Island of Bones caw-3 Page 4

  ‘Lord Greta joined the Old Pretender in 1715 and was tried for treason the following year. He escaped into exile. I think it was after that, that Mr Crowther’s family came into possession of this land.’ He looked as if he wished to press Stephen on his history further, but the boy quickly pointed upwards.

  ‘What is the name of that mountain, Mr Quince?’

  Mr Quince checked in his book. ‘That is the mighty Skiddaw.’

  It was mighty indeed, Stephen thought. The huge flanks of the mountains rose up around him like fairytale giants, their sides mottled and softened with bracken, becoming more broken as they rose with rocky outcrops. It was as if a massive stone fist were gradually tearing through a green mantle. He gripped the edge of the window and stared for a moment, then turned back to Mr Quince. ‘Do you think there are dragons living there, sir?’

  His tutor smiled, deciding that further discussions on the Rebellions would have to wait. He was a young man, modest and sober in his habits and manners, but still able to share something of Stephen’s pleasure at the landscape. He closed his guide.

  ‘It looks like the country for them, does it not? We shall have to search for them.’

  Crowther had not enjoyed the journey so completely as Stephen, but then he did not think to. Any suggestion that he might delight in the variety or be discomforted by the quality of his accommodation would be met with incomprehension. He had what was sufficient to his needs and there his interest in his material comforts ended. He found it perfectly possible to read as the carriage surged or jolted forward according to the state of the roads and so he passed his time reasonably contented. However, on the morning that they began their final approach to Keswick he found his book no longer held him. He closed it to find Mrs Westerman observing him.

  ‘Crowther, when did you last visit this town?’

  He chose to look out of the window as he replied, ‘In 1751, madam. The estate was sold in that year to the current owner, Mr Briggs; I came to sign a number of documents and provide for the staff of the estate in my father’s name, though I never met the gentleman. The sale was made within three months of my brother’s execution. He murdered our father in the late autumn of 1750, and was hanged in the February of the following year.’

  The events of Crowther’s past were seldom spoken of between them. Crowther had used the wealth he had inherited to bury his personal history deeply, and turn his youthful interest in anatomy into expertise. He had taken his current name and studied under it in Germany, Italy and London, withdrawing finally into Sussex, his wish to avoid any larger world and dedicate his time to the mysteries of how life exists in the actuality of flesh, bone and brain. His involvement with Mrs Westerman and the corpse she had found on the edges of her estate in the summer of 1780 had pulled him from his candlelit study into the public glare of day, and though his bloody heritage had been discovered and exposed, still he kept the name and manners of Gabriel Crowther, the man he had made himself, a man without connections, a free man. It was an uneasy accommodation, and his former name, his former title and place in society could still itch at him from time to time, or rear up growling. No doubt they would do so even more fiercely here.

  ‘And what became of your sister at that time, Crowther?’ Harriet said. Crowther looked at the woman opposite him for a moment. Widowhood had not altered her as much as he had feared it might. His sister would be some ten years her senior, he supposed, and might have already made that transition from womanhood to matron that had yet to begin with Harriet.

  His sister. She was an infant the age of Anne Westerman when he had left Keswick for his schooling. His visits to the family home had been infrequent from that point. They had met as strangers at the funeral of their mother early in 1750, and when, on his father’s murder, a family of Irish cousins had offered to give her a home, he had accepted the proposal at once and with relief. He had thought to write after their brother’s death on the scaffold but had abandoned the attempt. She became part of a past he wished nothing of. When his lawyers told him of her marriage, the birth of her son and her separation from her husband he had instructed them to make the proper financial arrangements, and there he felt his obligations ended. Her son would be something of Rachel’s age now, and was heir to his wealth and rejected title as well as those the young man would inherit through his own father, a man of minor nobility in one of the Prussian Courts. Crowther wondered, if he had known a Harriet Westerman at that early stage in his life, would events have unfolded differently, but at that time there had been no person so ready, like her, to ignore his wealth, his habit of chilled command as to question him. He had done what best suited him, and never thought of doing otherwise.

