He opened the book, flicked through the thin, yellowing pages, and got his second surprise. It wasn’t a book but a journal, written in French in faded blue ink. There was a name on the first page – André Vaillant, with the mention SPA 3 pilote.
How had that journal ended up in the library of an old manor house in the North of England? Stefan poured himself a brandy and walked back into the drawing room with his glass and the book. Settling into the battered armchair next to the fireplace, he slid a cushion behind his back. A fire would be more homely, not to mention more efficient than the antiquated radiator, but he had left it too late to get wood from the shed.
Never mind. He could always make a fire the following day, after sorting out his car… and apologising to Cassie Bell.
The memory of the startled expression on the young woman’s face as he more or less pushed her out of the house made him flinch. He had been rude, and there had been no call for it. It wasn’t her fault if Charlie was being his usual overprotective self and hired her to keep an eye on him.
The funny thing was, he had been in a hurry to get rid of her because he wanted to take his painkillers and go to bed, but his backache had eased the moment she had left.
He drank a sip of brandy, enjoying the subtle but fiery taste, and opened the diary. Immediately a musty smell rose from the yellowing pages. Narrowing his eyes to decipher the spidery writing, he read the first entry dated 1st August 1919.
1.8.1919, Belthorn Manor.
I never thought that I would one day consign my thoughts into a journal. I was never a prolific or particularly gifted letter writer, but Aurelia gave me this journal for my birthday and made me promise to record my adventures in the wilderness of the North of England, as she put it.
So here is the first, and very dull, instalment. Perhaps I should name this diary Journal of an Ill-tempered Cripple, but it would make me sound bitter and ungrateful and, despite everything, I am neither.
My arrival at Belthorn today was a bit of a shambles, my fault I hasten to say. I left Paris a couple of days earlier than planned because Mother’s constant fussing, although well intentioned, was driving me insane. The journey from Dover, then London and Lancaster was uneventful. I arrived early in the evening and found a room at the Toll House Inn, not far from the station. The dining room was almost empty when I got there, but soon filled up with a dozen or more men drinking and smoking and exchanging harrowing memories and grisly war anecdotes.
I only lasted a few minutes before getting up and limping back to my room. I don’t need to listen to anybody else’s nightmares. I have enough with my own.
The train was delayed in Lancaster this morning and was two hours late pulling in at Foxfield Station. As I wasn’t supposed to arrive today, the carriage Ashville said would collect me wasn’t there, but I secured a place on a farmer’s cart, which took me to the small village of Coniston where I stopped for a late lunch at the Sun Inn. A boy was sent to warn William Merriweather, Ashville’s caretaker, of my arrival. The man arrived within the hour, twisting his cap in his hands and apologising profusely for getting the day of my arrival wrong. I reassured him that it was I who had travelled early, and we set off in his cart.
As we travelled to Belthorn Manor he only spoke to point out the odd farm or hamlet on the way, but it didn’t matter because I was too busy looking at the rocky peaks and deep green valleys dotted with white and grey sheep – Herdwick breed, Merriweather informed me – gushing waterfalls and lakes mirroring the grey sky. I can honestly say that I have never seen such a breathtaking landscape. I wish I could see it from the sky, but I know my flying days are over…
Belthorn is a small manor house with three gables, turrets at both ends and the most unusual chimneys I have ever seen – tall and round, they rise from the roof like the masts of a ship. The hall is set in vast grounds that must have once belonged to an abbey, judging from the nearby ruins half-covered in brambles and overgrown vegetation. It even has its own lake – ‘Wolf Tarn’.
Intrigued, Stefan turned the page over. Why had André Vaillant ended up at Belthorn Manor in the summer of 1919?
The house is staffed by two housemaids and a cook. There is also a gardener, although I only caught a glimpse of him. Everybody was very kind and polite. They didn’t stare when I struggled to get out of the cart, limped my way along the corridor and hobbled up the stairs but I sensed they were curious and uneasy towards me.
The younger maid, a comely girl called Ruth, showed me to a large, airy room overlooking the back of the house and the fells. Two paintings hang on the wall opposite my bed – the portrait of a rather sad young woman, and a painting of a woodland cottage and a swan gliding on a lake. Intrigued, I asked the maid about it, and she said it was called The Hunchback and the Swan.
Stefan frowned. How odd… The very same paintings hung on the wall of the bedroom he’d chosen.
Now the house staff have retired for the night, I am alone in the parlour. The silence is swallowing me, cocooning me and I feel I can breathe again. Will this be the place where I forget the tumult and the horror of the past few years, and where I learn to live again?
Stefan closed his eyes and shut the book. Vaillant’s thoughts and experiences seemed to mirror his own, but he was too exhausted to read on. What had happened to him and did he find the peace and solace he was looking for at Belthorn?
Chapter Four
Cassie’s grandfather wrapped his woollen scarf around his neck and slipped his coat on.
‘You won’t be late back, will you?’ she asked.
He winked. ‘Are you afraid in case Doris from across the road lures me into her house to have her wicked way with me? The woman is forever knocking on the door to ask me if I’ve seen her cat, but who knows, perhaps it’s an excuse and she secretly fancies me.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t think Doris has any romantic interest in you, Granddad.’
Her granddad made a pretend shocked face. ‘Don’t dismiss me so quickly, young lady. I’ll have you know that I was quite the heartthrob in my youth and can still cause a stir among all the lovely ladies of the community centre.’
‘I’m sure you can, especially when you bring them cakes from Salomé’s bakery or regale them with your risqué jokes. Unfortunately, Doris only loves her cat and sees you as the villain who is trying to steal it away from her.’
‘It’s not my fault if that darn cat prefers Bluebell Cottage to his own home!’
‘No, it’s not… Anyhow, you know I can’t sleep until you’re home and tucked up in bed, so please don’t let Big Jim talk you into a lock-in tonight.’
‘Don’t worry, Trifle, I shall come straight home at closing time.’ He looked in the hallway mirror to adjust his favourite tweed cap – the cap he had been looking for since the beginning of the week.
Cassie pointed to it. ‘You found your cap. Where was it?’
The happy twinkle faded from his eyes. ‘In the cupboard under the stairs. I have no idea how it got there.’
Her chest tightened but she forced a smile. Her granddad’s memory seemed to be failing lately. He kept misplacing his keys, his medication, even his bank card, but there was no point remarking on it. It would only upset him.