The rusting curlicues of iron did not look particularly unusual – the gates propped shut, as they always were – but she was accustomed to seeing them secured with a chain and padlock. Now the chain was missing.

Gatehouse Lodge, her aunt’s abode, had once been part of the original Merryfield estate. It was a remnant the Ambrose family had managed to retain after parting with Westcott Hall in the late 1970s, and it had come down to her aunt. Eliza’s father had inherited a shop in the village that her parents subsequently sold and leased back after the 2009 recession. The original Ambrose house, Queens Knoll, had passed to a now distant branch of the Ambrose family and been sold off in the late nineteenth century. Gatehouse Lodge was the only remnant of two large estates that remained in Ambrose hands. Her aunt was its loving custodian.

Of course, Eliza could have accessed the drive to the hall at any time by climbing her aunt’s back fence or clambering over the bordering hedgerows. However, the missing chain acted as an invitation, luring her to the gates and the weed-choked drive that led to the main house. She gave one of the gates a shove and when it refused to budge, exerted some effort to lift it free of the gravel and prop it wider open. She whistled for Bobby and a minute or so later, the pair set out along a lane shaded by two rows of elderly chestnut trees, gap-toothed where they had succumbed to time or disease.

At first, the trees and an ancient yew hedge beyond were tall enough to hide the house from view but as they drew closer its lichen-etched roof, dormer windows and chimneys appeared above the treetops, to be followed by glimpses of mellow honey-hued Ham stone. The house was bathed in late afternoon sun, giving it a soft glow, the sparkle of light on ancient glass imbuing it with energy so that one did not at first notice the decay. Then, as the drive rounded a bend, the entry at the side of the house came into full view in all its damaged glory.

‘What do you think, Bob? Should we turn back?’

The dog answered with a short bark and trotted forwards, without a backward glance, his nose leading him to the broad step beneath a once stately portico of flaking stucco and columns with chipped pedestals.

‘I guess that’s a no then,’ she said, ignoring a tingle at the thought of being caught trespassing. She was unpractised as a breaker of rules. But to be truthful, she didn’t wish to turn back either. It had been years since she’d ventured all the way up the lane – long before the death of her parents. Not since the days when the house, although evincing only a vestige of its former glory, was still occupied. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Jude’s gift had stirred her curiosity about Prudence, the mystery surrounding her life and death, and the empty house she had once called home.

Westcott Hall.

Following Bobby’s lead, she stepped on to the portico to stand facing a panelled door that must have been imposing in its day, with its brass lion’s head knocker and octagonal doorknob. Now it was in dire need of a lick of paint, and an ugly bolt and padlock had been installed to secure it. She stepped to the side, peering through one of the windows on either side of the door, but there was little to be seen inside the entrance except shadows. If she remembered correctly, a main receiving hall was situated to the left and a smaller room, which had probably once been presided over by the butler, led off to the right. Bobby was already nosing around under a pair of tall windows in the overgrown shrubbery to her left. Eliza decided it couldn’t hurt to have a peek too.

She waded into a morass of unidentifiable plants, except for a straggling rose that made itself known by wrapping itself around her calf and digging in. She managed to prise it loose with only minor damage to skin and trousers, then leaned in to set her face to the dusty glass. Inside, the main hall was devoid of furniture and the mantle had been stripped from the fireplace; some of the floorboards were even missing, giving the room a sad look of neglect.

‘I guess no one’s home, Bob,’ she muttered into the glass.

‘Were you looking for someone, mate?’ a voice growled from the portico in a distinct Australian accent.

She sprang back in surprise, only to become entangled once more in thorns. ‘Ouch! Where did you come from?’

‘I might ask you the same thing. You’re trespassing, mate.’

Ignoring him for the moment, she bent down to free herself, succeeding in prising loose the rose bush. And a piece of her trousers.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ she muttered, looking up at the culprit for the first time. ‘These are Romeo Gigli . . .’

‘Whoever that is.’

‘. . . and I’m not your mate.’

‘No, I can see that now,’ he said, inspecting her face, no doubt taking in the by-now-smudged eyeliner and lipstick. ‘But you’re still trespassing.’

