it? Pity to see it go out of the family – it was as much a part of Caudle Moor as my own family – my wife’s family too, for they’ve lived here just as long. Folk don’t bother about that kind of thing much nowadays, do they, but I like the feeling of – well, continuity I suppose you’d call it. You’d like a table overlooking the market square for your lunch, maybe? And I’d recommend the Bakewell tart. You can’t come to this part of the world and not try Bakewell tart.’
They ate their lunch in the tiny dining room, the Bakewell tart was pronounced delicious, and Mr Poulson’s wife came beamingly out of the kitchens, to accept their appreciation. They were please to come again, and try the Ashbourne gingerbread next time.
It felt nicely familiar to drive back along Gorsty Lane; to recognize a home-made sign to a public footpath, to point out to one another the cottage Beth had said was like a dolls’ house. The door at Stilter House gave its distinctive little creak of old hinges when they unlocked it, and the house’s individual scents greeted them.
Beth went off to the music room to look through the music. There was a hugely big stack of it inside the piano stool and on the shelves, she explained. She would be very careful with it, but there might be stuff Dad had played and she could play too. It was great that Mum had found the piano key, wasn’t it? Nell was aware of a stir of unease at this innocent remark, but she ruffled Beth’s hair, which was about the only caress Beth would tolerate, and went up to check the bedrooms. Tallboys and wardrobes sometimes contained odd, overlooked things of value, but there did not seem to be any in Stilter House’s bedrooms. There were no pieces of Limoges glass or Hilliard miniatures; no lions or witches waiting to pounce, only a couple of forgotten fur coats smelling of mothballs, and several dried-out lavender muslin bags of the kind once used to scent wardrobes.
Late afternoon sunshine trickled through the latticed windows and lay in diamond patterns on the floor, and as Nell made notes, she thought about Samuel Burlap’s statement. She had glanced rather cursorily through the rest of the papers to see if there were any more of Dr Brodworthy’s distinctive typed pages, but there had not seemed to be. And I don’t really want to know anything else, thought Nell. If Burlap succumbed to some form of insanity, I’d rather not know. He built a beautiful house, and I think that’s what he’d like to be remembered for, not for some weird hallucination of a ravaged-face prisoner in the old game larder. And the music, said a voice in her mind. Don’t forget he heard the music, just as you did.
As if the thought had given substance to the memory, the music was suddenly with her again, distant but unmistakable, and Nell laid down the notebook and pen and sat very still, her skin tingling. Was it happening a second time? Burlap’s chill faery music that he believed had brought the ravaged-face woman back into being? The music that existed where no music could exist . . .
Except that this music she was hearing could exist, of course. Beth was investigating the music in the piano room, and clearly she had found something to try for herself. Nell relaxed and sat on the window seat to listen, smiling to hear Beth’s small hands stumbling over a section, then replaying it more accurately. She did not recognize it, but it was light and clear, the kind of simple or simplified piece Beth’s teacher used to lighten the tedium of scales. Nell thought she would go part-way down the stairs and listen quietly, so that later she could tell Beth how much she was improving.
She sat in the window seat on the half-landing to listen. Beth was certainly improving. Her teacher had tentatively suggested she be entered for one of the children’s music festivals, but Nell was torn between wanting Beth to shine, and concern about pushing her into a limelight she might not want.
They ate their lunch in the tiny dining room, the Bakewell tart was pronounced delicious, and Mr Poulson’s wife came beamingly out of the kitchens, to accept their appreciation. They were please to come again, and try the Ashbourne gingerbread next time.
It felt nicely familiar to drive back along Gorsty Lane; to recognize a home-made sign to a public footpath, to point out to one another the cottage Beth had said was like a dolls’ house. The door at Stilter House gave its distinctive little creak of old hinges when they unlocked it, and the house’s individual scents greeted them.
Beth went off to the music room to look through the music. There was a hugely big stack of it inside the piano stool and on the shelves, she explained. She would be very careful with it, but there might be stuff Dad had played and she could play too. It was great that Mum had found the piano key, wasn’t it? Nell was aware of a stir of unease at this innocent remark, but she ruffled Beth’s hair, which was about the only caress Beth would tolerate, and went up to check the bedrooms. Tallboys and wardrobes sometimes contained odd, overlooked things of value, but there did not seem to be any in Stilter House’s bedrooms. There were no pieces of Limoges glass or Hilliard miniatures; no lions or witches waiting to pounce, only a couple of forgotten fur coats smelling of mothballs, and several dried-out lavender muslin bags of the kind once used to scent wardrobes.
Late afternoon sunshine trickled through the latticed windows and lay in diamond patterns on the floor, and as Nell made notes, she thought about Samuel Burlap’s statement. She had glanced rather cursorily through the rest of the papers to see if there were any more of Dr Brodworthy’s distinctive typed pages, but there had not seemed to be. And I don’t really want to know anything else, thought Nell. If Burlap succumbed to some form of insanity, I’d rather not know. He built a beautiful house, and I think that’s what he’d like to be remembered for, not for some weird hallucination of a ravaged-face prisoner in the old game larder. And the music, said a voice in her mind. Don’t forget he heard the music, just as you did.
As if the thought had given substance to the memory, the music was suddenly with her again, distant but unmistakable, and Nell laid down the notebook and pen and sat very still, her skin tingling. Was it happening a second time? Burlap’s chill faery music that he believed had brought the ravaged-face woman back into being? The music that existed where no music could exist . . .
Except that this music she was hearing could exist, of course. Beth was investigating the music in the piano room, and clearly she had found something to try for herself. Nell relaxed and sat on the window seat to listen, smiling to hear Beth’s small hands stumbling over a section, then replaying it more accurately. She did not recognize it, but it was light and clear, the kind of simple or simplified piece Beth’s teacher used to lighten the tedium of scales. Nell thought she would go part-way down the stairs and listen quietly, so that later she could tell Beth how much she was improving.
She sat in the window seat on the half-landing to listen. Beth was certainly improving. Her teacher had tentatively suggested she be entered for one of the children’s music festivals, but Nell was torn between wanting Beth to shine, and concern about pushing her into a limelight she might not want.
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