Day 134
Good twists and turns are hard for any writer to pull off. Write a story with a twist that no one sees coming.
…
Sometimes, when you are in the moment, you don’t get to see what comes out of left field.
First, the inheritance.
A castle, yes, a real castle with a moat and a drawbridge. Towers at each corner and a thousand acres of adjoining lands
Second, the responsibility.
Not to hand it over to the blood-sucking developers who wanted to turn the property into a golf course and millionaire condos.
Third, the fact that my life was so consumed with work, and then more work.
I didn’t know just how hard it was to run an estate like the castle and its surroundings. I had no idea how my grandmother had done it or why she had picked me for the job.
Mu bother would have made a better fist of it, but he was too busy chasing the girl of his dreams in Bermuda. Now, he had his inheritance.
He actually felt sorry for me after briefly lamenting that our grandmother hadn’t left him the place.
Good thing, too. He would have sold it out from under us and blown away any chance of regaining the affinity we were supposed to have with the land we had inhabited since William the Conqueror.
Our names were in the Doomsday Book.
This morning was like any other morning: busy, and I was out of my depth. The help I had, those who had last helped grandmother, had lost their patience with the new Master, and several had given their notice.
I was trying to organise replacements with a hiring compliant in London, and it looked like I would have to go down
That’s when the butler, whom my grandmother specifically asked to keep on, came in, after lightly rapping on the door to the study, which was supposed to be my refuge.
“What is it that you can’t wait?” I asked in a slightly testy tone. It was not his fault I was losing it, but there was a limit, and I’d reached it.
“There’s a lady to see you, Miss Emily Wentworth.”
“Who is she?”
“I believe she is an old friend of your grandmother’s, one who hasn’t seen her for years and has come to visit her.”
“You did tell her she died recently?”
“Not part of my remit, sir,” with the most inscrutable expression I’d ever seen. He could be covered in blood, a knife in each hand, and still look that inscrutable.
I glared at him. Nothing, apparently, was part of his remit.
“Where is she?’
“In the drawing room, sir.”
“Tea for two?”
“Already in hand, sir.”
He could make the word sir sound like an insult, and had it not been for my grandmother’s insistence that he stay on, I would have long since tossed him to the wolves.
I looked over towards Mary, my late grandmother’s personal assistant. This woman was as impossible to work with as she was a walking encyclopaedia of my grandmother’s reign as mistress.
“You know an Emily Wentworth?”
“No, sir. Not in the ten years I was working with her.”
“Who do you think she is?”
“Someone from before my time. She knew many different people. Hundreds of Christmas cards. Christmas was an event, sir.”
“Thank you, Mary. We’ll pick this up later.”
…
I went down the passage and left towards the drawing room, my favourite room in the building. It was where breakfast was served, where the book collection, dating back well over two hundred years, existed.
When I was feeling overwhelmed, I just found a first edition by one of my favourite authors, sat in the luxurious leather lounge chairs, and read.
I opened the double doors to the room and went in. The sun was out, and the gardens were looking immaculate.
An old lady, older than my grandmother, stood by the window looking out. She turned as I came into the room.
“Young David, I believe?”
“Miss Wentworth. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Oh, I’m an old friend, very old, and hadn’t realised she had recently passed. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. What can I do for you?”
“Your grandmother once said that if I ever needed a place to stay, I would be very welcome to stay here with her. It seems that might be difficult now that she is no longer here.”
“Slightly. She did not mention you in any of the papers she left for me.” They had mentioned about a hundred others, some I was familiar with, others she warned me about, and the rest were worth half a line or two.
At least there were no scheming relatives I had to challenge to a duel.
Yet.
She rummaged through her voluminous handbag, pulled out a yellowed, crumpled envelope, and handed it to me. “This might explain the circumstances.”
I took it. It had a faint aroma of mildew and mothballs. I took out the single folded sheet and read,
My dear Emily,
It was with interest and alarm that I read of your predicament, first in the newspaper and then in your letter.
I always suspected that Adolf was one of those men.
You poor thing. Of course, you may come and stay for as long as it takes to regain your sanity.
I am looking forward to your imminent arrival.
Love, Matilda
It was my grandmother’s writing. But it was dated 13th December 1957, some 68 years ago. The woman before me had to be approaching a hundred, but hardly looked a day over seventy.
