day, and the drapes had been drawn against the rain. I went to the window anyway, and pulling them aside, looked out. The knot garden lay spread out below, an intricate design of boxwoods and flower beds that seemed at odds with a house on the edge of a heath. Around the garden were planted tall evergreens as a shield against the wind and also, I thought, to shut out the landscape beyond.
“It’s my favorite view,” Lydia said, coming to stand beside me. “And in high summer, it’s beautiful. It was put in for Gran, you know. A wedding gift from her husband, Roger’s grandfather. Her room overlooks it too.” We returned to the hall by the main stairs, and Lydia said, “Everything starts here. Those stairs along the wall lead up to the oriel window above. You saw it as we came up the drive. The formal rooms are in the right wing, and the family rooms are in the left. Go through the door—the one over there, that we used when we first arrived—and turn to your right in the passage and you come to the drawing room. Well, we call it that, although it’s not all that splendid these days. After we were married, Roger’s mother told me I could redecorate it to suit my tastes, which was very kind of her. Before I could really set about it, the war began.” We were walking through the door and following the passage now. “That door is the dining room, this one the drawing room, and beyond it is a small library. Across from the library is Roger’s grandfather’s study. Gran uses it sometimes, when she isn’t in the mood to sit with the family.” We retraced our steps, and she opened the door into the formal dining room. It was elegant in dark green upholstery that set off the well-polished wood, and the tall, handsome sideboard. Long dark green velvet drapes trimmed in cream framed the double windows. The carpet was a paler green and cream in a floral pattern.
Lydia pointed to the fox mask carved above the sideboard. The chairs at the head and foot of the table had smaller versions at the ends of the arms. “The house is said to have been built originally over a vixen’s den. That’s where the name comes from. But one story has it that Roger’s ancestor used the lodge for assignations, and when his wife found out, she killed him and blamed his death on a rabid fox.”
“How charming,” I said with a smile.
“Yes, I felt the same when I first came here. Sadly, the room is used very seldom now. With just the three of us, Gran and Mama Ellis and me, we usually take our meals in the sitting room.”
I could see why. The table would seat twenty comfortably, and with only one hearth, it must be very cold in winter. I noticed the paintings hanging on the walls, mostly landscapes from Italy and Switzerland and by a very accomplished hand.
“Gran painted them. On her honeymoon. Roger’s grandfather had them framed and hung as a surprise for her after their first child—Matthew, Roger’s father—was born.”
She closed that door and turned to the one across the passage, opening it into the drawing room. It faced the drive, and even on such a dreary afternoon, it was well lit and very pleasant. Stepping inside, the first thing that drew my eyes was the lovely hearth of Portland stone—and above it the most astonishing portrait.
The child was beautiful, fair haired and sweet faced, with an impish gleam in her blue eyes, and she had been captured in an informal pose, glancing toward the artist over one shoulder, her smile so touching I stood there in amazement.
“That’s Juliana,” Lydia was saying in a flat voice.
Chapter Three
“H ow sad!” I replied, meaning it. I couldn’t take my eyes from the painting. Juliana appeared to be on the verge of laughter, and I almost held my breath listening for it. If the living child was anything like this portrayal in oils, I could understand why her memory was so vivid in the minds of her grieving family.
“We use this room only when we have guests. I suggested
“It’s my favorite view,” Lydia said, coming to stand beside me. “And in high summer, it’s beautiful. It was put in for Gran, you know. A wedding gift from her husband, Roger’s grandfather. Her room overlooks it too.” We returned to the hall by the main stairs, and Lydia said, “Everything starts here. Those stairs along the wall lead up to the oriel window above. You saw it as we came up the drive. The formal rooms are in the right wing, and the family rooms are in the left. Go through the door—the one over there, that we used when we first arrived—and turn to your right in the passage and you come to the drawing room. Well, we call it that, although it’s not all that splendid these days. After we were married, Roger’s mother told me I could redecorate it to suit my tastes, which was very kind of her. Before I could really set about it, the war began.” We were walking through the door and following the passage now. “That door is the dining room, this one the drawing room, and beyond it is a small library. Across from the library is Roger’s grandfather’s study. Gran uses it sometimes, when she isn’t in the mood to sit with the family.” We retraced our steps, and she opened the door into the formal dining room. It was elegant in dark green upholstery that set off the well-polished wood, and the tall, handsome sideboard. Long dark green velvet drapes trimmed in cream framed the double windows. The carpet was a paler green and cream in a floral pattern.
Lydia pointed to the fox mask carved above the sideboard. The chairs at the head and foot of the table had smaller versions at the ends of the arms. “The house is said to have been built originally over a vixen’s den. That’s where the name comes from. But one story has it that Roger’s ancestor used the lodge for assignations, and when his wife found out, she killed him and blamed his death on a rabid fox.”
“How charming,” I said with a smile.
“Yes, I felt the same when I first came here. Sadly, the room is used very seldom now. With just the three of us, Gran and Mama Ellis and me, we usually take our meals in the sitting room.”
I could see why. The table would seat twenty comfortably, and with only one hearth, it must be very cold in winter. I noticed the paintings hanging on the walls, mostly landscapes from Italy and Switzerland and by a very accomplished hand.
“Gran painted them. On her honeymoon. Roger’s grandfather had them framed and hung as a surprise for her after their first child—Matthew, Roger’s father—was born.”
She closed that door and turned to the one across the passage, opening it into the drawing room. It faced the drive, and even on such a dreary afternoon, it was well lit and very pleasant. Stepping inside, the first thing that drew my eyes was the lovely hearth of Portland stone—and above it the most astonishing portrait.
The child was beautiful, fair haired and sweet faced, with an impish gleam in her blue eyes, and she had been captured in an informal pose, glancing toward the artist over one shoulder, her smile so touching I stood there in amazement.
“That’s Juliana,” Lydia was saying in a flat voice.
Chapter Three
“H ow sad!” I replied, meaning it. I couldn’t take my eyes from the painting. Juliana appeared to be on the verge of laughter, and I almost held my breath listening for it. If the living child was anything like this portrayal in oils, I could understand why her memory was so vivid in the minds of her grieving family.
“We use this room only when we have guests. I suggested
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