Chapter One
You have probably visited many a village in your lifetime, but I can pretty much guarantee you have never been to one like Cortney Abbas. For your sake, I hope you never will.
Oh, to a cursory glance it looks like any other Wiltshire hamlet. A main street bordered by stone-built cottages that have stood there for countless generations and are likely to remain for many more, unless the developers come along, of course. There’s the church, with the pub next to it. The village shop and its post office supply most of the villagers’ day-to-day needs. Goodness alone knows, those are simple enough. Most local folk are self-sufficient, at least in terms of eggs and vegetables. Every day, people who can trace their ancestry back hundreds of years meet, work, and live their lives as they always have done. There are few cars, quite a few horses and ponies, and most of the men work on the farms, stopping at lunchtime for a bite to eat at the pub or tucking into sandwiches made by their hardworking wives or mothers.
On Sundays they put on their best clothes and troop off to church to hear the rector preach about the errors of their ways and to sing that verse in ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. The one that goes:
‘The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And ordered their estate.’
So, everyone is reminded of their place in life and, just in case they remain in any doubt about it, there, at the edge of the village, are the imposing Gothic towers of Mordenhyrst Hall.
Mordenhyrst Hall is my reason for being here in Cortney Abbas. Not that it was in my family’s heritage. Far from it. I came here because, in the first few weeks of 1928, I met and fell in love with the heir to the earldom – Viscount Simon Mordenhyrst.
Simon was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He made me laugh, swept me off my feet, and made me feel special in a way I had never experienced before. How young and naïve I was then! When he held me close, I felt intoxicated by his presence. In short, he was everything I had ever dreamed of.
Of course, it would have been too much to hope that his family would be the same. I soon learned he had a father who spent most of his time in the south of France with a girlfriend young enough to be his granddaughter, and one older sister. His mother had died in tragic circumstances when Simon was a small child.
But it was his sister who was to make the greatest impression on me. And not in a positive way.
You see, of all the people I have met in my life, Lady Cecilia Mordenhyrst holds first prize in the cruelty stakes. She and her precious coterie of sycophants represented the over-indulged, spoiled products of their age. They were the Bright Young Things of the 1920s and by the time I met them had their personas down to a fine art. They lived for pleasure, themselves and their class. To hell with anyone else, especially one who didn’t belong. One who had an accent, worse still, a Yorkshire accent, and whose lineage could only be traced back to members of the working class. In a nutshell, me. Grace Sutcliffe, daughter of Acton Sutcliffe, a self-made man who owned a carpet manufacturing mill in the West Riding, deep in the heart of the industrial north of England.
I knew Cecilia would be trouble when Simon first introduced us. He insisted a party be held for us at his ancestral home, Mordenhyrst Hall. We had known each other for such a short time, and I wasn’t ready for all that went with living his life. For all I had found Simon easy to fall in love with, his family was another matter entirely.
Simon had met my father once – on the same day he met me. I had conspired with Father’s sister, my Aunt Penelope, to go and stay with her in her flat in Belgravia. I craved the bright lights, Harrods and dinner at Claridge’s. Father hated the bustling capital city and resolutely insisted on staying at our not-inconsiderable home near Leeds as much as he could.
“I could never abide London,” Father said. “It’s full of criminals and swanky overblown aristocrats with empty heads and full coffers. Nay, lass, give me good old honest Yorkshire muck anytime. It were good enough for me father and it should be good enough for thee. Find yoursen a farmer with a few acres to his name. Settle down and raise a couple of bairns. That’ll see thee right.”
Frankly, I could think of nothing worse than settling down and becoming a broodmare. This was the 1920s after all. The war and all its misery were behind us. Mine was the generation that lived for today and to hell with tomorrow. It might never come anyway. Not that you’d know anything had changed, stuck up in my Yorkshire backwater. I doubted anything had moved on since Queen Victoria was a young bride. Of course, I couldn’t voice my thoughts to my father. He had my best interests at heart, and was trying to protect me, but I was young and headstrong. Life was passing me by, and I was determined to do something about it.