“You do realise this invitation was written 68 years ago.”
“I was in America. It took a long time to get here.”
I was waiting for her to tell me she had walked, but no. She chose to leave the conversation right there.
I shrugged.
“Have you been here before?”
“On the occasion of her wedding to your grandfather. Did she tell you about me?”
“She did not.”
“Pity. It might have been possible you were my grandson, but your grandfather chose her, not me. There’s a story there, but not today.”
Broadhurst appeared as if I had summoned him. He had a habit of doing that, and it was scary.
“Sir?”
I shook my head. “Take her to whatever spare room is available. She will be staying for a while. Tell the cook, there’s an extra person for dinner.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Your grandmother was right about you.”
It wasn’t until after she left the room that I realised that she couldn’t know anything about me. If she had not seen my grandmother in 68 years, how could she know about the 40-year-old grandson?
A question to ask at dinner.
..
I spent the afternoon reading through my grandmother’s diaries for that period from 75 years ago, and sure enough, Emily Wentworth was there, large as life, the girl who was bold, brave, and rebellious
The girl who got into mischief at Miss Irene Davenport’s Finishing school, where apparently raggle-taggle guttersnipes were turned into elegant and charming young ladies.
I could not imagine my grandmother being a raggle-taggle guttersnipe. Emily Wentworth was a different story and had that look of defiance even now. I could be easily persuaded to believe Emily would lead her well and truly down the garden path.
I remember my mother once telling me that she had been easily led in her younger days. It was hard to imagine it, in her later years, when she presented as almost formidable.
It seemed those days at the finishing school would have made interesting reading, but pages had been ripped out, perhaps because she preferred to forget about them.
There was, however, a section around the time of her wedding to my grandfather:
The incomparable and treacherous Miss Emily Wentworth arrived this morning; in defiance of mother’s orders, she was barred at the gate.
That despicable act of trying to entrap Herbert in an attempt to snatch him away from me was about as low as she could get. This is the girl who could have any man she wanted.
And with Herbert denying the affair, well, this wedding is hanging by a knife’s edge. Daddy wants to kill him and is certain to challenge him to a duel at dawn.
It’s an impossible situation.
There was nothing more written until two weeks later, the first day of her honeymoon, with the wonderful Herbert.
Two weeks of intrigue. I was looking forward to dinner.
…
I had dined formally once since I had arrived at the castle. A group of my grandmother’s friends insisted on a wake, and Broadhurst and two serving girls presided over what could only be described as a feast.
Although there would be two of us, it would be no less a feast, presided over by Broadhurst and Anna, who attended breakfast time.
One feature of dinner was dressing up, a tradition I took seriously, as did Emily, who had an amazing gown befitting the dowager she was.
I escorted her into the dining room, and Broadhurst made sure she was seated comfortably. There was no sitting at either end of a table that sat 24. We’d need cell phones to talk.
We started with a glass of champagne and the first verbal duel. I led with the first question, “Tell me about Miss Irene Davenport’s Finishing School.”
She smiled, “My, if I were a betting woman, I would not have expected that question. Miss Davenport.” She closed her eyes and, after a few seconds, sighed. “Yes. All the girls believed she was a witch.”
“At that age, somewhere around sixteen, I think, all girls would have thought that. After being indulged by your parents all your life, I guess running into a formidable disciplinarian would have been a shock.”
She looked at me with a curious expression, one that told me that she had probably thought I would not have such knowledge.
“You must have had some interesting conversations with your grandmother.”
“She maintained a diary, well, quite a few.”
An almost imperceptible change in expression. “Well, that’s surprising. She never struck me as a person who would. Certainly, she never mentioned it, and we were best friends, shared everything when we were younger.”
Perhaps without realising that she had overstepped certain boundaries. Or that Emily was that sort of friend who assumed she could. I had read more about their relationship, and my interpretation was that Emily was more worldly than her friend and, to a certain extent, had taken advantage of the situation and of her naivety.
It made me wonder just why she was here.
The question was asked in a tone that suggested an answer or comment to repudiate it was expected, a test to see exactly how much I knew. She had not lost any of her powers of manipulation.
