Authors: Rosemary Smith
Darkwood
© Rosemary Smith, 2007
Rosemary Smith has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2007 by Lindford Romance Library as
The Bluebell Wood
.
This edition published 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Dedicated with love to the memory of my friend Beryl Lord of East Budleigh who appreciated the written word, and was a wonderful conversationalist.
You are greatly missed.
With thanks to Shelley Tobin, Curator of Costumes at the Albert Memorial Museum, Exeter, for showing me Mary Tucker’s wedding dress (c.1864), and for her valued advice on weddings in Victorian times.
The house was quiet on April 23rd 1851, as Lizzie Hunter made her way quietly down the staircase at Darkwood, she stopped at the bottom, although trying to be as quiet as she could, her breathing seemed laboured in the stillness of the hall. She pulled the fur-trimmed green cloak and hood she wore tighter with one hand, clasping the bag she carried with the other.
Before stepping out of the heavy oak door, she looked almost furtively around her, and stopped for some seconds before closing the door as quietly as she could behind her, praying no-one would be walking outside at three o’clock in the afternoon. She knew Samuel would be resting, and Gareth and Jared would be with their governess, Miss Pinkerton, at this time of day. It had all been a question of timing so no-one would see her slip out of the house.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, and keeping as close to the house as possible, she made her way across the path toward the small bridge which led to Darklady’s Wood. She stood on the bridge, looking for a couple of minutes at the River Dart gurgling merrily on its way across the moor. The sound of it caused her to have a fleeting doubt as to what she was about to do, for she loved the river and the moor. It was the house she loathed, and Samuel. This thought strengthened her resolve and she crossed the bridge with willing feet, stepping out into the wood beyond.
Walking on through a carpet of blue, for the bluebells abounded here this year, she lifted her skirts and took one last look at the house behind her. She’d escaped and breathed a sigh of relief, her life at Darkwood was finally over.
* * *
An icy March wind blew across the moor penetrating through the iron railings which surrounded the small graveyard. I drew my blue cloak tighter around my shivering body surveying the tombstones of my ancestors. The only relief, a small clump of snowdrops which had pushed their way defiantly through the dank earth.
‘Silvia!’ my mother’s strident voice carried across to me from the waiting carriage. She was petulant at having to leave her comfortable home in Exeter to chaperone me to what she called, ‘This godforsaken place’, known as Dartmoor and Darkwood, her family home. I looked down at the grey tomb, the words jumping up at me.
Here lies Samuel William Hunter, Master of Darkwood 1795-1864. Rest in Peace
.
A year had passed since I stood on this very spot at my grandfather’s burial. I idly wondered, as I had twelve months ago, where my grandmother, Lizzie Hunter, was buried. I’d walked in and out of the small collection of tombs and gravestones and could find no evidence of her final resting place. To me, Lizzie was a beautiful memory.
As a small child I could snuggle up to her fragrant bosom while she read stories to me, her cream-coloured skin and black hair gleaming in the firelight. She had a voice which was soft and coaxing and I loved her, a love that had stayed with me all my twenty-one years, but one day Lizzie had vanished out of my life and visits to Darkwood were never the same again. In fact, after her disappearance, when I was about eight years old, we rarely visited again.
Pulling my cloak ever tighter around me, I recalled again the day of Grandfather’s funeral and the reading of his Will in the cold study at Darkwood. No mention was made of my grandmother, the only words imprinted in my memory read out by Mr Simms, the family solicitor, ‘...and to gain their inheritance of Darkwood, my granddaughter, Silvia Harvey, and my grandson, Gareth Samuel, do marry when Silvia has attained the age of twenty-one years.’
I could still hear the gasps of surprise from my Aunt Rachel and her sister, Hannah. I could see the fleeting look of surprise on my cousin Gareth’s face and hear cousin Jared’s devil-may-care remark, ‘It could be worse brother, at least our cousin Silvia has a pretty face.’
For some reason, Jared had been left nothing except for a home at Darkwood for as long as he wished, why I could not imagine. It seemed my grandfather had reached out to us all from the grave to dominate our lives forever.
‘Miss Silvia!’ our maid, Pru, brought me back to the present as she puffed her way up to the iron gate holding on to her bonnet, which the wind was determined to dislodge from her mop of ginger hair.
