With the tea and rolls inside her, in the full light of day, this seemed the most likely explanation.
It left a number of other questions unanswered, however. Who could the woman be? And why was she in the abbey?
Perhaps she could ask Mrs Pettifer for information, thought Hilary, as she saw that kindly lady coming down the drive. Mrs Pettifer would know all about the household, and would perhaps help her to solve the puzzle.
Before long, Lund had shown Mrs Pettifer into the drawing-room and Hilary had joined her, sitting opposite her by the roaring fire.
‘The Hampsons are so pleased to know you will help them in their hour of need,’ said Mrs Pettifer, settling back comfortably into her arm chair. ‘It is not easy to get anyone in this remote part of the world, particularly not with your refinement. If you have decided on accepting the position, they would like you to start tomorrow.’
Hilary was downcast. She should be grateful that the Hampsons wanted her to start so soon, but she did not want to leave. Her attraction to Lord Carisbrooke might be dangerous, but it was also compelling, and her heart sank at the thought of never seeing him again.
Then, too, if she was forced to leave the abbey at such short notice, what would become of her desire to discover its secret?
And yet she could not turn down this opportunity of employment. Her situation was too precarious to allow her any choice.
She fought down her feelings and replied calmly, ‘Yes, I have decided.’
Mrs Pettifer beamed. ‘Good. I am so pleased. It must have been difficult for you here,’ she said comfortably. ‘Lord Carisbrooke’s an irascible man, and he doesn’t like to have women about the place.’
Hilary was at once alert. Here was just the opening she needed to ask about the strange woman in black, and she was determined to make the most of it.
‘Why is that?’ she asked.
Mrs Pettifer looked suddenly conscious, as though she had said too much.
‘Oh, I expect it’s just a foible,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You know how these great men are. They all have their little ways.’
‘The abbey is not completely without women, however,’ remarked Hilary.
Mrs Pettifer looked anxious.
‘It has been nice for me to find that I am not the only female here,’ Hilary pressed.
‘You mean ... you have seen another one?’ asked Mrs Pettifer hesitantly.
‘I have. An elderly lady. Dressed in black.’
Mrs Pettifer seemed relieved.
‘Ah. Mrs Lund,’ she said.
Mrs Lund. So that was who the woman was. Hilary nodded thoughtfully. It made sense.
‘What is she doing here?’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Is she the housekeeper?’
There was a barely noticeable hesitation on Mrs Pettifer’s part, before she said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’
So. The mystery was solved.
Hilary chided herself for having been so fanciful. She had been imagining ... well, really, she did not know what she had been imagining. But she had learnt her lesson. She would not indulge in such foolishness again. The mysterious woman was nothing more sinister than Lund’s wife, who looked after the abbey.
‘Well then,’ said Mrs Pettifer, rising, ‘I’ll tell the Hampsons you’ll be with them tomorrow, and they’ll send the trap for you. The waters have gone down, and the ford is passable again.’
‘Thank you for your efforts on my behalf,’ said Hilary, standing, too.
‘I was only too glad to help. I shouldn’t like a daughter of mine ... yes, well, you’ll be safely with the Hampsons tomorrow, and never a better family drew breath.’
‘And please, give my best wishes to Esmerelda,’ said Hilary.
Mrs Pettifer looked dumbfounded.
‘Your guest,’ said Hilary. ‘I met her when she walked over to the abbey.’
‘Is that what she said?’ asked Mrs Pettifer.
Hilary was startled by Mrs Pettifer’s strange reply, but being determined not to become fanciful again she told herself that it could easily be explained if perhaps Esmerelda had not been invited: the beautiful young lady might have invited herself. In that way she would be a guest and yet not a guest. She was a distant relative, perhaps, who had paid a surprise visit, and was therefore not entirely welcome.
‘Well, never mind. Don’t see me out, my dear, it’s cold in the hall, despite the fire,’ went on Mrs Pettifer, becoming bustling once more.
She left the room without giving Hilary a chance to say anything more.
When she had gone, Hilary’s thoughts turned to the library. She should continue to sort the books, achieving as much as she could in the short time left to her, but somehow she could not bring herself to do it.
What had really happened to Lord Carisbrooke on the night his arm had been wounded? she wondered. Had he been hurt by falling tiles, as he had claimed. Or had his injuries had another cause? Why had he been coming from the direction of the hidden room? What could he have been doing there?
Perhaps it was the housekeeper’s room, she reflected. Perhaps he had made his way there when he had been injured, intending to ask for Mrs Lund’s help and, not finding her there, had stumbled back along the corridor, where he had been discovered by Hilary.
She gave a sigh. She had only theories. She knew nothing for sure. But if she went up to the attic she would discover one thing, at least. She would see if there really was a hole in the roof, as he had claimed.
Having taken her decision, she went upstairs. She passed her bedroom then followed the corridor until she came to another staircase, the foot of which she had glimpsed from the door of her room. It led upwards, to the roof.
It was much smaller than the staircase that led from the hall to the first floor. Instead of being wide with shallow steps, it was spiral. The treads were worn at the front, where countless feet had passed. She would have to be careful if she were not to slip.