“Yes. It was what I understood from her writing. Typical girlish stuff. She never mentioned her time at Miss Davenport’s to my mother or me, but she did tell me about her dancing lessons in Paris under Mademoiselle Dubois. She always insisted that the foundation for becoming a proper gentleman was grooming, manners, and being able to execute a perfect tango.”
“That’s one thing she excelled at, the tango. It was what brought Matilda and Herbert together. They could set the dance floor alight.”
Was it said as a wistful memory or with just a touch of envy?
“Sadly, my rendition of the tango is somewhat lacking. She tried to smooth the rough edges, but I think in the end, she decided I was a lost cause.”
“Are you married?”
“No. There hasn’t been a one to dazzle with my dancing skills or lack thereof. I lack that certain charm my father and grandfather possessed. Now, being lord of the manor, what girl would want to live in a draughty castle?”
“More than you could imagine.” That was a wistful expression, and given what I’d read, perhaps she had at one time been one of them.
It was the right time to serve soup.
…
Broadhurst had selected a very good Cabernet Sauvignon from the cellar and had poured two glasses.
The entrees were beef cheek, something I’d had before and found that a little went a long way, but it was no less an amazing dish.
A bit like the conversation at the time, she was picking over the memories of her best friend she could share, perhaps to find out how much I did know.
It was leading us into the main course, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, which I’d had before and could take or leave. But given the culinary experience of my grandmother’s selection of cook, I was preparing myself for an experience.
It was something I could get used to.
It also bothered me that it was difficult to consume all of the food that was prepared, given that there was mostly one of me, and the twenty-odd permanent staff who lived and worked in the castle, and on the estate. There were a hundred or so others who didn’t.
My grandmother had decided that meals would be provided for all those working in the castle and nearby, and I had extended that to anyone who requested one. It meant hiring more staff, which was much needed in an area where unemployment was rising. It was a discussion that I’d had with Mary, who had been juggling requests from organisations and individuals for employment opportunities, and one project in particular, a live-in farming community where troubled youth could break the spiral into crime and drugs by being given something useful to occupy their minds.
I know my grandmother would have taken it on in an instant.
“How are you finding being lord of the manor, as you call it?”
“More interesting than living in a tiny flat in a run-down building.”
She seemed surprised. “You were not always wealthy. Your mother, I believe, was a countess.”
Yes. She was. Married to a man who was a Count, a real Count with a real title, but one who had no money and had married her thinking he could tap into her family’s wealth and restore his fortunes.
It worked for a year before he got greedy, and her grandmother cut her off. She got pregnant, he hung around until after I was born, and then he left. Or not so much left as he started innumerable affairs, and Mother kicked him out.
After that, it was all downhill. Grandmother and mother were estranged and never spoke to each other again after she had been cut off. I visited from time to time once I left home, only because I knew my mother would explode if she knew I was seeing her. Then my mother died, a drug overdose, the end of a very unhappy life, and I disappeared into obscurity. It seemed appropriate because, for a long time, I blamed her for my mother’s death.
“In name only, there was a title and nothing else but a pile of debts. I’m ashamed to say my father was a scoundrel of the worst sort and only hastened my troubled mother’s path to the grave. Wealth had never made her happy. In fact, it was a curse. To be honest, being lord of the manor has no real meaning. I live in a bigger house and eat better food, but my job is endlessly trying to juggle impossible projects and demanding people.”
“Perhaps you should just tell them all where to go and move to the Bahamas. You don’t have to burden yourself with other people’s problems.”
Was that what she would do? I had to ask. “What would you do in my place?”
The look of amusement turned into a smile. “I admit, once upon a time, I had thought about it. Would it be worth pursuing Herbert to become the Marquis and Marquess? I also admit that I envied Matilda because she had it all and never had to struggle. It was annoying sometimes to listen to her complain endlessly about how bad it was. I’m not sure what she writes, but I suspect there’ll be comments on me that are hardly flattering.”
She took a deep breath and took a moment. Perhaps she was considering how far she would share her experiences. Decision made.
“I get it. We were teenagers, young, at times stupid, and sometimes volatile. It was one of the most testing times of that period, and we had some interesting arguments, bust-ups, and reconciliations. But we ended up best friends, as you can see by that letter, written after she married Herbert.”
Anna came, cleared the dishes from the table, and left us wondering what was for dessert. I could use some coffee to dilute the effects of the wine.