  ‘She went to some of my mother’s family in Ireland. I have not seen her since then. I told my lawyers not to inform her as to either the new name I took at that time, or my address, though I do not think she ever enquired.’

  Harriet turned her ring. ‘I am interested to meet her, Crowther. Are you?’

  He looked out of the window. ‘I do not know, Mrs Westerman.’

  She waited for him to continue, but when he did not, said brightly, ‘So, sir. We have known each other three years and waded through a great deal of blood together. Would you think me impertinent to ask you for your given name?’

  He smiled. ‘I was born Charles William Gabriel Penhaligon, and at the moment of my brother’s hanging became the Third Baron of Keswick.’

  Mrs Westerman considered a moment, then shrugged and said, ‘I think we are reaching the outskirts of the town, my lord.’

  The little town of Keswick was becoming accustomed to the elegant coaches of strangers appearing in its midst. Since it was founded it had known times of prosperity and poverty. When the hills were discovered to be rich sources of metals in Henry and Elizabeth’s day, the inhabitants had found their numbers swelled by German prospectors, and forges and mills had crowded round the rivers. When the mines began to weaken, these buildings had been left to rot and the population had dwindled once more, returning to the ancient agricultural practices of the region while Keswick had hunkered down to wait for better times.

  Now the fells and hills were proving to be a source of wealth once more, though in a different fashion. Since the poet Gray’s account of his time in the area, the curious had begun to find their way to the town over the improving roads, wishing to see for themselves the landscape of which he had written in such high style. Other descriptions of the area had appeared from time to time, and nowadays few visitors arrived to take rooms at the Royal Oak or Queen’s Head without Mr West’s guide to the area in one hand, and a Claude glass in the other, eager to be awed by the scenery. The natives of the area were pleased to show off their home and take the guineas of these romantic travellers, so had gained a reputation as generous and friendly hosts. Many had become adept at moulding their histories to the inclinations of their individual guests. To some they pointed out the peaks; to others they spoke of the bogles, fairy people, lost treasures and giants; to others they showed druidical stones and sites of ancient castles built to defend against raids from the borders. In this way, what had been earlier in the century a rather poor little town dreaming of former days of glory had begun to thrive again and take the pleasures of its visitors more seriously with a variety of entertainment and new buildings.

  As the carriages passed through the main square, Mr Oliver Askew, one of the prime instigators of these improvements, watched them with interest from the front door of his new museum. The occupants had money enough, he could see that by the comfort in which they travelled, but the equipage was rolling past the better inns towards Portinscale and Silverside Hall. More guests for Mrs Briggs, perhaps. He thought of the skeleton recently discovered in the tomb on St Herbert’s Island and rubbed his hands. He had commissioned and received a dramatic, if purely imaginative, sketch of the grisly discovery and was keen to hang it, but he was nervous of the Vizegrafin’s reaction to her portrayal. She had heard of hi
s display of pamphlets, cuttings, sketches and curios related to the death of her father and her brother’s execution within a day of her arrival at Silverside, and had sent a note to ask that they be removed from display for the length of her stay. Mr Askew was a naturally pugnacious man, and liked to boast about his habits of plain speaking with manly pride, yet something in the tone of the note had snapped his will like a reed and the display was now boxed up in his storeroom till the Vizegrafin might take herself abroad again. For the time being, the picture of the discovery of the skeleton lay under baize to be exhibited to the curious on request, and only when he was sure those making that request were unacquainted with the residents of Silverside.

  He turned back into the museum and was glad to feel its relative cool. The little space was lined with all manner of things, his own maps of the area, stuffed animals both foreign and domestic, a collection of mineral samples, an arrow head and a stone axe discovered in a field adjacent to the stone circle. His visitors’ book lay open on the counter, ready for the signatures of any person of quality that might wish to see them.

