Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Fairfield Hall
For Zachary and Zara
For More on Margaret Dickinson
Bello: hidden talent rediscovered
Lincolnshire, 10 March 2013
Tiffany parked the car at the side of the road and climbed the gentle slope of hill towards the grand house at the top. She dared not bring her little car any further, for the
day was bleak, the road slippery and she feared losing control of the vehicle.
Beatrice
wasn’t good on icy roads, never mind any kind of hill. As the ground flattened out, she paused
to catch her breath and look around her. To the west, lay the wolds, undulating gently and covered in a frost that had not melted since morning. Directly below, Fairfield village nestled in a
shallow vale. The light was fading even though it was still early afternoon and already lights flickered in several of the windows of the cottages lining the one main street. Beyond the village,
she could see farms dotted on the hillsides. At one end of the village street stood the church with the vicarage beside it. She could close her eyes and imagine herself back in time; Tiffany
doubted that the scene had changed much in the last hundred years, except, of course, for the cars parked on either side of the road – a necessity when the nearest market town was five miles
away. And there was now only one village shop that sold everything instead of the butcher, the grocer and so on, who would all once have been able to make a living even in this small community. Now
the villagers would head into the nearest town – Thorpe St Michael – to the supermarket for their weekly shopping, using the local village store only for emergencies. Even the
smithy-cum-wheelwright’s that had once been the heartbeat of a rural community would be long gone, unless, of course, the blacksmith’s business had survived by making bespoke fancy
wrought-iron work.
She turned to look up again at the house standing sentinel over the village and resumed her walk, shivering a little. March opening times, she’d read in a leaflet about Fairfield Hall,
were Sundays and Wednesdays and today, Mother’s Day, it seemed fitting that she should visit.
She was breathing hard by the time she’d walked along the curving driveway, lined with lime trees in their winter nakedness, though she knew they’d be a lovely sight in summer. She
paused a moment, before passing beneath an archway into a courtyard. In front of her were stables and to her left, three coach houses. Completing the square were other buildings, which once, she
guessed, might have housed the laundry and workshops. In the centre of the courtyard was a magnificent beech tree and, to her right, she could see the side entrance to the house. Nearing it, she
saw the notice: P
LEASE
U
SE
T
HE
F
RONT
E
NTRANCE
. Passing through a small gate,
she wandered round the corner of the house and climbed the steps. The impressive three-storey square house, with its front door positioned centrally, faced to the west with six windows on the
ground floor and seven on the upper storeys. Closer now, she could see that there was also a basement partly below ground level. Attached on the northern side was a lower building – only two
storeys high. The smooth lawn in the front of the house sloped down towards the village. To the side she could see more gardens and guessed that behind the house there was perhaps a kitchen plot
that would have grown produce to help feed the household. Beyond the grounds belonging to the house were cultivated fields where, in summer, there would be ripening corn bordered with bright-headed
poppies. She waited for what seemed an age before the door was opened slowly by an elderly man, dressed strangely, she thought, in a morning suit. He looked like a butler stepping out of the pages
of a history book. But his wrinkled face beamed and his old eyes twinkled. ‘Good afternoon, miss. How nice to see a visitor. Please come in.’
Tiffany stepped into the hall and wiped her feet on the square of thick matting. ‘I expect you don’t get many in the winter and especially on a day like this.’
The old man chuckled. ‘Not many, miss, no.’
To one side of the hall, a log fire burned in a pretty fireplace lined with blue and white Delft tiles and Tiffany, drawn by its warmth, held her cold hands towards it.
‘Would you like me to give you a guided tour,’ the man asked, ‘or would you prefer to wander through the house on your own? It’s clearly marked where you’re allowed
to go, so . . .’
‘I’d like the guided tour, please.’
He smiled again. No doubt he was delighted to be needed.
‘Whenever you’re ready, then, miss. I don’t think we’ll get any more visitors today, so you have my undivided attention.’
‘That’s nice,’ Tiffany murmured sincerely. ‘Thank you.’ There was so much she wanted to know about this house and she was sure she’d found the right person to
tell her.
