Chapter 2

2

" A hh! Veronica has brought our tea."

"Damn near drowned crossin' the street, I did."

"And yet you survived. But where are the macarons?"

"They din't ‘ave any. You'll ‘ave to settle for lemon sponge an' jam."

Wormsley heaved a great sigh to express his disappointment. "How ungodly early must one get to the shop in order to find macarons in the case?"

"Earlier than you ever turn up in the office."

The solicitor scowled. "Clearly they do not make enough to meet the demand."

"An' that's why they can charge so much an' get away with it. ‘Ere, what's wrong with the lass? Looks like someone stuck a pin in her and drained all the blood out. She's not ‘alf pale. You ‘aven't given her the bill already, ‘ave you? I wouldn't pay it if I were you, luv. He likes to think he's worth as much as them French cookies."

Wormsley waved a hand to shoo her out of the room .

When he looked back at Ellen, he had to admit she had lost some of the robust color in her cheeks. She hadn't moved, hadn't even blinked. She just stared at him with those very remarkable eyes. Her grandmother's eyes had been the same crystalline blue, eerie but impossible to look away from. Their faces were the same oval shape; the hair was the same silver-blonde. In fact, the resemblance was quite striking and if there had been any doubt that he'd found the rightful heiress, it had vanished the moment he set eyes upon her.

He stood and poured two cups of tea from the pot. He placed one on the table beside Ellen along with a plate holding a slice of lemon cake. Knowing her circumstances, where she lived and worked in New York, he could understand why she might have been shocked by the revelations. But there was still a great deal to discuss. Terms and conditions.

And choices.

As the silence stretched out, he slid a drawer on his desk open and pulled out a bottle of Napoleon brandy and a pair of small crystal snifters. He poured some of the brandy into one and slid it across the desk toward Ellen.

"Something stronger than tea, perhaps?"

Ellen drew a very deep breath before leaning forward and taking up the glass. She threw the contents back like a sumo wrestler then held the empty glass out for more.

While the first shot was burning its way into her belly, she stared at Wormsley through narrowed, watery eyes. "Did you say… two hundred million pounds?"

"Two hundred and seventy-four million… to be absolutely precise."

"Of course. One must be absolutely precise."

She sat back, taking her second refill of brandy with her, but this time she just sipped it. "Are you absolutely certain I am the right Enndolynn Bowe?"

Wormsley took a photo out of the file and slid it across the desk. "Is this your father? It was taken just before he left England."

Ellen picked up the photo. It showed a young, handsome man with a shock of honey-blond hair and a grin so familiar she felt a rush of stinging hot liquid behind her eyes.

She nodded slowly. "Yes. That's him."

Wormsley slid two more photos across. "This is Malcolm, proudly wearing his RAF uniform. The lad on the right, as you might know, is William. He idolized his older brother and when they received the news that Malcolm had been shot down over Germany, he snuck away from school and joined the army. He was only fifteen at the time and the war, thankfully, was a mere four months from ending. Henry was for enlisting too, but his parents managed to head him off and insisted he remain in school. They did not want to risk losing all three of their boys, especially with the end so near."

Ellen took the photos and studied them carefully, still trying to deal with the shock. But there was no mistaking the family resemblance between the three men. They shared the same high cheekbones, the same square jaws, the same boyish grins that warned in advance of mischief. As for the twins, their features were similar but not identical. Most notably, Henry had dark hair, William's was a lighter blond, much like her own.

She frowned and slid her empty glass across to Wormsley. "Why did he never tell me he had brothers?"

"I confess I do not know the precise details that caused the family division. The area of Lincoln where the family holdings lay is remote and isolated, and communications can be somewhat sporadic. Until a few centuries ago the estate was comprised mostly of vast tracts of forest. Nottingham is in Lincoln, as is Sherwood—the territory where legends of Robin Hood and his band of merry men began. Nowadays of course, the dense forests that used to cover three quarters of England have been reduced to small pockets of woodland here and there, Sherwood among them, now a mere dot on a roadmap. A shame, really, but I dare say that is the price of progress, what?"

