The Spirit Rose Read online

  “They were at one time. Most of them are storerooms now.” Jack unlocked the door of the room opposite them and pushed it open. “Grantie Etta claims Wolvertons haven’t thrown anything away since they moved in here. She calls these rooms her auxiliary attics, and has them divided into eras. There’s seventeenth century stuff in this one. The S painted on the boxes and trunks stands for ‘Stuart’. Grantie stashes things in relation to ruling houses, and/or the eras of individual rulers. P for Plantagenet’, EZ for ‘Elizabethan’, and so on.”

  “Sounds like a good system. Can we take a look at what’s in there, or is it too delicate to handle?”

  “I doubt there’s anything too perishable up here. We should be able to poke about a bit, as long as we’re careful.”

  Poke about they did, admiring a wooden tankard, a silver snuff box, a somewhat worn croquet set, and other seventeenth-century paraphernalia. Moving on, they found equally interesting era-representative items in the other storerooms.

  As they were leaving the Regency one, Mr. Braxton accidentally knocked over a rolled up oriental rug. Stooping to pick it up, Jack’s attention was drawn to the small trunk behind it.

  “Hello, what’s this doing here? It’s got a V on it, like a trunk full of clothes Grantie let us go through to find outfits for a Victorian fête. We’d best shift it over to the Victorian room. Help me with it, Dane.”

  “No, no. Whoa. That’s too heavy for you boys,” Mr. Braxton said as, straining, they tried to lift it. “Just show me where you want it.”

  Grantie’s Victorian storeroom was the next one along, for which Mr. Braxton confessed to being thankful.

  “Whew! Has to be more than clothes in this one. The family silver, maybe, or a souvenir cannonball from someone’s military days.”

  He set it down in front of the door, which Jack unlocked. After the trunk had been placed inside, Dane knelt down and rifled through it.

  “Gloves…monogrammed handkerchiefs…a sewing box…opera glasses…and a whole lot of books. I guess they’re what made it so heavy.”

  Mr. Braxton nodded in agreement and went to look at some watercolour paintings stacked in a corner.

  While he was thus engaged, Dane picked up a small book. His eyes suddenly went wide as he examined its brown leather cover, on which both the title and the image of a five-petal rose had been embossed in gold. “Look at this,” he whispered to Paige and Jack, holding out his find.

  “The Little Rose Tree by Miss Rosalina Wolverton, eighteen-eighty-seven,” Paige read out softly. “This must be the children’s story Grantie’s Aunt Rosalina wrote after getting one of her insights about the medallion. Grantie said she’d had it privately published. Leave it on top of the trunk. We’ll come back for it later.”

  With only the Edwardian and World War storerooms left to explore, they were soon back in the sitting room with Grantie, Uncle Edmond, and Granddad, the latter of whom had finally been persuaded to take a seat.

  “Like the place?” Grantie Etta asked Mr. Braxton.

  “Beyond measure, ma’am. Thank you so much for letting me look round.”

  “My pleasure. Edmond here has to go, but Avery and I will be having lunch soon. Would you care to join us?”

  Mr. Braxton looked at his watch. “Better not. The family’s lounging around the hotel getting over jet lag this morning, but I promised the kids we’d go sightseeing in the afternoon and it could take me close to an hour to get back to London. That’s our base ’til the end of the week. Come Friday, we’re booked into a hotel in Windsor.”

  “How did you get to Rosebank?” Grantie Etta asked.

  “Train to Windsor, taxi to the village. I got the driver to drop me by a little store and walked the rest of the way so I could get a feel of the place my ancestress came from. The store had a TAXI FOR HIRE sign on it, so I can probably get one there, right?”

  “One is all there is. My chauffeur-cum-gardener, Reg Dexter, drives it. This being a Tuesday, I doubt it’ll be available until mid-afternoon. He takes the Pringles into Uxbridge on Tuesdays, to do their shopping. Their doctor won’t let either of them get behind the wheel anymore, a decision endorsed by the entire village and its environs.”

  Seeing Mr. Braxton’s look of consternation, Uncle Edmond stood up. “No problem, old chap. I’ll run you into Windsor. I can take the children back at the same time. Come along my dears.”

