Shadows at Stonewylde (3 page)

Miranda eyed her daughter carefully. Sylvie had always been pale and slim but her face looked drawn and there was a sadness about her eyes – very different to the sparkling girl who’d spent such happy teenage years growing into a woman with her handsome young man by her side. Even though Sylvie and Yul had been separated when they went off to different universities, their joy in each other on every return to Stonewylde was very evident. When had this sadness crept in?

‘You’re not feeling ill again, are you?’ she asked, anxious as ever not to pry, but unable to completely let go. ‘Hazel’s keeping an eye on you?’

‘Yes, Mum, I’m fine. You know that was just a hormonal thing after Bluebell was born and it won’t come back again, especially not with the implant. No, I just feel … a bit at a loose end, I suppose.’

She swallowed, annoyed at the catch in her throat. Her mother was not going to see her cry.

‘I guess you have more time on your hands now that Bluebell’s in the Nursery every day,’ said Miranda gently. ‘But there must be so much for you to do in the running of the estate, surely?’

Sylvie shook her head. This was the problem. She’d been the one to study estate management and agriculture, whilst Yul had been persuaded to broaden his world by studying the Arts. Yet as soon as she’d fallen pregnant with Celandine, not long after graduation and marriage, Yul had begun what she now saw as a careful process of protecting her from the exhausting demands of Stonewylde. And her dreadful illness after Bluebell’s birth had sealed her fate – Yul was in charge and her role was simply to be wife and mother.

‘Yul has it all under control, he says. It’s hard to find something that I can organise without treading on anyone’s toes.’

Miranda smiled and patted Sylvie’s arm.

‘You can always help in the schools,’ she said. ‘Either up here with the seniors or even down in the Village with Dawn. It’s not so bad in the primary school, mind you, since Yul insisted on cutting back on the birth-rate – that’s helped tremendously. But up here we’re bursting with teenagers. You know I’ve had to employ two more teachers recently, and we could still do with an extra pair of hands if you wanted to help.’

‘I’d be useless at teaching,’ said Sylvie, ‘and I find all those teenagers a bit terrifying, to be honest. You’re better off with properly trained teachers. What are the new ones like?’

‘They’re lovely and so in sympathy with the Stonewylde ethos. Do you remember some of the disasters we had in the early days, trying to find suitable teachers?’ Miranda chuckled, warming to her favourite subject. ‘But recruiting from the Druid communities was such a good idea. They seem to be totally in tune with Stonewylde and how we live and there’s no conflict of philosophy at all. I like both our new recruits, especially David the art teacher. Merewen’s far too busy with the Pottery to teach full time and she’s delighted to hand over her teaching to him. He seems really good.’

‘Do I detect a bit of a love interest there, Mum?’ laughed Sylvie. ‘I saw him the other day and he looks nice.’

‘Not from me, I can assure you!’ said Miranda. ‘Once bitten, twice shy. I’m perfectly happy, thank you, with more than enough on my plate running our education system here. I love it, Sylvie, really love it, and there’s Rufus to care for, and you, and my little grand-daughters. Oh no, the last thing I’d want is some man to mess it all up again. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we see Dawn taking an interest. They were having a good old chat yesterday and she seemed very animated.’

‘Really? That’s brilliant! It’s about time she found herself a man and settled down. She must be thirty now, or maybe thirty-one? I’m sure she wants children of her own.’

‘Yes but I don’t want to lose her from the primary school. She’s a great head-teacher. I’ll have to warn her off David if I think she’ll abandon us.’

‘She’d never do that, Mum – she’s as passionate a teacher as you are. I think it’d be wonderful. She’s a lovely woman and she deserves to find her soul-mate.’

‘Not everyone’s as lucky as you, Sylvie,’ said Miranda. ‘What you and Yul have is quite extraordinary. Most people never find that complete harmony.’

‘I know, but remember – Yul has a mistress too.’

Miranda’s mouth dropped open.

‘No, Mum, don’t be silly! I meant Stonewylde – I must share my husband with her! Stonewylde is his life, just as much as I or the girls are. I can’t compete with her and she’s far more demanding than all of us put together. I get what’s left of Yul when she’s had her fill of his time and energy.’