‘Miss Silvia, the Mistress is getting quite restless. She will wait no longer and you must be freezing in this chill wind.’ Taking a backward glance at the tomb, I followed Pru to the waiting carriage, vowing to come back here on a fine day and continue the search for my grandmother’s grave.
As we neared the carriage I stopped to look at the small imposing granite church with its squat tower which was built on a small hill. I could see the narrow path winding its way to the door. It was here at Culmoor Church where in a month’s time I would marry Gareth, a man I hardly knew let alone loved. I silently prayed the day would be as miserable as I felt.
‘Do get in Silvia, please!’ My mother was irritable with the delay. I seated myself opposite her in the carriage. ‘What you had to stop here for in this weather I can’t imagine.’
‘I’m looking for my grandmother’s, your mother’s, grave,’ I replied just as irritably, ‘and if no-one, including you, will tell me where she is, I have every intention of finding out.’
‘For goodness sake child, I’ve told you before that’s all in the past. What you don’t know you can’t grieve about.
‘Pru, pass me that blanket please before I perish, we’ll all end up with a chill.’
As Pru tucked the blanket securely around my mother’s legs I looked at her and thought how she had changed since my father had died two years ago.
Gone was any trace of the pretty woman she had been, her dark hair was greying and she had gained weight, her only love being food and sitting by the fire sewing. ‘And please smile now and then child, and speak to me. You’ve hardly said a word since we left Exeter, has she Pru?’
‘No Mistress, she hasn’t,’ confirmed Pru winking in my direction. We’d all learned long ago it was best to agree with Hannah Harvey. My mother knocked twice and the carriage moved swiftly along the track which was already hardened by the March winds. We rocked from side to side and I felt physically sick.
Moving to the edge of my seat I could see the moorland stretching away either side of the swaying carriage with bursts of yellow colour from the gorse, and although we travelled some distance I could still see Culmoor Church perched on top of the small hillock with the small village of Culmoor tucked behind it.
‘What are you thinking, Silvia? Of your wedding day perhaps?’ Mother had asked and answered the question for me.
‘Yes Mother I am, but not as the happy event you envisage.’ I moved back in my seat and leant my head on the brown leather behind me.
‘You ought to be thankful, child, that Gareth wishes to marry you,’ was my mother’s reply.
‘Wishes to!’ I repeated my mother’s words with some disdain. ‘He probably hates the idea as much as I do.’
‘As I said to you before, he hasn’t said he won’t marry you.’ Mama’s reply was in part true.
‘To be honest Mother, I would rather marry cousin Jared, he’s amusing. Cousin Gareth is aloof and oh so serious, I’ve never seen him smile, not even as a child.’ Out of the window I could see a Tor looming up before us, we were nearing Darkwood.
‘At least Gareth is a gentleman,’ I heard my mother say, ‘and so was your father. Your grandfather chose husbands for your Aunt Rachel and myself and we’ve been happy.’
‘So it’s a tradition,’ I exclaimed, ‘for the Harvey women to have chosen husbands?’
‘Silvia, I will not have you speak to me like that. We are here, mind your manners.’ She spoke to me as if I was still her little girl.
The house appeared suddenly close at hand. No railings or gates, but two sweeping cultivated lawns, so in contrast to the stark wildness of the moor. The building itself was long and low, built of granite with a slate roof, ivy covered the right front of the building which relieved the greyness. Already the light from oil lamps and candles were flickering in some of the small leaded windows.
As I looked at the house, which was in some ways so familiar to me, it now seemed different and not so appealing. Did I really wish to marry Gareth for Darkwood? I could hear the River Dart on my left gurgling over the rocks, and could see the small wooden bridge which spanned it and led to Darklady’s Wood from which the house had got its name. We had been forbidden as children to go near or enter the wood.
Although I never went near for fear of my grandfather’s admonishment, I was sure my cousins, Gareth and Jared, had disobeyed. I recalled them urging me to join them, and when I declined Jared called me, ‘goody two shoes.’ Sometime later they had returned with tales of ghosts and goblins which only served to make me more afraid. All these thoughts were running through my head as Pru and I assisted my mother from the carriage.