  Paige demurred. “Do we have to, Uncle Edmond? We’d rather stay here a while. We want to show Grantie something. Something important.”

  She made full eye contact, willing him to understand.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Something I’d be interested in as well?”

  “Definitely.”

  He shook his head regretfully. “Sorry. Your parents have plans for you this afternoon, and I promised to have you back for lunch. I can’t elaborate as it concerns a surprise for someone here present. I also have to pick Trevor and Max up at Heathrow.” He turned to Mr. Braxton. “My son and daughter-in-law. They’ve been visiting Greenland and the Canadian Maritimes, she to pursue Vikings, he to investigate the Halifax disaster of World War One. Despite my attempts to interest him in ancient times, he prefers more modern historical eras. Even so, he’s got our family back quite a ways and is sure to have the records on his laptop. I’ll give you my number. Once you’ve settled into your Windsor hotel, you can get together with him and sort out the Wolverton-Braxton ancestry.”

  “I’d really appreciate that,” Mr. Braxton said as he and Uncle Edmond made for the door with Paige and the boys reluctantly following.

  Chapter Three

  Uncle Edmond dropped Mr. Braxton off first. Getting back into the car he said, “Now then, am I correct in assuming you unearthed something of significance whilst rummaging about upstairs with our American cousin? Something concerning the medallion?”

  The children nodded.

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Of course not.” Paige pretended to be shocked. “We can’t tell you, and not Grantie and Granddad.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

  “And I’m pretty sure they would.”

  Uncle Edmond started the car and pulled out. “Suppose you tell me, and I’ll tell them? Then we could—”

  “Pore over it without us? No way,” said Paige. “Besides, you have an airport run to do.”

  “That won’t take long. I could go back to Rosebank afterwards. Grantie and I managed to convince your granddad to put off fretting about any strange medallion-related happenings until there were further developments in that regard. If this is a further development, we really should get started on it.”

  “Not without us,” Paige said firmly. “We found it, and we want to be there when you start going over it. How long is this surprise thing for Grantie likely to take?”

  “Probably not long. You just have to add your contribution to a mural a cousin, Anna Lytham, wants to put up at the party. She’s an artist. Your parents are taking you over to her studio in Staines.”

  “What kind of contribution?” Paige asked suspiciously.

  “Handprints.”

  “Handprints? What are we, five?”

  “Actually, I think it’s going to look quite impressive. She’s leaving a space at one end for Grantie to place her print, and everyone else’s joins onto it, from oldest to youngest. I’ve already plonked mine down, but Trevor & Max haven’t.” He brightened. “If they’re not too jet lagged, I’ll run them over. If you’ve finished by then I might be able to whisk you back to Grantie’s—if that meets with your approval.”

  “Sure,” said Dane.

  “And in the meantime, not so much as a hint?”

  The children shook their heads.

  “Heartless little beasts.”

  Mr. Marchand was standing outside the Taisley house when they arrived.

  “Hi, Uncle Edmond. Grantie phoned to say you were on your way. Gus stationed me out here to ask if you wanted to stay for lunch
.”

  Uncle Edmond got out of the car with the children and glanced at his watch. “I might just have time if—” He broke off, his face darkening as he looked past Mr. Marchand. “On second thought, no, thank you. Having been raised to practice good manners, Augusta will doubtless feel obliged to feed the people who have just pulled up across the road, and while I enjoy your company, I do not enjoy theirs.”

  Everyone looked at the large, luxurious, black car on which his gaze was now fixed. As they watched, a girl with long blonde hair and a disdainful expression stepped out of it. She was followed by a man and woman approaching middle age, and an elderly couple perhaps a little older than Uncle Edmond.

  “And they are?” Mr. Marchand inquired.

  “You don’t know? Oh, yes, that’s right. Despite eighteen years of marriage to my niece, you’ve somehow had the great good fortune to never run across these particular family members. To wit, the Wolverton-Hernes. My obnoxious second cousin Willoughby, his repellent wife Anthea, their mercenary son Bentley, and his detestable wife Zenobia. The sullen, supercilious, juvenile is Penelope, aged twelve. Commiserations to you all—I’m off.”