"You say there is a castle?"

"Yes, indeed. Quite large, quite daunting. Quite spectacular as well, perched as it is on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. Original parts of the structure were built just after the Norman conquest when the invaders wanted to establish a northern stronghold. It was enlarged and fortified to defend the border from the Scots and in later years, some time in the fifteenth century I believe, was used as a hospital and became known as Mercy Keep. The main tower as well as the adjoining structures are quite extraordinary, most of them fully intact. I believe it has been given a Grade II listing for historic value."

"Is that good?"

"That is excellent, my dear. Most castles that age are barely more than ruined walls and roofless relics. Over the centuries England has suffered through baronial wars and rebellions and invasions, all of which resulted in the victors destroying that which belonged to the vanquished. Entire villages were burned to the ground and vanished. Abbeys and churches were destroyed by religious zealots. Catholics held power during one reign, Protestant the next etcetera, etcetera. In this case, The Keep's very isolation and remoteness was its best friend. Everyone seemed to forget about it .

"Despite its excellent condition, the original structure is, of course, quite uninhabitable, being mostly cold stone walls and arrow slits for windows. However, a rather splendid manor house was built on the grounds in the sixteenth century, an Elizabethan beauty in exceptional shape. It was constructed in what was once the outer bailey of the castle… a very large enclosure between the outer and inner walls, which used to house training grounds, stables, all the castle workshops, etcetera, etcetera. Happily, each generation has kept up with repairs and renovations on the manor house, the most recent of which included indoor plumbing, and electricity, which should be a welcome relief. It may also interest you to know the exterior has been used seven times for Hollywood productions so you may, unknowingly, have even caught glimpses of it in films."

The two stiff shots of brandy Ellen had chugged were making her thoughts spiral around her head in erratic patterns. She had not touched the third shot, merely cradled the glass in her hands in the hopes it might keep them from shaking.

"When we spoke on the phone, you said something about unusual conditions attached to the inheritance?"

"So I did," Wormsley agreed, rifling through more documents. "In its simplest form with the simplest explanation, the contract states that you must take up residence at Mercy Keep for at least a year and a day before title and deed may be legally transferred into your possession. At that time the greater part of the financial assets will also be released to be used however you wish. In the interim, of course, all household expenses, wages etcetera, etcetera, will be paid from a separate trust. As well, a stipend will be allotted for your living expenses. Let me see here… yes… ten thousand pounds. "

Ellen's hands squeezed the delicate crystal snifter. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or if she pinched herself hard she would waken out of an outlandish dream.

Spend a year and a day in a Hollywood-type Elizabethan manor house to inherit two hundred and seventy-four million pounds? It sounded like one of those memes that appeared on social media pages occasionally: Would you spend a month in a haunted house for a million dollars?

She moistened her lips to unglue them. "Out of curiosity, how much is ten thousand pounds in American dollars?"

"Roughly, with today's fluctuating rates, I should say around thirteen thousand dollars."

Ellen studiously lowered her gaze. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and muttered, mostly as a wry aside to herself, "I imagine I could live on that for a year and a day, with no rent to worry about."

"Forgive me, my dear. You misunderstood."

She almost snorted. "Oh. Well. Of course I did. Too good to be true and all that rot, what?"

"What? Oh, I see, yes." Wormsley adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "What I meant to say was, the amount I quoted was not per annum , but per mensis . Per month, if you will."

Ellen was in the process of taking another healthy sip of brandy and nearly dribbled it back into the glass. She wiped her fingers across her mouth just in case and glared at the owl-eyed Wormsley. "Now I know you're shitting me! Thirteen thousand dollars per month ?"