When Broadhurst brought out the tray, I knew instantly it was my favourite, a pudding my grandmother insisted on when I visited.
Roly Poly.
I could see Emily’s eyes light up when she saw it.
Of course, there could be no more conversation until we had devoured two helpings, one with custard, the other with clotted cream. I could not remember the last time I had it because I could never find the recipe, or that is to say, the proper recipe.
Then, when the coffee came, along with a vintage Portuguese port, I could see she had more to say.
“Let’s stop dancing around the elephant in the room.”
It was a curious expression, one my grandmother used and at times my mother. I’d been known to use it myself.
“You will have read, no doubt, about my efforts to steal Herbert away from your grandmother. It’s true. I did. Try, that is. I got tired of her telling me how he was the one, that he had only eyes for her, that there was no other woman for him. It was tosh, but I doubt she would have believed me if I told her he was dating two other girls at the same time he was dating her.”
It was not surprising, after what my mother had told me. The affairs continued after the wedding, mostly unknown to his wife.
“It was a month before the wedding, and Matilda had organised a birthday party for him and invited a few close friends. One of those was a girl called Eloise, daughter of a Duke, another of Miss Davenport’s protégés, and as it happens, a former girlfriend of said Herbert. I knew from a friend of a friend that they were still an item, only more on the hush-hush side because his family needed the family connection to Matilda’s.”
In my mind, I would have thought a Duke was better than a Marquis, but I could be wrong. But the story that marriages were arranged for such reasons was common and had some truth, especially given the times. Could I believe it of my grandmother, perhaps? She had always said she would have married for love, that she had never been forced into marriage, but it could have been orchestrated by scheming parents.
“Did you try?”
“Of course, and was disappointed when he turned up in my room late one night, one where Matilda decided she needed a heart-to-heart. It was as if I expected him to come; I had dropped hints, not expecting him to act on them. He did. She came, and it all blew up.”
“Yet you came to the wedding?”
“Matilda’s mother contacted me about a week later, after Matilda had told Herbert that the wedding was off and that she never wanted to see me again. It was quite an affair. The problem was that Herbert’s parents couldn’t afford for this match not to come to fruition. She asked me what my game was, and I told her it was simply to prove that Herbert was not exactly the man he made himself out to be and that I never had any intention of trying to seduce him.”
At a time when a far stricter moral code was enforced on daughters, it was not hard to imagine the scenes that unfolded in those weeks before the wedding. Men could do virtually whatever they liked, while women couldn’t because of the risk to their virtue and the risk of getting a reputation that could ruin their position in society. I remember my grandmother lamenting the fact that men had all the freedom and women had none.
It also gave me pause in how I considered my grandmother, given this information. If it was correct. I still didn’t know what the purpose of telling all this was.
“I can’t see my grandmother forgiving you.”
“It wasn’t the first time. We were not exactly angels when we were at Miss Davenport’s. That place was one where, if you were so inclined, you could get into a great deal of trouble. Two of the girls in the class did. The dance instructor, a devilishly handsome Frenchman with the most exotic accent, had his way with them, resulting in the worst possible outcome. None of us was immune to his wiles.”
“Are you saying…”
“He had his way with her. Yes. But he did with me, too. I think it was the first time for both of us, and as impressionable girls, it was a delirious, happy time followed by the depths of despair when we were rejected. Still, although I never knew for certain because I didn’t see her again for about a year, I believe she got pregnant, had a child, and then had it adopted. Or her parents would have.”
If it happened, I could see why it had been kept a secret. Her reputation and character would be ruined. But I was trying to reconcile the description Emily was giving me with what I knew of her. It was impossible.
I took a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not here to cause trouble. Nor am I here to drag skeletons out of the closet. The fact is, I’m here to warn you. Heed it or not is up to you. Believe me or not, it is up to you. I still have friends, though, as you can imagine, most of them have passed. I received a letter about three weeks ago from someone whose name I didn’t recognise. It asked me if I knew the name of the baby your grandmother had. The first baby. You could have knocked me over with a feather.”
“What did you do?”
“I wrote back and told them wherever they got their information, it was a lie.”
“Then they sent an official copy of the birth certificate with the girl’s name and the two parents, one of whom was Matilda. It was her signature on the document.”
“Could it be a forgery?”