‘Well maybe you should be more demanding, Sylvie. Where is he? I’ll go now as I’m sure he’ll be up any minute, won’t he? Try and get him to ease off a bit and spend more time with his family. And Rufus too please, if possible. He’s never had a father and he thinks the world of Yul.’ She stood up and bent to kiss her daughter. ‘You tell him, Sylvie. Not just for Rufus but for you and the girls too. He’s neglecting you and it’s just not necessary – there are plenty of others around to help run the community and he doesn’t have to take it on single-handed. I don’t like to see you all alone up here in the evening.’

When Miranda had gone, Sylvie left the lamp on just in case Yul did come up, and made her way to bed. It was chilly, and as she slid between the fine linen sheets she shivered with longing. She imagined him yawning, stretching his long limbs, running his hands through his dark curls and giving her that special smile that made her melt inside. He’d hold her in his arms, warming her with his vitality and passion, kissing her hard, brushing her hair from her face, murmuring his love for her … Sylvie sighed. It wasn’t going to happen. He’d have made the bed up in the office, as he often did when he worked late. She wouldn’t see him until he joined them for breakfast, with the girls jumping all over him and the day’s demands already jostling for his attention.

She turned the bedside light off and lay there alone, gazing out at the moon. It was just visible through the latticed panes, at its zenith now, a small shiny disc. Sylvie suddenly felt unutterably sad. She shut her eyes against the silver reminder of youthful passion and the hot tears that had welled up behind her lids.

In the study downstairs Yul looked up from the papers spread about him on the old leather-topped desk and rubbed the back of his aching neck. He hadn’t experienced Sylvie’s qualms about using his father’s things at all; in fact he took delight in doing so. He tapped some figures into the computer and printed out a couple more sheets. The illiterate Village boy had gone forever, all traces of him obliterated in this confident, articulate man of the world. At almost twenty-nine, Yul was in his prime and had exceeded his earlier promise. He was as tall and well-muscled as his father had been, fit and powerful. His chiselled face had lost all boyishness and was a study of fine, classical bones and strong planes. Yet the slanted, deep grey eyes still smouldered beneath a tousle of wild black curls.

Yul nodded as he scanned the sheets of paper; Harold had come up with yet another idea for the company and Yul was sure he was onto something promising. Stonewylde toiletries – rosemary soap, lilac bath oil, watercress face wash – a range of pure and organic products attractively presented in tiny hand-woven wicker baskets. It wasn’t an original idea, but, as ever, Harold had done his research and found there was a huge market for luxury, home-grown toiletries. Harold had such a talent for sniffing out opportunities and Yul had learned that going with his ideas invariably paid off.

Harold had even located an under-used barn near the Village which could be easily converted into a cottage-style factory to produce the soaps and oils. All Yul needed to do was give him the go-ahead and Harold would set the wheels in motion, organising prototypes and preparing finely-adjusted costings. Best of all, it was women’s work – not taking any labour away from food production or maintenance and building work, which at traditional Stonewylde still tended to be done by the burlier men. Even the children and old ones could help make the little baskets as everyone was expected to make some contribution to the community’s economy. This was just the right sort of money-making scheme to add to the ever-growing portfolio, and Yul was delighted.

Yawning, he switched off the computer and stood up, stretching hugely and feeling his spine realign with a crack. His body ached from sitting still too long. He’d have liked to ride Skydancer now, galloping along Dragon’s Back in the moonlight with the cold air on his face. But if he went to the stables now he’d wake people and then they’d wait for him to come back. He’d have to make do with a long, hard early morning ride instead.

Yul strode across to the French windows and flung them wide, welcoming the crisp October night air. He stepped out onto the terrace overlooking the sunken garden where Sylvie had sat and talked with Professor Siskin all those years before. He breathed deeply, drawing in lungfuls of air. The brilliant moon was visible as it hung on high, just clearing the edge of the vast building and all its turrets, roofs and chimney stacks.

Yul stood absolutely still then, his breath clouding around him as he looked up at the moon. He felt a stirring deep inside, a primeval need that Stonewylde had bred into him. Tonight the women were ripe, and as the dominant male it was his duty to ensure the survival of the tribe. He smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the instinctive urge and quelled it with an intellectual denial. He had two children and the community couldn’t survive any more population increase or in-breeding. He wouldn’t be out and about indulging his moon lust as generations before him had done, but would instead do the civilised thing and quietly go to bed.