Lifting the hem of her dress, she began the ascent. Halfway up, there was a narrow window to her left, showing the abbey grounds spread out in all their autumn glory, but she did not stop. She was uncomfortable on the confined staircase and hurried upwards. At last she came to the top. She found herself in a corridor with two doors leading from it, one to the left, and one ahead. Dropping her skirt, she went into the room to her left. As soon as she entered it, she knew it had been a schoolroom. There were six wooden desks arranged in two rows. Momentarily distracted from her quest, she went over to them. Two of them were carved with initials - LC on one, and RC on the other. The LC was small and discreet, hidden away at the side of the desk. Hilary imagined a little boy sitting there, whiling away a boring lesson by setting his mark on his desk, whilst at the same time making sure it would avoid his schoolmaster’s notice. RC, on the other hand, had carved bold, scrawling initials across the top of the desk. There had been no desire to hide his handiwork. A naughty child, or an arrogant one, she guessed. Perhaps his master had told him off, and he had been chastened; or perhaps he had replied, "I am soon to be Lord Carisbrooke. I can do as I please."
A master’s desk stood at the front of the room. It was covered with maps, a pointer and a globe. They had been left in position, and were it not for the fact that they were thickly coated with dust, Hilary could have believed that the schoolmaster - or mistress - was just about to return.
She recalled her thoughts to the task in hand. Looking up at the ceiling, she ascertained that there was no hole.
She left the schoolroom and went into the second room. It had evidently been the servants’ quarters. There were six iron bedsteads, two of which still had their mattresses - although these were now mildewed - a battered cupboard, an empty fireplace, and a chamber pot.
As she made her way through the room she examined the roof, but she could see no signs of storm damage. It seemed that Lord Carisbrooke had lied. But why?
She was about to go downstairs again when she noticed a small door leading out onto the roof. Perhaps the damag
e was outside? If the door had been blown open on the night of the storm, then the slates could have fallen through.
Now she was here, she was determined to check every possibility. She opened the door, which was set into the sloping ceiling. Picking up her skirts, she climbed out onto the roof.
A bracing wind hit her. She steadied herself against it. Then, standing up fully, she swept her glance over the roof. At first sight she could see nothing amiss. No missing tiles. No holes.
She glanced over to the parapet. She would have a better view of the surrounding roof from there. Having no fear of heights, she walked across to the edge. She was protected by the parapet from a fall. She turned and looked back at the roof, but again she could see no sign of storm damage. Then how had Lord Carisbrooke been injured?
Abandoning the perplexing thought for the moment she turned and looked out over the surrounding countryside, drinking in the view. It was magnificent. From her high vantage point she could see for miles. The English landscape, spread out before her in all its autumn glory, was beautiful. The clouds had given way to blue skies, and the sun, whilst possessing no strength to warm her, made the countryside gleam. The russet colours of the deciduous trees, brown, orange and yellow, were set against the emerald grass and glowed like jewels.
Her eyes roved to the west. Here she could see the rectory, and the crossroads where she had lost her way. She could see, too, the woodland in which she had taken shelter and first met Lord Carisbrooke.
She let her eyes linger on the other houses she saw nearby, wondering which one belonged to the Hampsons. Was it that one, set in a clearing? Or was it the larger house set halfway up the side of the surrounding moor? She let her eyes rove closer to the abbey. She could see the folly, and she could see the roof of another building, by the look of it a small cottage. A gardener’s cottage, no doubt, set amongst -
Bang!
She jumped and looked round, to see that the door to the attic had slammed shut. She laughed with the release of tension, thinking that a gust of wind must have caught it, but the bang had given her quite a fright.
She looked once more over the countryside, enjoying the magnificent scene. Then, having not found what she was looking for, she decided to go back inside. She returned to the door and pulled it ... but it remained firmly closed. She pulled again, harder this time, but still it did not move. She frowned. It had opened easily on her way up. She felt her heart begin to beat more quickly. She was on the roof, and no one knew she was there. If the door would not open ...
But of course it would open. It had simply blown shut, that was all. She took a minute to steady her pulse and then tried again. But still it would not move. Not even an inch. If she had not known better she would have thought that it was locked. But who could have locked it? And who would have done, whilst she was outside?
Anyone who did not know she was outside, she realized.
She began to beat on the door with her fists. If someone had indeed locked it, then she must let them know immediately that she was outside, before they went downstairs again, beyond the sound of her voice.
‘Help! Open the door! I’m on the roof!’ she called.
But there was no reply.
She tried again, louder this time.
But again there was no reply.
She fought down her rising panic. It was true that she was trapped on the roof, and that she had no pelisse or bonnet, and that the wind was cold, but someone must soon realize that she was missing - at lunchtime if not before - and then they would come looking for her.
True, it would take them some time to find her on the roof, but sooner or later someone would remember they had closed the door and would realize she must have been outside.
She did not want to wait that long, however. Clouds were blowing up, and the wind was growing colder. She decided she would just have to attract attention to herself. It should not be too difficult. Lord Carisbrooke usually went for a walk in the morning, and Mr Ulverstone often went for a ride. If she looked out for them, then as soon as she saw them in the grounds below she would wave and shout and attract their attention. Then they would release her.
