1930s . . . 1920s . . . 1910s . . . and now she felt her pulse quickening as she drew closer to the kind of time frame in which the death must have occurred. The final few boxes went very far back indeed, and contained the original documents relating to the building of the Hall. She picked up the oldest of the boxes, intent on taking it up with her to perform a detailed analysis of the contents. But perhaps she should get somebody from the Bledburn Museum to help – after all, she was no expert when it came to old documents. She might be ruining valuable artefacts. She would take the box upstairs, ring the museum and then . . .
She was still running through the options in her mind when her eye was caught by a loose brick, sticking out behind where the lowest row of boxes had been ranged. It had definitely been dislodged, and that was strange, because surely it had been hidden behind these boxes for decades. Who or what could have caused it?
She reached out with gloved fingers and pulled at it. It came away, grinding against the neighbouring bricks, slowly at first, then falling loose and revealing a cavity behind it.
She thought she might vomit into her dust mask. There was something in there, something bound in cloth and tied at the neck. Perhaps an object related to the bones, perhaps not – but whatever it was, somebody had wanted to hide it.
Jenna took hold of the knotted top and removed the item, as gently as possible, from its place of concealment. Inside the cloth was a rectangular object, hard to the touch – probably a book or ledger of some sort, she thought. The material surrounding it was oilcloth, tough and virtually unblemished despite the long years in hiding.
Forgetting the document box for the moment, Jenna hurried back to the chute and climbed it one-handed, holding the oilcloth wrapper and its contents to her chest.
She placed it on the patio wall, replaced the paving slab that granted access to the cellar and sat down, breathing hard and shaking the dust and the feeling of crawling insects from her scalp. It had been cold down there but she noticed that she was soaked in sweat. She needed a shower, and now.
But not before she had seen what had been hidden down there. She picked it up, untied the loosely knotted neck and unwrapped the oilcloth, which was wound around the rectangle in layers. What she found inside was a book. It was in perfect condition, bound in morocco leather and decorated with a frame of gilt curlicues. There was no title or other information on the cover or spine, so Jenna opened it to the first page and held her breath.
‘The Thoughts and Ideas of Frances Elizabeth Manning, Nottingham, 1886.’
Frances? Wasn’t that the real name of Fairy Fay?
Chapter Three
SHE SHUT THE book at once, ran into the kitchen and began opening and shutting drawers. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for – perhaps some kind of thin protective glove, better than these goalkeeper numbers, to keep the dry paper from desiccating under her fingertips. Marigolds hardly seemed any more suitable. She pulled off the thick gloves and looked at the red, sweating skin at her wrist. It would be OK to read the book as it was, wouldn’t it? After all, there were volumes just as old in many libraries, and this was hardly a priceless artefact, just some ordinary girl’s diary. Except the ordinary girl was destined to be a Harville, and just might have ended up badly. If it was even her. Didn’t everyone have the same names in Victorian times, after all? So many Annes and Victorias and Charlottes. Frances would have been just as common. Really, it could have been one of the higher servants, or . . .
Shut up, Jenna, and just read.
The first page revealed the book to be a diary, with a page for each day. Riffling through, Jenna noticed that some pages were full to overflowing, carrying on to the next day’s page, while others were blank. Frances, it seemed, only wrote when something was worth writing. Not a bad plan, she thought. It didn’t seem that there would be pages of dinner menus or terse accounts of who had visited and what was spoken of.
January 1st, though, as was traditional, held a page of reflections and resolutions.
I hereby express my certitude that 1886 will be the year my life begins in earnest. Every one of the preceding nineteen has been a kind of overture or curtain-raiser to this, the true performance.
For in 1886 I shall marry. I feel sure of it. It is what the gypsy lady at Goose Fair told me and I believe her, truly. What a great deal she knew of me, without my letting slip a single word in corroboration. She knew of Father’s tribulations in business, and she knew of Mary’s illness and she even knew of my fondness for books and music, though she could not name my favourite author. But then, perhaps she has not heard of Mrs Corelli. Her line of work, after all, is in the reading of palms, not novels.
But the words she spoke inhabit my imagination even now, echoing in my thoughts before I sleep and when I wake. ‘Not a twelvemonth shall pass before you are wed, and he shall be a stranger to you.’ So nobody I yet know. I still thrill with each contemplation of it. She could not have made it plainer.
But what shall his name be, and what then shall mine be? All will be known, soon enough.
I have made some resolutions, as follows:
1) I must not eat so many sweets or my stay laces may burst and then my new husband may turn his face from me.
2) I must try to be more patient with Mary.
3) I must practise at the piano for an hour of each day.
4) I must be helpful to Mama and try to bear the small privations of our life with fortitude.
5) If all else fails, I must find work.
Oh, how the last one dispirits me, but it may well come to pass. Father looked so sober and so whey-faced when he tried to wish us a Happy New Year that I feel sure the end is close for his business affairs. And then what shall become of us? Useless and idle to speculate. I will hold to my resolutions and, between them and God and my new husband, I will find a course through these times.
Jenna put the book down and thought about what she had read. In the space of one page, she had formed an impression of the book’s author. A young woman of a romantic turn of mind, perhaps a little spoiled, certainly middle-class at the very least and well educated, but not serious-minded. Jenna already wished her well and hoped her family’s money troubles might not be too severe. As for the prediction that she would meet a husband within the next few months – well, it was intriguing enough to make her want to read on immediately, to see if the prophecy was borne out.
January 2nd, What a hateful day. We have had to dispense with Rose, for we can no longer afford to retain her services. Mary and I have cried all day long, for we have known her since babyhood and we love her as a comfortable aunt and confidante. I asked her if she had a situation to go to; she was very brave and did not weep or cuss but said she should be happy to spend the rest of the winter with her brother, until a position should be found. Imagine, we none of us knew that she even had a brother!
Mary is much consoled by this for the foolish girl had pictured poor Rose at the steps of the workhouse. She has much too lurid an imagination for a child of her age. We attempted to cheer ourselves with music and the reading of poems, but it was a dull sort of evening.
January 3rd had apparently had few attractions and the page was largely blank but for a large blot which Jenna thought might be the result of a tear falling on the opposite leaf.