She stomped free of the garden bed to join him on the portico, realising as she drew closer that he was younger than he sounded, only a lick of grey in the brown hair at his temples (that actually looked quite cute, come to think of it) and a fine web of lines at the corners of his hazel eyes.

‘You sounded like my old headmaster,’ she said, brushing dirt and leaves from her trouser legs.

‘My father was a headmaster – and I’ve been told I’m a chip off the old block. Handy, if I ever need to sound authoritative.’

‘And do you?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Need to sound authoritative?’

He shrugged, ‘Well, if it helps . . .’

He was interrupted by a growl hailing from the garden bed on the other side of the portico, and Bobby scampered over with a yip to seek sanctuary behind her legs.

‘Ruby!’ the man shouted, and a red setter soon emerged from the bushes and grinned up at him hopefully. ‘Sit, there’s a good girl.’

The commotion under control, he turned back to Eliza. ‘We had a break-in the other day, so Ruby and I aren’t taking any chances. You’re not thieves, are you? You and your canine friend here?’

He said it so matter-of-factly that she wasn’t sure whether to take the question seriously or not. ‘No, I’m an antique dealer. I have a store in the village. My aunt lives in the gatehouse cottage.’

‘Ah yes . . . I’ve heard about you.’

‘You have?’

‘Single, turning thirty-five, pretty in a gamine way, MA in English, woeful cook, can be obstinate and short-tempered, kind, reliable, hardworking . . .’

As he continued to list the finer points of her character, Eliza found herself longing to curl into a ball. There were benefits to being a millipede.

‘You’ve met my aunt then,’ she sighed, looking down at her feet in embarrassment.

‘She was kind enough to offer me a cup of tea yesterday, and dropped bits of information about her favourite niece into the conversation while feeding me scones with jam and cream.’

‘Only niece.’ Of course Jude had offered him tea. She offered everyone tea. But did she have to sugar it with intimate details of Eliza’s private life? Sometimes she thought her aunt was so immersed in village life that she no longer differentiated between public and private, except when it applied to her. ‘I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what she was thinking. She might as well have posted an ad spruiking my wares in the local paper.’

‘I think she’s proud of you.’

Eliza dared to look up from her boots, to find the stranger grinning at her.

‘It’s really not funny.’

‘Oh, I think it’s very funny actually. My day was quite boring until you came along.’ He held out his hand. ‘Daniel O’Neill, building contractor.’

‘Eliza Ambrose, single woman in want of a partner. Apparently.’ She took the proffered hand.

‘I haven’t met any Elizas recently.’

‘Old family name. And it’s not true, by the way.’

‘What?’

‘I’m too busy working to be looking for romance.’

‘Point noted.’

‘Not that I’m suggesting you’re looking either.’

‘No, too busy hammering to be looking for romance.’

He was still grinning but she found she didn’t mind. Providing him with his daily dose of amusement wasn’t so bad – at least she had made someone laugh.

‘But you did seem to be looking for something, if peering through windows is any indication. Can I help?’

She considered his offer for a moment. She didn’t need help because she wasn’t really searching for anything. Then again, the house and the mystery surrounding its former owner dangled before her like a party treat on a bobbing string. She shoved the hand that had clasped his deep into the pocket of her anorak, groping for her aunt’s gift – her newfound pocket companion. What harm could it do?

‘Have you heard the story of Prudence Merryfield?’ she asked. ‘The Merryfields once owned Westcott Hall.’

‘Until it passed to the Ambrose family,’ he said, quirking an eyebrow in her direction.

‘I see you’ve done your homework on the house’s history.’ She nodded in approval. ‘And yes, there’s a family connection, distant though it may be.’

It was his turn to nod.

‘Well, my aunt and I happened to be discussing Prudence earlier today and I suppose I was curious to see the house again. The chain was off, and it’s been closed up for so long.’ She didn’t mention the gift of the pocket book or her aunt’s suggestion that she play investigator.

‘I’ve locked up for the day but I can show you around another time if you’d like. I’ll be here quite a bit from now on.’