Eventually, much against his better judgment, or so he told me, Father caved in and agreed. I believed it was actually to put a stop to a simple but effective pincer movement mounted by my aunt and me. When he saw me off on the London train, there were tears in his eyes.
“It’s the damned smuts from the engine,” he said. But I knew different.
Aunt Penelope was my father’s younger sister and, thanks to his generosity, lived in a handsome apartment full of her many knickknacks. She was happy to put me up for as long as I wanted. I always loved Aunt Penelope. She was the one I turned to when Mother died. Her hugs and reassurances helped me cope with my bewilderment and loss. Fathers were supposed to be strong and carry on, and Acton Sutcliffe did just that, hiding his grief from everyone, including me.
Those first couple of weeks in London were a whirl of visits to museums, art galleries, afternoon tea at Gunter’s and Fortnum & Mason and trips to the theater to see the latest musicals. All accompanied by my aunt, who proved to be excellent company.
Then, Father came down to stay. He had business in London and couldn’t avoid the visit.
“There’s nowt else for it, lass, I have to drag myself away from God’s own country down to your neck of the woods. I shall only stay the one night, mind. That den of iniquity’s enough to blacken a saint’s soul.”
I smiled to myself, wished Father a safe and pleasant journey and handed the telephone receiver back to my aunt.
When he arrived a couple of days later, he surprised me by asking me to accompany him on a business appointment. It turned out to be a visit to the bank where my father had recently transferred both the business and the family accounts. It was a sizeable piece of business and demanded the personal attention of a senior manager.
That role fell to Simon, who introduced himself to us. The instant I felt the warmth of his hand as he touched mine when he greeted me, I felt a connection. When I looked up into his eyes, I knew he felt it too. He behaved impeccably, of course. First, he asked my aunt if, in her role as my temporary guardian, she might allow him to call on me one afternoon, my father having returned to Yorkshire. With some reservations, she agreed. From the way I simply wouldn’t shut up about him, she knew this was no mere flight of fancy and we would conspire to meet – with or without her consent.
Not that it meant she liked the idea, especially as our dates grew ever more frequent. She began by dropping not-so-subtle hints. “Don’t you think he’s a little old for you, Grace?”
“He’s only twenty-seven. Seven years isn’t a lot of difference. Besides, I prefer a more mature man. Boys my age can be real pillowcases.”
That bit of flapper slang raised a perfectly arched Aunt Penelope eyebrow. “I don’t know where you picked that term up from, Grace, but I suggest you put it back where you found it.”
On another occasion, when I announced that Simon and I were going to the cinema to see Metropolis, she tried again. “Does your father know you two are walking out together?”
“Not as such. No.”
“When were you thinking of telling him?”
“When I see him next.”
“And when will that be?”
“I really don’t know, Aunt.”
“Best tread carefully when you do. Your father won’t like you taking up with someone like that. He’s out of our class, Grace.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s doomed to failure. Any girl marrying out of her class is asking for trouble.”
At that moment I was literally saved by the bell as the front doorbell rang and, seconds later, Ethel, Aunt Penelope’s maid, announced Simon, and he and I trotted happily off on our latest date. I felt like the bee’s knees walking out on Simon’s arm. He was attentive and funny. He even taught me how to smoke, although I never really took to it.
“That’s because you don’t inhale. Look, you do it like this.” He took a long drag, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of aromatic smoke.
That evening, we enjoyed a delicious meal at Simpson’s on the Strand. All around us, the chatter of the upper classes, clattering china, tinkling crystal glasses and delicious smells were accompanied by an army of bustling waiters attending to our every need. The moment I extracted a cigarette from Simon’s silver case, a waiter appeared at my shoulder ready to light it. I copied my boyfriend’s actions to the letter with the inevitable result that I collapsed in a fit of coughing and choking that caused heads to turn and disapproving glances to be directed at me. This only made me worse, and Simon laughed so hard, tears streaked down his face. A tall glass of water arrived, and I drank it down. My coughs subsided and Simon dried his tears on a pristine white handkerchief he replaced in his top pocket.