Yul turned his back on the moon and the night and stepped into his study, leaving the French windows slightly ajar for the fresh air. He used the adjoining small bathroom and then quickly made up his bed on a sofa. He stretched out his long limbs and closed his eyes, thinking longingly of his beautiful wife upstairs alone in their bed. He was sure Sylvie would’ve gone to sleep ages ago and he didn’t want to disturb her. He found it impossible to sleep in the same bed and not make love to her, but it wasn’t fair to wake her up so late. By staying down in the study he’d contain himself and let her sleep in peace.

Yul was careful not to impose himself on Sylvie, not to be selfish or demanding. She’d retained that air of fragility and delicacy that had clung to her as a girl; as a woman she still seemed to command a gentle touch. Yul knew how important it was to keep his wildness and constant desire for her curbed and under tight control. He wanted her no less now than he had as a young lad, when such a thing had been an impossibility. Yet now, he thought wryly, when he could have her company whenever he chose, he seemed to have less time with her than ever before. Real life got in the way of their relationship to an extent he’d never envisaged. But it couldn’t be helped and there was no point dwelling on what couldn’t be. Stonewylde must come first; they both understood that.

All around him, the Hall sank into slumber. The huge building, a many-storeyed labyrinth of wings, rooms, corridors and staircases, settled down for the night like a great beast. So many people, so much stone, glass and wood, all under his control and his guardianship. As Yul drifted off to sleep the moon moved round further, to begin its descent in the night sky. It shone on his closed eyelids and he dreamed of hares and an owl and a great standing stone on the hill. He dreamed of a magical dancing girl with long silver hair and the moon in her eyes, a girl who’d set him on fire with longing and who’d turned his life on its head. In his sleep, with moonbeams patterning his face, Yul was pierced suddenly with a sharp sense of loss.

L
everet was up long before dawn and out of the cottage before Maizie awoke; she needed to get the mushrooms safely stored before her mother could interfere. The October morning was cool and damp and there was no light whatsoever; the changes at Stonewylde had not included street lights. All Villagers knew the streets blindfolded and Leveret could’ve stood under any of the massive trees on the Green and said exactly where she was just by the feel of the bark. So finding her way to Mother Heggy’s home in complete darkness was no problem at all.

Thirteen years had taken their toll on the ancient cottage. After his sad discovery on the morning of that Winter Solstice, Yul had removed a few keepsakes and closed it up. Occasionally he’d brought his little sister up to the cottage, unbeknown to Maizie. He’d told the little girl of the wise old crone who’d lived there with her crow, the same bird that now lived with them. Leveret had been enthralled, sitting in the battered rocking chair with her little leather boots barely reaching the edge of the seat and gazing around the hovel in wonderment. She’d confided to him, when she was about six, that one day she’d be the Wise Woman of Stonewylde. Yul had laughed and said it was a brave ambition.

Yul never visited the old cottage now, having no time for such nostalgia. He never gazed, as he’d first done, at the empty wooden rocking chair, or the battered table, or the filthy old range and fireplace where no cauldron would ever bubble again. The place had been left to the elements and stood forlorn and deserted. But Leveret had continued to visit, coming here alone as soon as she was old enough to slip away unnoticed. This was her place of refuge, and where she longed to live one day.

Leveret opened the door silently and slipped in. She found the matches and candle on the shelf and soon the tiny cottage flickered to life. Leveret sighed with relief – she felt safe now. She opened the dresser cupboards and found the things she needed, then began to carefully thread her basketful of mushrooms onto twine. When she’d finished she hung them from a rafter along with the many other strings of fungi, all in various stages of desiccation. She made a small label and attached it to the end of the new string, then sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, rocking gently. She longed for a creature to join her, remembering Mother Heggy’s old crow. Leveret had grown up with that crow, which had lived a further eight cantankerous years before finally succumbing to old age and a cold winter. This cottage needed an animal or bird, but Leveret knew that whatever belonged here would find the place when it was ready.