He held her eyes with his gaze as he made the suggestion. The hazel eyes were compelling but hard to read, and she wondered why he would go to the trouble of giving her a tour.

‘You could? That would be . . . ah . . .’ She hesitated, unsure what her answer should be. Even more uncertain about what she might like it to be.

‘Great?’ he finished for her.

She thought of the online orders always waiting to be packed. She thought of the new marketing campaign she had yet to design. The list of forthcoming estate sales she should research and attend. The constant need to clean and dust and polish. Not to mention keeping the shop doors open with only a part-time assistant. And yes, she decided, ‘That would be great.’

In more ways than one, her inner voice prompted but was firmly silenced.

‘I’ll be here on Wednesday morning.’

‘Wednesday would be great.’

‘I’ll see you then.’

A few minutes later, she was coaxing Bobby out from behind her legs with an encouraging pat, and setting off down the drive, enjoying the purposeful sound of gravel crunching beneath her boots. She ignored the urge to look back for the first two hundred yards, but by the time she reached the path that led to the old stables she could no longer resist. She turned her head, expecting Daniel to have returned to whatever he was doing before chasing off intruders, but he was still standing in the portico watching her walk away. Perhaps making sure she did indeed leave the property. She lifted a hand in farewell and he waved in return. The house loomed behind him in the dusk as she resumed her walk down the lane, trying to banish all thoughts of Westcott Hall, its charming Australian contractor, and the enigmatic Prudence Merryfield.

She had work to do.



Bessie could tell the rector was angry from the manner in which he flew down the drive, his coat-tails flapping like a giant crow. His boots barely crunched the gravel in his haste. What she did not know was whether he was angry with her, or some other person not in evidence at that moment. People were frequently angry with Bessie, so it was a reasonable assumption. Except that a booted foot, a swift backhand or sharp words usually accompanied that anger. And there had been no sign of this yet from the rector.

Still, uncertain of his mood, she dawdled a good distance behind, leaving any anger free to roam without alighting in her vicinity. If there was one thing she knew with certainty, it was that anger of any description was best avoided. Dawdling also gave her leisure to contemplate the imposing vista of Westcott Hall receding into the distance over her shoulder, a dark forested hill towering behind its rooftops. She followed the rector down the drive and along the shady lane that led to the village where she had lived for most of her fourteen years. In all those years, today was the first time she had ventured inside the hall, and since it was unlikely she would ever visit again, she wanted to imprint its splendour upon her memory.

They had been greeted at a giant wooden door by a tall, unbending creature known as Carp, who was even more frightening than the gargoyles upon the roof of Mr Custard’s church. His face was long, his mouth narrow, and winged by two deep creases that seemed to express his displeasure with the world in general and Bessie in particular. He had ushered them into an entry hall large and high enough to host a game of village cricket, and had proceeded to talk down to them from his great height. What transpired during that conversation had not pleased the rector at all, but whether she was at fault, the man called Carp, or some other person who remained unknown, she could not say with any certainty. The result, however, had been a swift exit from the hall and a trail of quiet muttering issuing from the rector as he flew down the drive.

By the time he halted abruptly and glanced behind him, the distance between the two exiles had stretched to twenty yards.

‘There’s no point dilly-dallying, girl. I had hoped to save you from the workhouse, but the hall was my last option. None of the farms hereabouts will take you.’ His gaze scraped her person from the tip of her head to the bare feet peeping from beneath her ragged skirt, and she was conscious that she came up wanting. She put up a hand to tuck a strand of sooty hair behind her ear, noticing for the first time the half-moons of dirt encrusting her nails.

‘You should have thought of that earlier,’ he said, frowning at both hand and hair.

Earlier, Bessie had been too busy scouring the scrap of woodland on the outskirts of the village for mallow and mushrooms, to bother about her hair. And her hands, for want of easily accessible water – and, it must be said, a certain disinclination – were perennially filthy.

‘Carp made up his mind after a single glance. That man has a heart of stone.’ Mr Custard shook his head in displeasure.