  With that he got back into the car and drove away, giving only a brief nod of acknowledgement to the newcomers as he passed them.

  Mr. Marchand laughed. “Wow, talk about adjective overload. I know no one else in the family speaks very highly of them either, but they can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, you’ll find they can,” Jack assured him.

  Though he greeted the visitors politely, he did not lead them into the house with anything approaching enthusiasm. The welcome extended by Aunt Augusta and Mrs. Marchand wasn’t much warmer, but the Wolverton-Hernes appeared oblivious to the strained atmosphere.

  “Do join us for lunch,” said Aunt Augusta, feeling, as Uncle Edmond had predicted, obliged to extend the invitation. “We were going to wait for Gareth but he’s rung to say he’s been delayed. It’s just cold meat and salad, so I can easily set more places.”

  “Most kind,” murmured the woman earlier identified as Zenobia, a name the children would be expected to prefix with ‘cousin’, a respectful form of address their parents insisted upon for adult cousins over the age of twenty-five. If they felt so inclined, they could substitute the courtesy titles of ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, but they usually only did that for ones they really liked, and felt comfortable with, such as Uncle Edmond’s son Trevor, and Trevor’s wife Maxine.

  After exchanging some small talk about the weather, which the visitors seemed to collectively disapprove of, they sat down to lunch in the dining room, the adults at one end of a hastily extended table, and the children at the other.

  “Except for those coming from a ways off, we didn’t think we’d be seeing anyone from the family until the day of the party, Bentley,” said Mrs. Marchand. “I thought you and Zenobia were just up in London.”

  “We are,” he replied, taking a bread roll from the basket she had just set down. “Only way to keep my finger on the pulse of our various businesses. Although Pater somehow manages to keep abreast of things from the Isle of Wight, don’t you, Pater? He and Mater still have a flat in London, and only went to the Isle to keep an eye on my grandparents. They retired there years ago, but they’re in their mid-nineties now, and a bit tottery. The journey up here took a lot out of them. That’s why they’re not with us. They’re stopping at our house to rest up for Grantie’s big day. Our servants are looking after them. One had the cheek to ask for extra money, too.” He chuckled. “Got the sack, instead.”

  “So, you’re all coming to the party, are you?” Aunt Augusta inquired, coming in with a tray holding individual bowls of salad. “Not having heard from you, we weren’t sure.”

  “You should have heard. I told my secretary to reply. Stupid girl. Another one looking to go on the dole. But never fear; we shall be there.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” his father avowed. “Question is, is Grantie up to it? We’ll be popping in to see her later, but wanted to stop by here first to find out how she is. She looked quite frail when we called on her a few months ago. Even seemed to drift in and out of knowing us. Expect her mind wanders even more now.”

  “I assure you it doesn’t.” One of the salad bowls had been placed away from the others, and Aunt Augusta handed this one out first. “Here’s your salad, Dane. Plain, no mushrooms.”

  “Not keen on mushrooms, young fellow?” Willoughby Wolverton-Herne asked in a somewhat sneering tone.

  “I’m allergic to them,” Dane explained.

  “Hmph, like to think you are, you mean. Don’t agree with allowing children to be finicky about food.” He turned to Mrs. Marchand. “Allergies appear to be all the rage these days but, to my mind, they just give faddy eaters an excuse to be picky. All in their heads, of course, but I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it now the idea’s taken hold.”

  Dane immediately dismissed any thoughts he might have had about calling this man Uncle Willoughby.

  The remark didn’t go down well with Mr. Marchand, either. “Yeah, it sort of took hold after the anaphylactic reaction he had to the one we gave him as a toddler. Luckily, we’d already been through that with his sister over a bee sting, so we had her pen on hand. Subsequent testing pointed to a few more items that warranted pickiness.”

  “Oh? Well I suppose there are a few genuine cases of sensitivity. Still think most are fancied, though.”

  “Fancied or genuine, there’s a solid market for allergy medications and preventatives,” said Cousin Bentley. “Could be a good field to invest in if it keeps expanding.”