‘This is the entrance hall, of course,’ the guide began and then he led her into the room on the left-hand side of the hall. ‘This was once the housekeeper’s room so that
she could see who was coming up the drive – the family returning home or visitors arriving – and warn the rest of the servants. In the late 1890s it was used as the estate office.
Beyond it we have what would have been the drawing room, but in later years, we understand it became known as the music room. Isn’t it magnificent?’
Paintings and portraits lined the oak-panelled walls; in one corner stood a grand piano, in another an oak long-case clock solemnly ticked away the hours as perhaps it had done for over two
hundred and fifty years.
He led her out of another door and along a corridor. ‘Those rooms are just a modern kitchen and sitting room and this,’ he said as they passed a staircase on the right-hand side,
‘is what the servants would use, but
this
,’ he emphasized as they passed once more through the entrance hall and to the southern end of the house, ‘is the main
staircase.’ The walls above the oak staircase were again lined with family portraits. There was such a history to this house. Tiffany’s heart beat a little faster.
‘We’ll go upstairs in a moment,’ her guide said, ‘but first let me show you the library here to the right of the stairs . . .’ The room – as she had imagined
it would be – was lined with shelves of books. ‘And then this room to the left is what used to be the morning room. It faces to the east at the back of the house so it always gets the
morning sun. Sadly,’ he smiled at her, ‘we haven’t any today.
‘Now, upstairs we have the family’s private sitting room and straight opposite are the best bedrooms. Further along, you will see that the living-in servants also have bedrooms on
this floor.’
‘Really?’ Tiffany laughed. ‘I thought servants were always confined to the attics?’
‘Not in this house, miss.’ He smiled. ‘The top floor has the nursery and probably a room for a nursery nurse or governess and also a couple of very nice guest
bedrooms.’
I wonder where she slept?
Tiffany thought as they retraced their steps downstairs.
I’d like to think that I’ve been standing in her bedroom.
He showed her the huge kitchen in the basement and other, smaller rooms that were used for different purposes: a wine cellar, a game larder, a still room and the butler’s pantry. He even
showed her the row of fourteen bells, which summoned the servants.
‘And now I’ll take you back to my favourite room in the house. I’ve deliberately left it until last.’
When they entered the dining room, where portraits of the more recent family members were hanging, Tiffany’s interest sharpened.
‘The main part of the house was built in the early 1700s by the Lyndon family in the style of Sir Christopher Wren and the two-storey extension to the north was added much later,’
the guide told her. ‘It’s strange to find such a house as this in the countryside, isn’t it? It’s more suited to a town house.’
Tiffany said nothing, willing him to go on with the stories of the family. That was what interested her.
‘The hereditary title, the Earl of Fairfield, was granted to Montague Lyndon at the end of a distinguished military career in 1815 and thereafter each generation sent a son into the Army,
usually the second son, if there was one, so that the title was safeguarded. The eldest son always inherited the title and he was expected to run the estate.’ They moved on slowly down the
line of portraits, the guide pointing briefly to each one.
‘That’s the second earl, the third, the fourth and the fifth, and now we come to the sixth Earl of Fairfield, James Lyndon.’
Tiffany gazed up at the full-length portrait of a man in military uniform. He was tall with brown hair and dark brown eyes that, strangely, seemed to stare coldly down at her. There was no
smile, no warmth in his face.
‘As you can see,’ her guide said, ‘James was a soldier, too, and, by all accounts, a very good one. He was the second son and should never have inherited the title but his
elder brother, Albert, died young.’
Tiffany took a step forward and then stopped, her gaze held by the picture of a young woman hanging on the opposite side of the fireplace to the one of the sixth earl. Her hair was as black as a
raven’s feathers. She had dark violet eyes and flawless skin. She was dressed in a blue satin gown with a necklace around her graceful neck. Tiffany hoped the artist had painted a true
representation of her.
She bit her lip, hardly daring to ask. ‘Who is this?’
‘Ah, now that is Lady Annabel, James’s wife. Isn’t she lovely?’ They stood a moment in silence, in awe of the woman’s striking beauty. In answer to Tiffany’s
unspoken question, he added, ‘And she was every bit as lovely as her portrait.’
Tiffany glanced at him. To the twenty-year-old girl, her guide looked ancient, but even he couldn’t be old enough to remember Lady Annabel, could he? But it seemed he was.