He looked startled, then offended, not so much by the vulgarity as by her questioning his accuracy. "I assure you Miss Bowe; I am by no means… er… fooling you. You can read the documents yourself. In fact, as your solicitor pro forma , I would implore you to take them back to the hotel tonight and study each file quite thoroughly. I have made full copies of everything for that very purpose. You may also feel free to consult another solicitor if you so choose, although I have been retained by the estate for nearly fifty years, and my father several decades before that. I would happily refer you to one of my partners in the firm save for the inconvenient fact they are all deceased or retired. There is just me here, I'm afraid. And Veronica, who stays out of sheer pity, I'm certain of it, although she probably knows as much about the law as I do by now. Stores it all up there, in her hair somewhere."

He was rambling, looking like he might be on the verge of tears and Ellen instantly regretted her outburst.

"Please, Mr. Wormsley, you must forgive me. This is all incredibly overwhelming. And good God no, I don't want another lawyer. I just need time to… to work this through."

He was still wearing the expression of a wounded bunny as he poured a dram of brandy for himself. "I do understand this has been a great deal to take in all at once. I recall your Uncle Henry reacting much the same way after his parents died. He was not the least bit fond of The Keep. Hated it in fact. Was quite happy to be sent away to boarding schools most of his young life and no doubt resented your father for being able to escape. He claimed the castle was haunted but if there were, indeed, ghosts swooping down from the battlements to taunt him, he must have come to terms with them, for he spent the remainder of his life in seclusion there after his wife died."

"You said he passed away this spring?"

"May 23, to be precise. I was informed of his demise by the housekeeper, Mrs. Winklebottom." Ellen's eyes narrowed but he held up a hand and chuckled. "Yes, I know. Winklebottom. Goodness only knows the origin of that particular surname, but it joins the illustrious ranks of the Longsnouts and the Glasscocks."

Wormsley took a delicate sip of brandy then folded his hands together and waited patiently while Ellen attempted to process everything.

In the end she came back to the same question: "And you have no idea why the family split apart? Why my father chose to completely erase all connections?"

"As I said, I was not privy to the reasons for the rift. In truth, I had no idea the division was so absolute until Henry's death, which necessitated the search for other living heirs. It was Mrs. Winklebottom who advised us that William had emigrated to America and changed his name. Perhaps she can be persuaded to enlighten you further about the circumstances, I don't know. She has not been particularly fond of me since I spurned her lascivious advances some twenty years ago. Envision, if you will, a rapacious dragon stalking a mouse."

He adjusted his glasses, shuddered slightly, and poured himself another dram of brandy.

A thousand thoughts were spinning through Ellen's mind, none of which made anything any clearer. She set her glass aside and stood, then walked over to stand at the window, noting absently that the rain had stopped. The sky was gray and dull. There were tiny runnels of water slipping down the outside of the glass pane, one of which she traced with a fingertip.

A random thought tumbled out of sequence and she glanced back over her shoulder. "What happens if I don't agree to live at The Keep for a year and a day?"

Wormsley had been expecting the question, yet he delayed his answer for as long as it took to remove his spectacles and polish the thick lenses with a hanky. "In the event you choose not to abide by the conditions of the inheritance, I am required to open a sealed document and follow the instructions set out within. And before you ask, I have no idea what those instructions entail."

"None at all?"

"The Ecumenical Seal has never been broken, not once in seven hundred year, although I'm sure there are a multitude of historians, collectors, museum curators, and archaeologists who would have given away their first-born sons to study a document written by Stephen Langton."

"Stephen—?"

"You might recall the name from your history books; he was Archbishop of Canterbury at the time of King John. The two men despised one another for various reasons, so it is not entirely surprising he would have used the full power of Rome to keep an estate of such inestimable value out of the king's hands."

"Are you saying that in all that time—seven hundred years—no one has refused to accept the terms?"