  “It probably will,” Mr. Marchand replied. “A documentary on the increase in allergies is on my ‘to do’ list.”

  A look of surprise crossed Cousin Zenobia’s cosmetically enhanced countenance. “Do you mean to say you’re still dabbling in films and such, Alan? Goodness. I know you were the last time I spoke to Britannia, but I thought you might have moved on to a more stable line of work by now.”

  “It pays the bills. Doesn’t bring in as much as I’d like, and I’ve yet to make a big name for myself, but we get by.”

  Paige and Dane exchanged puzzled looks. Though not rich, the Marchands were by no means poor, and they had always believed their father to be a well-known, and well-respected, member of the film industry.

  Aunt Augusta quickly changed the subject. “So, what brings you Windsor today? Just a whim?”

  Cousin Anthea gave a tight smile. “We don’t indulge in whims, my dear. There will probably be too many people around Grantie for us to have a proper visit with her at the party, so we thought we’d come and spend some time with her beforehand.”

  “Really? She will be pleased,” said Mrs. Marchand.

  “Yes, well, the party arrangements must be keeping you all very busy. The ones who live closest have shouldered the burden of seeing to Grantie on a regular basis for some years now, and the rest of us really can’t expect you to maintain your usual involvement for the nonce. We’re happy to do our bit by ensuring she’s not on her own too much. We’ve even taken a hotel, so as not to have to do a daily commute.”

  “Grantie is not a burden. Nor is she on her own,” said Aunt Augusta. “Mrs. Purdom lives in, and busy though we are, I don’t think any day has passed without someone looking in on her. Gareth and I went shopping with her early this morning, and the children have only just got back from Rosebank. Uncle Edmond took them.”

  Cousin Zenobia tittered. “Oh, we’re not accusing you of neglecting Grantie, Augusta. We’re well aware of how much you all do for her. This is actually a bit of a holiday for us. Bentley works such long hours, he’s due some relaxation. And Penelope has never been to Windsor Castle, or any of the other attractions around here. We thought she’d enjoy visiting them in the company of her grandparents.”

  Dane doubted he would. He looked over at Penelope, who was sitting next to Jack nibbling daintily on a forkful of salad. She seemed quite
aloof, but, outgoing by nature, he thought she might just be a bit more reserved than he was. Since Jack was making no attempt to draw her out, he decided to give it a try.

  “You’re really quiet, Penny,” he said.

  “Penelope. I’ve been taught not to speak at table when adults are conversing.”

  “Not even to other kids?”

  “I answer when addressed, whether by children or adults. Not kids. Kids are baby goats—or the offspring of the lower classes. Both of which smell.”

  Paige had not taken to Penelope from the start, and this statement increased her antipathy. She shook her head in wonder as Dane again tried to be friendly.

  “Smelly or not, baby goats are really cute. I got to bottle feed some at a farm once.”

  Penelope shuddered. “Ugh. How awful.”

  “Don’t you like animals?”

  “Not farm animals. House pets are all right. I have a gorgeous Pekingese named Lady Jinghua Xia Qiao. She has a very long and distinguished pedigree and has won ever so many ribbons.”

  “Sounds impressive,” said Paige. “Ever bite you?”

  She glanced at her parents, expecting a rebuke, but Mrs. Marchand went on eating as though she had not heard, and Mr. Marchand’s lips twitched before closing on the rim of his water glass.

  “Lady Jing is quite high-strung, and does nip on occasion. Naughty girl.” Penelope’s titter was an exact replica of Cousin Zenobia’s. “I quite miss her when I’m away at school. She goes into raptures when I come home for the hols.”

  “Oh, you go to boarding school, then,” said Dane.

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  Mr. Marchand answered. “No, they don’t. We prefer to keep them at home to liven the place up and indulge our psychological need to parent.”

  “Sentimental nonsense,” Cousin Willoughby grunted. “And not in their best interests. Think of their futures, man. At a good boarding school, children get an excellent education and can mix with, and cultivate, the sort of people who’ll be of use to them later in life. Penelope attends one of the most exclusive in the country.”