He clasped my hands in his.
“Oh, Grace,” he said softly. “I know we’ve only known each other a few weeks but I’m falling in love with you. You’re all I can think about. Do you think you could possibly find it in your heart to love me too?”
I couldn’t speak. I nodded, smiled, and eventually trusted myself to speak, as realization hit me like a sledgehammer. “I love you too, Simon.”
The rest of that evening passed in a blur. I saw the film but took none of it in. All the while, Simon’s hand entwined with mine sent shivers of joy running up and down my spine.
By the time he saw me safely to my door, I had to tell someone. Aunt Penelope was reading in the drawing room when I burst in.
“Oh, Aunt, he loves me. Simon told me. He’s in love with me.”
With barely a flicker, Aunt Penelope placed her bookmark in her novel, closed it, and laid it on the small table next to her. Now, it appeared, was the time to ratchet things up a notch.
“Sit down, Grace. I have something to tell you about Simon’s family.”
I told myself that duty once again required her to warn me of the dangers of mixing with someone from his elevated social class, so I obediently heard her out.
“There’s a history of insanity in that family,” she said. “The mother – God rest her soul – killed herself, you know.”
“Simon told me. She must have been desperate to do such a thing. Especially with children.”
“It’s the father. The earl. He may be titled and privileged but he’s a ne’er-do-well. A philanderer of the first water. There are rumors he’s fathered numerous children in the village where Mordenhyrst Hall is situated. I’m told there are an inordinate number of young people and small children bearing a noticeable resemblance to him.”
“That seems to happen in all these society families.”
“True enough, Grace, but in this case, there’s more to it than that. Countess Mordenhyrst – Lady Elise, the one who killed herself – may actually not have committed suicide. She may have been murdered. At least that’s the story I heard. Or, at the very least, something in the house itself drove her to take her own life, which amounts to the same thing in my book.”
“Oh, that’s superstitious stuff and nonsense,” I said.
“Be that as it may, but Mordenhyrst Hall has seen generations of that family come and go and the stories abound. Be very careful, Grace. It’s no place for you. No place for anyone not born to it.”
I looked at her curiously. “They are people, Aunt. People like you and me.”
“That’s the point. They’re not like you and me. Far from it – and this time I’m not merely talking about their social status. A friend of mine, an impeccable source of information on that family, told me. There’s something not right about the Mordenhyrsts. So much tragedy and heartbreak in one family….” She paused and shook her head. “Suffice it to say, I know I can’t stop you seeing that young man, but I would much prefer that you leave him alone. He may be charming, chivalrous and handsome, but when it comes down to it, he’s one of them and always will be. Mark my words, Grace. You’re heading for trouble if you persist with this relationship.”
A wave of righteous anger threatened to spill out of me. How dare Aunt Penelope ruin my moment of joy? I marched to the door. “I’m off to bed, Aunt. Good night.”
I resisted the urge to slam the door. After all, I was a guest in her home but, in my room, I raged at my reflection. Then, adrenaline abating, I took a good hard look at myself. I wasn’t bad looking, fashionably slim so I could wear the new fashions without having to bandage my breasts flat against my chest. My light golden-brown hair was shingled. My cheekbones were sufficiently prominent to give me a half-decent profile and my makeup was fashionably dramatic. Maybe my wardrobe could do with a little updating but, apart from that, while I was no head-turner, I was at least passable.
Of course, with his good looks, title and position, Simon could have had anyone he chose. So, a worrying thought began to trouble me.
Why, of all the girls at his disposal, had he chosen to fall in love with me?
it was my imagination. I hadn’t really seen figures moving behind the glass of that upstairs room. I hadn’t really glimpsed a face that wasn’t really a face at all. Something menacing. Inhuman. Nonsense. I shook myself.
The gleaming black Rolls-Royce drew up in front of the servants, amassed and ready to greet us. My heart pounded as reality dawned. This would be my new life. My destiny would be to stand at Simon’s side as Countess Mordenhyrst, whereupon I would take precedence over his own sister. ...
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