  He began to examine the various corners and cabinets for signs of dust. His maid had broken her ankle some weeks ago, and though it looked as if she would mend, he had not been able to find anyone else so neat in her absence. He ran his finger over the frame of an oil painting of The Luck of Gutherscale Hall; his finger came up clean, so he stepped back with a small grunt of satisfaction to admire it. The Luck was a jewelled cross which had seemed to disappear into the air when the last Earl of Greta joined the rebellion in 1715. Legend said it did not wish to leave the lake, so deserted him and slipped from his saddlebag. The picture hung next to the portrait of the 1st Earl with the Luck in his hand, and the artist had used the portrait as his source and added a few more rubies and an extra diamond or two. It was painted against black, and the artist had been of sufficient skill to make the jewels seem gleaming and alive.

  Mr Askew’s fairer visitors always sighed over the picture and one in three would buy one of the prettily carved wooden replicas he offered for sale. He wondered how many of them missed the views as they walked by, looking in the streams and under boulders for the thing itself. He had looked himself, especially in the first months of his residence in Keswick. Mr Sturgess had done so too, with some application, but his only find had been the stone axe now on display. What a thing that would be, to have the Luck here in a glass case in the centre of the room where the light from the window would make it shine. . Askew rubbed his hands together again. His museum would be full every day then, and famous, and no one would then compare it with the pitiful collection of minerals Mr Hale had the nerve to call a museum in Kendal. He would rename his annual regatta on the lake the Regatta of the Luck, and the winner each year would receive a little copy of the Luck itself. It could be processed round the town in the morning, or perhaps during the previous evening by torchlight.

  Mr Askew turned his round face towards Heaven with a happy sigh, and remained there, building castles till the bell above the door jangled. A lady and gentleman were crossing his threshold. Father and daughter? Foreign? Mr Askew bowed, blessing the sultry weather, since no lady could stand walking for long in such heat. He saw the young woman’s eye caught by the picture and reckoned another wooden cross sold, and no doubt tickets to his lakeside entertainment the next day. Bless the dry fog indeed! Though it stank of the Devil it wafted guineas into his pocket like the breath of angels.

  I.4

  Their approach to Silverside Hall had been looked for, and when Harriet stepped out of the carriage she was at once greeted by a short, rather square woman of perhaps sixty years, who came very close to her on the gravel and shook her hand so heartily Harriet was afraid for her wrist.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Westerman! I am so glad you are come in time for our party tomorrow! I know you at once, you see. The papers have been so full of talk of your red hair, I swear I would know you in a crowd — and here you are! “The flame-haired widow”! I am delighted, delighted to welcome you to Silverside. I am Mrs Briggs, you know, and here is my home — yes, the view is pretty, and here is the Baron behind you, though of course we must address him as Mr Crowther, must we not? Welcome, sir, welcome!’

  Harriet managed to smile and nod during this speech enough to satisfy her hostess while taking in some small part of her surroundings. The carriages had come to a halt in front of a noble building somewhat of the age and size of Caveley, though its granite frontage seemed to be built on a slightly grander scale and was of a darker stone. Glancing behind her, she could see beyond the backs of the horses to a steep open lawn edged with woodland that swept down to the lakeshore, complete with jetty and rowboat. The view across the water was indeed impressive, the lake like pewter below them, the wooded islands, then on the far shore a pleasing mix of fields and woodland lapping upwards to the sweep of the mountains beyond.

  Having exchanged bows with Crowther, Mrs Briggs had moved on to the occupants descending from the other coach.

  ‘And here is Master Westerman! You will be a hero of the seas like your poor, brave father, I imagine, young sir! And this is your tutor — very good, very good. You have the air of a man who could walk the fells all day and eat a good dinner. Is that not so? I am glad to see it. Now, young Mr Westerman, I hope you will run about and make a great deal of noise while you are here. I insist on it. My children are all grown and gone and I hate to have the place so quiet. Remember, lots of noise! And you may take the rowboat on to the lake whenever you like. I insist on that also. Miriam!’