She hoped he would not delay much longer. It was a fair walk to the next village where the parish workhouse was situated, and they would already miss dinner. If she were lucky, they might arrive in time for a crust of bread and cheese and a mug of beer before bed, which was more than she was accustomed to with her grammer and granfer – even more so, these last weeks.

The thought of her grandparents caused her to hiccup, which caused her eyes to fill, which led tears to spill over her cheekbones and dribble down her chin, leaving track marks through the grime.

‘And blubbering serves no purpose. At least you will find a bed, such as it is, and a bite to eat at the workhouse. We can’t have young girls sleeping under hedgerows. Not in my parish.’ He frowned at her once more, as if holding her personally responsible, which she supposed she was, in a manner of speaking. Not for the death of her grandparents, for they had collapsed of the cholera a month before, but for sleeping under hedgerows after the landlord turned her out of her grandparents’ cottage. Nevertheless, to Bessie’s way of thinking, a hedgerow was a good deal safer than a barn or stable where any eager farmhand might discover her.

‘Come along then,’ said the rector, clicking his tongue and setting out once more for her prospective new home.

With a lingering glance at the wide stone expanse of Westcott Hall she followed after him, ignoring the stabbing of gravel beneath her bare feet while dreaming of a warm bowl of porridge with a slug of fresh cream.

They had been trudging along the lane for several more minutes when Bessie spied two figures gliding towards them in the distance. The figures were silhouetted against the afternoon sun like monstrous black shadows that filled the path ahead. At the sight, her heart began to rattle against her ribs as the thought occurred that they might be spectres. The spectres of her grandparents come to haunt her – angry that she dreamed of porridge and cream when they lay mouldering in their graves. Her grandparents had often regaled her with fireside tales of goblins, pixies and assorted spirits, so Bessie was not surprised that they might return in spectral form. In life they had been loving, if somewhat stern taskmasters – since it demanded the work of three to glean the barest living from their patch of garden and any intermittent employment – in death they were an unknown quantity.

Disinclined to risk retribution for the understandable sin of being hungry, she ducked behind the rector, hoping the oncoming shadows might not notice her behind his impressive waistline and dangling coat-tails.

‘What are you doing there, girl?’ he snapped, reaching around to snag her by the skirt and drag her forward. ‘It’s Miss Merryfield, the lady of Westcott Hall, and her neighbour, Mr Ambrose of Queens Knoll. You would know that if your grandparents had taken you to church as often as they should. Stand up straight and try not to look so . . . so slovenly.’ He emphasised the last word with obvious distaste.

Bessie’s relief that her grandparents were not come straight from Hell was tempered by the puzzle of how not to look slovenly when she did not know what ‘slovenly’ meant. Plus, there was the quandary of meeting the mistress of such a grand estate as Westcott Hall when she had never been introduced to such an eminent person before. She pulled back her shoulders and ran her hands through her hair to restore some order, before hiding the evidence of their griminess in the folds of her none-too-clean skirt. Cleanliness was next to godliness, according to Mr Custard’s teaching. But so much of his preaching was beyond Bessie’s ken that she tended to ignore it all.

‘Perhaps we can convince her to take pity on a poor wretched orphan where that flint-hearted fiend would not. But not if you are skulking behind my coat-tails.’

As the pair loomed closer, the rector planted a broad smile upon his face in readiness. Bessie was surprised to see that the lady was almost as bedraggled as she was. One side of her face was adorned with hoops of shiny red curls, while matted tendrils of hair drooped forlornly against the other cheek. One sleeve must have caught on something sharp for it resembled a ragged wing, while her right boot was plastered in mud. Despite the lady’s scowl, Bessie felt a mite better about the coming encounter, until she felt a jab to her side and looked up to see the rector blinking at her vigorously. At first she wondered if he had dust in his eyes, then she remembered his instructions earlier that day.

‘If you chance to meet Miss Merryfield, do not forget to curtsy,’ he had said. ‘And remember she has lost her beloved father recently.’

Bessie dipped her knees obediently and tried to look sad, which wasn’t difficult since she had no home and her only living relatives were dead. Sadness had become a perpetual state, but not one upon which she could afford to dwell, the gnawing of her belly being more pressing.