There was also the possibility of someone hearing her from inside. She resolved to beat on the door at intervals, so that if anyone was passing the attic stairs they would hear her and come to her aid.
Having decided on a plan, she felt better. She wrapped her arms around her for warmth, being glad, for the first time in her life, that her dress was made of a woollen fabric, and not of muslin or gauze. In a flimsy dress she would be ice-cold in minutes, but in her serviceable woollen gown she would be able to keep reasonably warm.
She went over to the parapet and looked down. There was no sign of anyone in the grounds below at present, but she stayed there for some ten minutes before returning to the door, trying it again in case it was simply stuck, rather than locked. After finding it no more willing to move than before she banged on it and again called for help, telling herself that if Mrs Lund was going about her housekeeping duties on the first floor she would undoubtedly hear.
But it was to no avail.
Never mind. She did not despair. The view was very pleasant and to keep up her spirits she decided she would occupy herself with seeing how many buildings she could see. Then, when she was rescued, she would look them up on a map of the area and in that way begin to learn something about the neighbourhood in which she would be living.
She had hardly begun when, looking down, she saw Mr Ulverstone passing across the yard on horseback. She called out. The wind was blowing towards him and she had every hope it would carry her words. For a moment she thought it had done. He turned his head and she waved and jumped in order to attract his attention ... but then he turned his horse’s head and she realized he must not have seen her after all.
Never mind, she told herself. But no matter how much she told herself that she would soon be discovered she was beginning to be seriously ill at ease. It was cold on the roof. The sky had clouded over and it had started to rain.
Enough of this, she chided herself. Though the wind was cold and the drizzle unpleasant, the worst that could happen to her was that she would take a chill.
She looked around for shelter, but seeing none she crouched down behind the parapet in an effort to get out of the wet. It was no good. She stood up again, walking beside the parapet to stimulate her circulation and keep herself warm.
To begin with it worked, but gradually the cold seeped into her. It started with her skin, and began to work its way through to the bone. How late was it? she wondered. Was it lunchtime yet? Had she been missed? Or had her absence gone unnoticed? If Lord Carisbrooke was absent for lunch, as he often was, and Mr Ulverstone assumed she was with his cousin, then she might not be missed until dinner time. And by then she would be a block of ice.
She was just wondering whether she should attempt to climb over the roof and see if there were any other doors leading inside when she heard a noise in the attic below. There was someone there!
She scrambled over to the door, forcing her numbed limbs to move.
‘I’m here!’ Her teeth were chattering, and her voice came out in a thin wail. She tried again. ‘I’m here!’
‘Hilary!’ It was Lord Carisbrooke’s voice.
Her spirits rose. He had heard her!
The door opened. Caught off her guard, she tumbled through it ... straight into his arms.
He growled with relief as he caught her. Then his relief turned to anger. ‘Curse it, woman! What are you doing on the roof?’
His words were sharp, but the tenderness of his voice was unmistakable.
‘I ... ’ Her voice tailed away. What could she say?
He held her against him more tightly. His warmth was wonderful. It was like a glowing fire to her, so cold was she.
‘You’re freezing,’ he said. ‘Put your arms round my neck.’
Her numbed limbs had difficulty in obeying, but she managed to do as he sai
d. She could feel his warmth seeping into her as he held her close.
Then, going out into the corridor, he carried her to the head of the spiral stair. With sure feet he was soon down. Turning right, instead of left, he took her into a large chamber. With a shock she realized it was his bedchamber. The four poster bed was ancient. Crimson drapes were hung around it, made of a heavy damask which were perfect for keeping out the abbey’s draughts. A red coverlet matched the drapes. On the floor beside the bed was a faded rug. A shaving table stood in the corner. There was a wing chair, an ornate fireplace, and a fire blazing in the hearth.
‘I must go back to my room —’ she said, as he set her down. She turned towards the door.
‘It’s not warm enough. The fire has gone out.’
‘How do you know?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Because it was the first place I looked for you when I couldn’t find you.’
She hesitated.
‘Here,’ he said, unstoppering a decanter by the bed and pouring her a glass of brandy.
‘I can’t —’
‘Drink it. It will warm you from the inside,’ he explained.
Hilary took the glass. Her hands were still trembling with cold, but she managed to set it to her lips. She took a sip ... and felt her eyes water.
‘You surely don’t drink this for pleasure?’ she coughed.
‘Sometimes. If I can’t sleep. Are you feeling any better?’
‘A little.’
The brandy was starting to do its work, and the warmth of the room was reviving her.
‘Good.’ He took the empty glass from her. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, indicating the chair by the fire.
Reluctantly, she sank into the wing chair. If the fire had indeed gone out in her room, which was all too likely, it would be folly to return before she had warmed through.
‘Now tell me,’ he said, leaning against the stone mantelpiece, not three paces away from her, ‘what were you doing on the roof?’
She gave an inward sigh. She did not want to tell him, but she found she could not lie to him.
‘I wanted to see if there were really any slates missing.’