“It could, so I had it checked out. It was legitimate. Then I wrote back and told them I would not help them prove or disprove anything out of respect for my friend. I fear these people will not go away. If they have gone to all this effort, then they want something from you.”
“Money, and a lot of it, or a slice of the inheritance. The thing is, if it was legitimate, why haven’t they got lawyers onto it? Did the person who wrote the letter have a name?”
She pulled out an envelope from a hidden pocket and slid it over to me. Inside, there was the birth certificate and a copy of the first letter written and signed by Josephine Llewellen.
“I suggest you get a team of private investigators to check her out and get ahead of it.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing. I’m here out of respect for my friend and to warn you of what might be possible trouble. Other than that, a place to rest my weary bones. I’m not long for this earth, and this is the place where I was most happy.”
She slowly got out of her chair and stood for a moment. “Thank you for your indulgence and a room at the inn. I am more grateful than you could ever know.”
…
It was still a strange experience to wake up in what was the master bedroom in the castle. The bed itself was so large it could fit half a dozen people with room to move.
That same bed was over three hundred years old, an antique four-poster with the curtains more like tapestries than curtains.
Broadhurst had opened the curtains and brought water and the folder with the day’s activities. I had a quick scan, and there was nothing to attract attention
It was another half hour before I came downstairs and into the morning room. Anna was there, refreshing the coffee, making me marvel again at how the internal communication system knew exactly where I was.
“Good morning, sir?”
“Good morning, Anna. Has Emily been down for breakfast?”
“Who, sir?” She looked genuinely surprised.
“The lady who arrived yesterday afternoon. Emily Wentworth. We had dinner last night.”
“No, sir. There’s been no visitors.”
Broadhurst came into the room with a tray.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“Emily Wentworth, the lady who arrived here yesterday afternoon. You told me of her arrival.”
He looked blank; it was the only way I could describe his expression.
“I don’t believe I did, sir. There are no visitors in the house at present, just yourself.”
He put the tray down on the sideboard and brought the plate over to where I had just sat down.
“Then I must be going crazy. I would have sworn there was a visitor and that I had dinner with her last night.”
He shrugged. “This place can be a little strange at times, sir. The mistress used to talk to people whom she could only see. Perhaps it may have been a dream, sir. Did you sleep well last night?”
“I did.”
“It is this place, sir. Hundreds of years of goings on, stories my mother used to tell me. I don’t believe in ghosts, sir, but there are odd noises.”
It felt real enough. I would go to the study later and see if the documents she had given me were still on the desk.
…
I went upstairs to the room she had been allocated, and it was empty. Moreover, it had the look of not having been used for a while.
Then I went to the study, and there was no sign of the documents, certainly not where I left them or where I thought I left them.
Was it my imagination, or as Broadhurst suggested, a dream induced by the eeriness of the castle itself? He wasn’t wrong. The first few nights were very creepy, and I swore I’d heard a ghost.
The chauffeur, yes, there was a chauffeur and a mechanic, and a fleet of five cars, and one of the downstairs maids had just arrived back from the town about 5 miles away, to refuel and collect the mail, and any particular stores the housekeeper needed.
I was reading a document on small farming techniques sent to me by email when Anna came in to deliver the mail. We were still getting letters and invitations to events addressed to my grandmother, invitations that were extended to me in her stead, some of which seemed interesting.
Today’s pile had three more, and one other, a curiously old envelope with my name scrawled on it. It was not the first time I’d seen one like it, one that belonged to a time past.
I opened it and found another inside. Just like the one that Emily Wentworth had given me. It had her name and address on ot, somewhere in France, but the postmark was what interested me.
It was 7th October 1943.
My hands were shaking when I took out the two sheets of paper. One indeed was the birth certificate, the other a letter, also the same as the previous evening, signed by Josephine Llewellen.
What the hell?
I put everything back in the envelope in the top drawer under a pile of folders. I needed air.
What was going on?
I got as far as the front foyer when I saw Mrs Rattigan, the housekeeper, talking to a young girl.
“Good morning, sir,” she said when she saw me.
“Good morning, Mrs Rattigan.” She had said I could address her by her first name, but given how formidable she looked, I still couldn’t.
“A visitor?”
“In a sense. We are interviewing for the position of assistant cook. This is Josephine Llewellen.”
…
© Charles Heath 2025
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 