house. It was a self-imposed incarceration, for I had a fear of both those dreary marshes and the ghost who haunted them.
My spirits were revived a little when I looked out of my window some hours later and saw that the snow that had been falling steadily since my meeting with Sir Stephen had settled thickly. Allthe wide sweep of land thereabouts was covered in such a thick white blanket that the house now appeared to soar above the clouds, and for a moment my soul felt as though it had taken flight along with it.
Nothing lifts the mood like new-fallen snow. I can think of no ills that would not be lightened by two or three well-aimed snowballs. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that dismal house and run out into that gleaming whiteness. I decided to explore the island on which Hawton Mere was standing.
To one side of the house was a garden, part of which was formal, with clipped yews standing like pieces in an abandoned game of chess – albeit a giant one. The other part was a kitchen garden, from which Mrs Guston got many of her vegetables and herbs. There were chickens too, and a henhouse for them to live in.
Where the moat widened to a kind of lake, there was a boathouse with a rowing boat, though both looked in a sorry state of neglect. Nearby, a huge wooden buttress was stacked against the old walls like a bookend.
But I soon exhausted the possibilities of this island, and I decided that I must once more crossthe moat and get some space and good air about me. The snow now carpeted the marshes and it seemed a new place, brighter and less threatening – much less threatening than the house that towered over me. I crossed the bridge and instantly felt as though I could breathe more freely.
It was a cold morning. The sky was now lined with a thin coating of cloud and occasionally snow would once again fall in fitful flurries. Clarence joined me, though he soon grew bored and, after chasing a passing magpie, he trotted back towards the house.
I busied myself in the construction of a snowman, whose rotund features put me happily in mind of good old Mr Bentley. After its completion I decided to walk the whole circuit of the moat and then head back into the house where I would warm my toes in front of the fire in the kitchen.
Hawton Mere looked as massive as ever. I found myself stopping and staring up at Sir Stephen’s spire-topped tower, wondering about the man inside and just what part he had played in the tragic events at the house. Was it grief or remorse that laid him low? Was it guilt that held him prisoner here?
I rounded the whole house, edging past thebloated part of the moat. The ground near the water became more uneven and swamp-like with the frosted and blackened leaves and seed heads of reeds and bulrushes. I was forced further out into the surrounding marsh, stepping from hummock to hummock in avoidance of the frozen bog between.
I eventually made my way back to the bridge and walked beyond it to stand beneath the window to my room. As I did so I realised that when I saw Lady Clarendon’s ghost, she was staring up intently at a certain part of the house and I had a suspicion what that might be.
I walked back towards the bridge a few yards until I stood where I thought she had stood and looked up. There was the stone balcony, with an arched door leading on to it – the same place I had imagined seeing something fall.
As I stood there gazing up at it, I heard a strange noise nearby. It began with a sound like chalk on a wet slate: a squeaking and squealing as the ice in front of me began to crack. The noise was so high-pitched that it was painful to hear and I placed my hands over my ears to shut it out.
Looking down at the moat I saw something loom up out of the filthy depths of the water andup towards the thick ice. It was just a shape at first, a darkness in among the icy grey, but then it came into focus. Lady Clarendon’s face stared up at me from beneath the ice, not with wildness or
My spirits were revived a little when I looked out of my window some hours later and saw that the snow that had been falling steadily since my meeting with Sir Stephen had settled thickly. Allthe wide sweep of land thereabouts was covered in such a thick white blanket that the house now appeared to soar above the clouds, and for a moment my soul felt as though it had taken flight along with it.
Nothing lifts the mood like new-fallen snow. I can think of no ills that would not be lightened by two or three well-aimed snowballs. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that dismal house and run out into that gleaming whiteness. I decided to explore the island on which Hawton Mere was standing.
To one side of the house was a garden, part of which was formal, with clipped yews standing like pieces in an abandoned game of chess – albeit a giant one. The other part was a kitchen garden, from which Mrs Guston got many of her vegetables and herbs. There were chickens too, and a henhouse for them to live in.
Where the moat widened to a kind of lake, there was a boathouse with a rowing boat, though both looked in a sorry state of neglect. Nearby, a huge wooden buttress was stacked against the old walls like a bookend.
But I soon exhausted the possibilities of this island, and I decided that I must once more crossthe moat and get some space and good air about me. The snow now carpeted the marshes and it seemed a new place, brighter and less threatening – much less threatening than the house that towered over me. I crossed the bridge and instantly felt as though I could breathe more freely.
It was a cold morning. The sky was now lined with a thin coating of cloud and occasionally snow would once again fall in fitful flurries. Clarence joined me, though he soon grew bored and, after chasing a passing magpie, he trotted back towards the house.
I busied myself in the construction of a snowman, whose rotund features put me happily in mind of good old Mr Bentley. After its completion I decided to walk the whole circuit of the moat and then head back into the house where I would warm my toes in front of the fire in the kitchen.
Hawton Mere looked as massive as ever. I found myself stopping and staring up at Sir Stephen’s spire-topped tower, wondering about the man inside and just what part he had played in the tragic events at the house. Was it grief or remorse that laid him low? Was it guilt that held him prisoner here?
I rounded the whole house, edging past thebloated part of the moat. The ground near the water became more uneven and swamp-like with the frosted and blackened leaves and seed heads of reeds and bulrushes. I was forced further out into the surrounding marsh, stepping from hummock to hummock in avoidance of the frozen bog between.
I eventually made my way back to the bridge and walked beyond it to stand beneath the window to my room. As I did so I realised that when I saw Lady Clarendon’s ghost, she was staring up intently at a certain part of the house and I had a suspicion what that might be.
I walked back towards the bridge a few yards until I stood where I thought she had stood and looked up. There was the stone balcony, with an arched door leading on to it – the same place I had imagined seeing something fall.
As I stood there gazing up at it, I heard a strange noise nearby. It began with a sound like chalk on a wet slate: a squeaking and squealing as the ice in front of me began to crack. The noise was so high-pitched that it was painful to hear and I placed my hands over my ears to shut it out.
Looking down at the moat I saw something loom up out of the filthy depths of the water andup towards the thick ice. It was just a shape at first, a darkness in among the icy grey, but then it came into focus. Lady Clarendon’s face stared up at me from beneath the ice, not with wildness or
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