‘Ah good afternoon, Miss Merryfield . . . Mr Ambrose. How fortunate to encounter you. We’ve just come from the hall.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Custard. How fortunate for us not to have missed you,’ said the lady as the gentleman doffed his hat and nodded his greeting.

‘May I present my young protégée, Bessie,’ said the rector, with another furtive jab to her side.

‘I be sorry for your loss, m’lady,’ she said, head and knees dipping in unison this time.

‘Thank you, Bessie, but since I am not your lady, Miss Merryfield will suffice.’ The lady’s words were accompanied by a smile that barely touched her lips before fading away.

Bessie did not blame her. The lady might be mistress of half the village, but she was an orphan too. She had lost her mother, her father, and given her advanced age, almost certainly her grandparents too. Bessie felt a few more tears well up for the lady, who was looking surprisingly dry-eyed. But she supposed a lady as elegant as Miss Merryfield could not allow herself to weep, even if she wanted.

‘How can I be of service, Mr Custard? I did not expect to see you until Sunday, after you spoke so eloquently at my father’s funeral. He would have been most gratified.’

‘Indeed. It was my great pleasure. And forgive my intrusion at this unhappy time, but the matter is dire, at least for this poor child.’

Both the lady and gentleman now turned to inspect Bessie, possibly searching for direness.

‘Her parents have been dead these ten years . . .’ the rector began.

It was true that her mama had been taken by the influenza when Bessie was four, or so her grandparents had told her, but her father had taken himself off before she was born. Strictly speaking, he may not have been dead but Grammer had always instructed her to ignore that fact and say she was an orphan, if asked.

‘. . . and now her grandparents have succumbed to the cholera. My curate found her sleeping under a hedgerow.’ He sighed loudly and frowned so deeply that his eyebrows almost met.

Bessie dropped her eyes to the ground, trying to look as pitiful as possible without appearing simultaneously slovenly, since the rector had specifically forbidden it.

‘The poor child—’ began the lady.

She was interrupted by the man, who was almost as tall as the person known as Carp but a good deal more kindly looking, despite the fact that his waistcoat was the most alarming shade of purple that Bessie had ever seen. ‘I’m sure Miss Merryfield is sympathetic but I fail to see how she may help,’ he said.

‘Unless I can find someone to take the girl, she is headed for the workhouse, Mr Ambrose.’

‘And have you discussed the girl’s situation with Carp? I believe Sir Roderick entrusted him with the hiring of indoor staff.’ The gentleman tapped one hand against the side of his thigh as he spoke. Bessie was always alert for such signs but in this instance the tapping seemed benign.

‘We’ve just come from an interview with Mr Carp. Unfortunately, he did not take to the girl.’

Bessie risked a swift upward glance. The two men conversed over her head, as the lady stood by silently. The rector regarded the other gentleman with pursed lips while that gentleman nodded agreeably. His hands, now done with their tapping, were hooked into his waistcoat pockets. Meanwhile, the lady stood with her chin thrust forward like the village thatcher’s old terrier, her lips parted as if about to snap at someone. Bessie drew back a pace. The terrier’s bite was much worse than his bark and she once had the puncture marks on her shin to prove it.

Out of the corner of her eye, the lady must have caught her watching, for she swivelled to face her, saying, ‘Do not trouble yourself, child, he has not taken to me either, and I have known him my entire life.’

This was too much for Bessie, whose eyes spilled over once more. Mindful of the rector’s admonition, she tried to sniff the tears back, only succeeding in snorting like a hog at a trough. ‘He said I be a sn-sn-snivelling guttersnipe,’ she snuffled miserably.

‘Never mind that, Bessie, Miss Merryfield ain’t interested in the details.’

‘Oh, but I assure you, Mr Custard, I’m most interested to hear the child’s thoughts on the matter.’ The lady inspected Bessie with her head tilted to the side; a twist of red curls drifting across her cheek.

Unaccustomed to anyone being interested in her thoughts, and certainly not a lady as fine as the mistress of Westcott Hall, Bessie at first did not answer.