"My dear Miss Bowe, we English have history steeped in our blood. We built our towns and cities in the shadow of centuries-old castles and cathedrals and abbeys and we have mysteries like Stonehenge and salt horses in our backyards. Mercy Keep is one of the largest, one of the grandest, and one of the last castles of that age and significance held in private hands. If I have done The Keep a disservice by suggesting anything ominous or decrepit or otherwise burdensome in acquiring it, then I do apologize for that was not my intent."

She mulled that over in silence for a few moments then let another thought escape between her lips. "What if there were no living heirs? What would happen to it then?"

"There are always heirs, Miss Bowe. One simply has to trace back along more obscure lines. Happily, you happen to be a direct heir, but there is a secondary branch of the family in Europe."

"More relatives I didn't know I had?"

"Third cousins, twice removed, and wealthy enough in their own right that you should have no need to fear them showing up on your doorstep with their hands held out."

Ellen sighed and returned to her chair. It suddenly felt as if there was seven hundred years worth of inherited responsibility pressing down on her shoulders… responsibility she had neither expected nor sought nor even had an inkling existed. A castle, for God's sake. A castle !

She swallowed hard and looked at Wormsley.

"So… what do I do now?" she asked softly.

"Now? I suggest, as I said, that you take all of these papers back to your hotel and read them thoroughly. Draw up a list of questions and concerns and I shall try to answer them to the best of my ability. After that… I would recommend a trip to Lincoln. Do not make any hasty decisions until you have been there and seen The Keep for yourself. Walk a mile in your ancestor's footsteps, if you will. Since you are my only client, I would make myself available to accompany you if it would ease your mind and make you more comfortable."

"It would, yes. I would appreciate that very much, thank you."

"I doubt Mrs. Winklebottom will appreciate my presence, but I shall take the old harridan some macarons and that should appease her. If not, well, I believe the castle dungeons may still be intact, what?" He gave a fine imitation of an Elmer Fudd chuckle and polished off the last half inch of brandy in his glass. "We shall make an adventure of it, shall we? A stop or two along the way? We can even take a side trip to Nottingham, and Newark if you like, where you can see for yourself the sad state of what were once our grandest castles. We may even be able to locate the general vicinity where Lambeleia once existed."

"Lambeleia?"

"Meaning lamb's meadow. It was a tiny vill—not even large enough to be called a proper village—located in the parish of Clipton, where the church records show the first mention of your distant ancestor, Enndolynn Ware. She had what one might call a rather colorful history, beginning with her mother, Cecily, who was accused of being a witch and was burned at the stake."

One of Ellen's eyebrows hitched up ever so slightly. "A witch?"

"Witches, pagan-worship, sorcery are also part of our history. Medieval England was referred to as the dark ages for a very good reason. Only about one percent of the population could read or write and most of the latter was done by monks and thus heavily influenced by religious overtones. Branding someone a witch was an opportune method of ridding oneself of an enemy or explaining away something which could not be explained in any ordinary way. In the case of your ancestor… it was said she was able to bring the dead back to life."

To Ellen's credit, she did not react at all. Later, she would believe it was because she was simply beyond being able to react to anything anymore. In the moment, however, she just nodded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to hear there were witches in her family tree.

"But I digress, and I do beg your pardon," Wormsley said, frowning deeply enough to cause his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. "It was not my intention to bring ancient legends and folklore into the conversation. Not at our first meeting at any rate, when you have had to absorb so very much already."

"You mean there is more?"

"A trifling matter. More of a curiosity, if you will. But since the issue has been broached, it might as well be exculpated now as later." He swivelled around in his chair and his pudgy fingers slid along the side of a panel in the bookcase behind him. An audible click saw the panel swing open, revealing a hidden safe, the archaic kind with the big central dial for a combination. He twirled and mumbled through a series of left right left rights before grasping the handle and opening the thick metal door. Inside was a large wooden box, which he removed and placed on the desk.

He produced a key ring from an inside pocket of his jacket and fit one the two dozen or so keys into the lock.