  A young blonde maid bobbed down the steps behind her mistress, smiling broadly. ‘My dear, do show Master Westerman — Stephen, is it, my dear? Very good! Yes, yes, Ham, lead the horses round and have the luggage placed. My, what comfortable-looking carriages they are! Now, Miriam, do show this young man and his tutor — your name, sir? Quince? A fine name. I know several men of that name and nothing but good of them! — and Mr Quince to their rooms, and then I am sure Stephen would like to have a run about the place before we dine. Mrs Westerman, I shall show you to your rooms myself. What a pleasure it is to have the house full!’

  And so, without having to trouble themselves to utter a word, the party were ushered into the house.

  The lobby was a fine bright place — the walls painted cream and the stone flags broken with large carpets of Turkish design. Harriet thought she caught an expression of slight surprise in Crowther’s face.

  ‘Yes, my lord. My apologies — Mr Crowther. No doubt much has changed since your day. But when your father built the place, he was not building it for a family like mine. We seem to need a little more light, hence the changes you see. Though the library is still in the same quarter and we have only added to your father’s collection. Lor, how many books that gentleman had. We had to cram in ours any old way. Kittie!’

  Another maid appeared. ‘Show Mr Crowther into the library, dear. There are some refreshments there, and your sister is waiting to meet you.’ Harriet discovered by the friendly pressure on her arm that she was not to go to the library with Crowther, but found herself propelled instead towards the elegant sweep of the staircase.

  ‘Now, Mrs Westerman, let me make you comfortable so you and I may have a dish of tea and something in your sitting room and get acquainted, if you will be my host! I wish to hear all about your journey. Lord, I hate to travel! I have scurried about Europe with my husband in our time, but I would not leave Silverside from one year end to the next if I had my way. But then I would never see my daughter and her children if I did not. Have you met Lady Hill in Town? She is my eldest child, though of course she would have mentioned it in one of her letters if she had made your acquaintance. .’

  Mrs Briggs’s voice died away behind him as Crowther was led into the library. This room was indeed much as he remembered it from his childhood. The last day he had spent here had been the eve of his father’s funeral while his elder brother spent that night in Carlisle Prison before being sent for
trial at the House of Lords. He had sat here a little while. When he went back to Keswick to complete the business of selling the house and land he had not returned to the house itself but had taken advantage of his lawyer’s hospitality in Keswick. He had told himself the arrangement was more convenient, but in truth when he had left the room to see his father buried he had sworn never to come back. Yet here he was — and the room, it seemed, had been waiting for him. Heavy drapes across the windows filtered out the sunlight leaving the space a cavern of shadows in tobacco browns and bottle greens. The old spiral staircase still stood in the middle of the far wall, giving access to the narrow runway that ran round the shelves of the upper level. He realised it was the one part of the house he had missed a little.

  What light there was still seemed to fall in the same way — unhurried, as if it entered the library to rest. The considerable floorspace was scattered with armchairs and low tables. In the centre of the room were the promised refreshments. The wine decanter gleamed red; a clean glass stood next to it. There was a movement from one of the armchairs that sat with its back to him, and a thin hand extended, its fingers covered with jewels that echoed the wine sleeping in the decanter, and placed another glass, part-filled, on the table next to the first. There was a rustle of fabric and the lady stood. Crowther saw thin shoulders and hair swept up from the neck and powdered. Then, slowly, she turned.

  Crowther would not have known the woman before him as his sister if they had passed on the London streets, yet as he looked at her, around her eyes, in the height of her cheekbones and slimness of her form, he saw something he recognised from the mirrors in his own house, or the reflections he caught in the glass of one of his preserving bottles. She could have been a statue, but the lines around her eyes and mouth were too delicate for any sculptor to have made. He felt her eyes travel slowly over him, and he made his bow. She dressed a little young. Suddenly her shoulders relaxed and she came towards him with her hands extended. Crowther fought the impulse to step backwards.