‘Do be careful, Silvia!’ my mother said sharply as I accidentally trod on her foot. ‘Ah, here’s Rachel.’ As Mother spoke I turned to see my aunt walking towards us, a friendly light spilling from the half-open door behind her which dispersed some of the gloom of the impending evening.
There was no ceremony with Aunt Rachel. Mrs Trigg, the housekeeper, and her underlings would be safely ensconced in the kitchen quarters. As my Aunt Rachel embraced my mother I thought how beautiful she still was, her trim figure encased in a pretty mauve gown with lace at her throat, her jet black hair drawn gently back into a bun with soft ringlets framing her still lovely face. Like us she must be thankful the period of mourning was over and that we could dispense with our black dresses in favour of gayer colours.
‘Silvia!’ Aunt Rachel quickly embraced me also, let us get inside out of this cold wind, you must all be famished after your journey.’ As she spoke we all made our way to the welcoming hall. I glanced at the flowerbeds in front of the house and could see coloured crocuses closed up for the night with forget-me-nots dancing around them.
As we stepped into the hall it was good to feel the warmth and I realised how cold I had become since standing in the graveyard. A fire was already burning in the huge hearth.
I noticed nothing had changed. A long highly-polished table stood at the end of the hall and drawn around the fire were brightly-coloured armchairs. I looked up at the ceiling with its oak beams and recalled all the rooms in this old house being the same. A wide uneven staircase covered in green floral carpet beckoned towards the upper floor and I suddenly felt a thrill at being here and knowing that very soon this legacy would be mine.
‘Welcome Aunt Hannah and cousin Silvia.’ I turned to see Jared walking towards me across the highly-polished floor. He embraced my mother and then taking my hand he raised it to his lips, all the while locking my eyes with his in an unfathomable gaze. There was mockery in that look and also some emotion I couldn’t define. Jealousy perhaps that I, a mere female, had inherited Darkwood instead of him.
He was attractive and yet not handsome. His hair neither dark nor fair, he had insipid pale blue eyes that this smile never reached. He was short of stature, being just a little taller than myself but the one thing which stood out about him above all else, he was immaculately dressed and not a hair on his head out of place. I felt a pity for him, why I couldn’t say, but quickly removed my icy hand from his grasp.
‘You notice, fair lady, that your betrothed is not here to greet you?’ I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice and guessed things were none too friendly between Jared and his brother.
‘Please Jared, not now,’ my aunt intervened. ‘Gareth sends his apologies Silvia, but he has ridden to an outlying farm and will see you at dinner. Now come, Silvia, and I will show you your room. Your mother is in her old room and I have prepared your grand-mother’s room for you.’ So saying my mother heaved herself out of the chair she had sunk into.
Whilst Mother made her way to her old room, I followed Aunt Rachel along the dark corridor, full of excitement at seeing Lizzie’s room again. As we stepped in it was just as I had remembered only it seemed smaller. The huge mahogany four-poster bed draped with pink damask curtains took up a good part of the room. A large wardrobe stood in the corner adjacent to the fireplace from which the warmth of the fire already burned.
Under the small window was Grandmother’s petite writing desk and a small dressing table and washstand stood by the door. I recognised the china bowl and water jug decorated with pink roses and thought lovingly of my grandmother, while I looked with some longing at the armchair drawn up next to the fire where I had spent many happy hours in her company.
‘I can see you are pleased,’ Aunt Rachel’s voice cut across my thoughts, I’d almost forgotten she was there.
‘Why thank you, Aunt Rachel, for giving me this room.’
‘I know how much she meant to you, now I must go and see that all is going well with dinner and confirm that Pru is settled. I will see you at dinner at about seven and will have some water and refreshments sent up.’
I went straight across to the writing desk and pulled at the front, but it wouldn’t budge. Looking out of the small window above it I observed it was too dark to see anything and would have to wait until morning. Pulling together the pink curtains I looked around again at the room. It had a warm feel like Grandmother and I felt really at home.
I made my way across to the sampler in the wall by the bed. As a child I’d always been fascinated by the picture worked by my grandmother in cross-stitch of a house with four windows and a red front door. As I looked at it now I suddenly felt really close to her and ran my hand gently across the name of the eight-year-old Lizzie Kellaway who had painstakingly stitched it in January 1802.