Ellen could smell the cedar lining right away and sat a little straighter to see what was in the box. Folds of rich red velvet were carefully peeled aside and nestled snug inside was a very old leather folio with what looked like a Celtic symbol stamped into the cover. It was tied with a strip of rawhide and contained a sheaf of yellowed, unevenly cut pages, perhaps three inches thick.

Wormsley removed his glasses and briefly massaged the bridge of his nose. "As I said the very first mention of an ancestor sharing your name was found in a parish registry dated back to 1273. A birth was recorded there of a girl child named Enndolynn, mother Cecily, father Padraic. A subsequent entry four years later registered the death of Padraic, the cause listed as the putrid throat.

"One must bear in mind that medicine was in its infancy. Leeching and cutting were cures for everything from hiccups to the plague. There were no doctors, only healers who relied on herbs and possets, and in smaller villages, they were lucky to have a farrier who doubled as a doctor between tending to the wellbeing of the animals. Without access to anything resembling penicillin it was quite common for people to die of fevers and sore throats.

"To that end, it would seem young Enndolynn's mother—Cecily Ware—was just such a healer. There is no record of her birth in the parish so it must be assumed that the family came from elsewhere and settled in Lambeleia. As it happens, healers were often the target of religious zealots. Someone acquainted with the medicinal properties of herbs might well suffer for the ability to cure an ailment a rival physicker could not. That would appear to be what happened to Cecily Ware. Three villagers, one of whom was a priest, bore witness against her and she was summarily tied to a stake and burned. Her daughter, Enndolynn, a mere child of eight at the time, was also accused of being a witch, but thankfully, and by means we have no way of knowing, she managed to vanish and avoid a similar fate.

"That might have been the end of it, except that somewhat magically, if you will forgive the pun, the name Enndolynn Ware reappears again some ten years later in 1291, discovered in records unearthed while excavating the ruins of Nottingham Castle. The chance of two Enndolynn Wares existing at that time would be fairly slim, thus we can accept it to be the same young woman."

He frowned and seemed to be searching carefully for the right words to proceed. "The pages contained within this folio were supposedly written by Enndolynn Ware herself, although the fact a peasant girl could read or write caused some to doubt the authorship—doubts which have been given added substance since it would appear young Enndolynn wrote in a language of her own making."

"I don't understand. "

"The nearest guess is some archaic form of the Romany dialect. Gypsy writing, if you will." He paused again and touched a corner of the velvet, smoothing it slightly, before folding his hands carefully on the desk.

"Before I go any further, may I ask you a question? It is a rather personal one, and should you choose not to answer, then you may chastise me for the intrusion and we will make no further mention of it."

Ellen was curious despite herself. "At this point, believe me, nothing would be an intrusion. Go ahead. Ask."

"Do you have any… unusual birthmarks?"

It was certainly not the question she was expecting.

"What would you consider to be unusual?"

"Distinct. Perhaps even unique."

"I have a birthmark. I don't know how unusual or unique it might be."

Wormsley hesitated, almost afraid to ask the next question. Or, possibly, to hear her answer.

"Miss Bowe. If someone were to observe this birthmark and remark on its shape and appearance, what might they say? By chance… would they say it look like… well, like this?"

He turned the box with its petals of unfolded velvet cradling the old leather folio and Ellen could see the imprint on the cover clearly. It was her turn to stare and to feel a small tingle of… what? Fear? Excitement? Dread? Not that she hadn't already been flooded with enough conflicting emotions to last a dozen lifetimes, but this was personal. This was something she recognized.

She looked up into the solicitor's magnified hazel eyes again and without speaking, gathered her hair up off her neck and turned her head so that Ethan Wormsley III could see the wine-colored birthmark that lay just below her hairline.

His slowly exhaled breath was audible, as was his awed whisper. "By heavens, you have it, Miss Bowe. You have the mark of the rose."