‘Miss Merryfield wants to know what else Mr Carp said to you,’ the rector prompted with a sharp look.

‘He said them at hall might catch something from me.’

‘Did he so? What else did he say?’

‘He said he would not employ me if I be the last girl in Somerset.’ Conscious that a string of mucus threatened to join the tears, she forgot herself for long enough to prise a dirt-encrusted hand from her skirt and wipe the offending slime from her nose.

The lady stared at Bessie’s hand as if it were a creature she had not encountered before, but her eyes expressed mild interest rather than disgust. ‘Carp’s standards are somewhat more exacting than the rest of us,’ she said, smiling for the first time.

Basking in that unexpected smile, Bessie forgot her tears, forgot the rector’s warnings, the butler’s cruel words, even forgot briefly the loss of her grandparents. She smiled in return. There was something comforting about the lady, something that harked back to a memory from long ago . . .

‘Prudence! You cannot be thinking of—’

‘Of employing her? Why certainly, Edward. She is in need of a position, and Westcott Hall is crawling with servants. One more can’t hurt.’ She seemed about to laugh but then thought better of it, clamping her lips together with a conspiratorial glance at Bessie.

‘Carp won’t be happy,’ said the gentleman.

‘Carp is never happy. That is what makes him such an excellent butler. He has made it his mission in life to be permanently dissatisfied.’

‘But what shall you do with her? She’s not fit for a housemaid, and I doubt your cook will have her anywhere near the kitchen.’ It was the gentleman’s turn to stare at Bessie with a concerned frown.

She scratched nervously at a scab on her arm.

‘The poor child. She looks half-starved. But once you take her up, you cannot just forget about her, Prudence.’

The lady glanced from the scab to the man and back again. ‘Something will be found for her. I have no doubt there is a person hiding beneath all that dirt. She just wants finding.’

The scab, successfully loosened, floated to the ground, leaving behind an island of pink skin with a bead of red at its fringe. Bessie lifted her arm to her mouth and licked it away, unaware of the expressions of horror upon the faces of her betters. The lady had saved her from the workhouse. Surely her future must be looking brighter. It certainly could not get any worse.



Later, Eliza would describe to Jude her feelings as she followed Daniel through the empty rooms of Westcott Hall as uncanny; as if tiny spiders crawled amongst the hairs of her arms, or that proverbial stranger trespassed upon her grave. But this was with the romance of hindsight and a healthy glass or two of Pinot Noir as her aunt gently quizzed her about the appointment with the handsome building contractor. At the time, she marked only the chill air, the creaking floorboards and a lingering odour of damp.

‘Mind that rotten floorboard,’ said Daniel, as her attention wandered to a bowed section of cornice in an acanthus pattern high above the main staircase.

‘Noted,’ she answered with a smile.

‘Upstairs or down?’

Upstairs or down. The question teased her. So many rooms, so many unknowns. ‘Upstairs first, I think.’

The bedrooms would be upstairs. She wanted to find Prudence’s lair, the room where she had written the brief lines that encapsulated her life. Saturday: Pot-au-feu for luncheon. Where she wrote those small reminders to herself. Must repair mother’s locket. Of tasks needing attention. Order more watercolours. Appointments to be kept. Called on Lady Gwendolyn. Monies spent. Flemish lace 10 shillings. She wanted to picture the desk where Prudence had sat, perhaps placed before a window where she could gaze out over her heritage, the Merryfield estate.

These were the facts Eliza gleaned from her first deciphering of Prudence’s pocket book in the spare hours she had managed since her last meeting with Daniel. But like this empty house, the words were devoid of furniture, bare walls without the decoration of emotion or context. Worse still, the story was only half told, with the middle pages loosed from their binding and the latter pages filled with a printed almanac.

As they climbed the stairs to the first floor, Eliza turned a professional eye to the barley-twist balustrade of the staircase. She had a mid-nineteenth-century tripod table with a barley-twist column in the shop at the moment, but here the entire balustrade was a forest of twisted mahogany spindles with fluted columns for newel posts. Daniel be