Dr. Phyllida Stone reached into the drawer of the old oak desk and pulled out a tissue. Removing her glasses, she gently patted the perspiration from her face, neck and from around the opening of her blouse. Glancing up at the clock on her wall, she collected together the brown files from the heavily patinated desk top, briefly fanned herself with them, and then placed them neatly in the âoutâ tray. She straightened her skirt and walked out of her office and down to the fresh air outside.
She stood in the middle of the doorway and as she closed her eyes she felt the welcome chill of the November air. Leaning against a sturdy stone pillar, she contemplated the breathtaking view in front of her. Goodford Estateâs imposing landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, flanked on either side by two rows of mighty elm trees. On this clear day, the early afternoon sunshine was working its way westward across the lawn and thawing the previous nightâs frost. Phyllida was appreciating these few moments away from her duties in the house, as well as the chance to take some of the weight off her feet, which were starting to ache in the long black velvet boots. She sprung to attention, however, when she saw Professor Lancing striding across from the courtyard towards her.
âProfessorâŚâ she began. âAh, Dr. Stone, Iâve been looking for you. I wanted to let you know that I wonât be able to stay and help you with cataloguing in the East Wing tonight. Somethingâs come up, Iâm afraidâ. Phyllida frowned. âHowever, young Mr. Andrews has agreed to stand in for meâ. Her face wrinkled again.
âVery well, Professor, Iâm sure heâll cope with the taskâ she replied. He went through the buildingâs main entrance, while she remained a minute or so outside. She took a few steps and looked up at the façade of the huge Italianate palace, an excellent example, she reminded herself, of the Palladian style and the work of the Venetian architect Leoni. It had become her consuming passion over these past eight years; she was familiar with the provenance and location of every detail, inside and out. From the acres of woodland, parkland and formal gardens to the interior with its renowned eighteenth century rococo decoration, she was a true expert on Goodford.
Returning inside, she lingered outside the door of her office and the brass plaque attached to it. She ran her fingers over the letters and felt a small swell of pride at them: âHead Curator of Collectionsâ. A clock somewhere struck two. She was disappointed not to be working with Professor Lancing after closing tonight, more so because of the last minute change â Ben Andrews. Such an amateur, she thought to herself. And no respect for what was sacred. He didnât care for the estate the way she did, he had barely been in the job for three months. But one couldnât really expect any better considering his background. A second-class degree from one of the so-called ânewâ universitiesâŚhardly qualified for such a job. He certainly wouldnât be here if she had any say in the matter, but Professor Lancing had gone behind her back. Andrews was so unprofessional, didnât even bother to wear a suit to work. Thought he could get his own way just because he was attractive. She checked herself. Attractive to some.
She went to her desk and read some new emails. They related to a long-awaited project of hers, the restoration of the Great Bed. It was over four hundred years old and badly in need of some upkeep. The memos were confirming that it would be removed from the Red Bedroom the following day and taken to the restorerâs.
At six that evening, most of the house was in darkness. The last visitors, cleaners and other staff had left. Ben Andrews knocked loudly on Phyllidaâs door and strode in before waiting for a reply. This was a habit of his that she found particularly irritating.
âHi, Phyl, ready to get started?â he enquired, flashing his usual wide grin and sparkling grey eyes. âGood evening, Mr. Andrewsâ. She looked him up and down, and slightly shook her head. She felt it more than a little inappropriate to turn up for work in those dark jeans, black loafers and white shirt with no tie. He sensed what she was feeling and quietened his tone.
âIâll just wait in the Heaven Room,â he said, as he tried to keep sounding cheerful.
The houseâs exhibits hung in silence. All the houseâs owners had been prolific collectors. A large numbers of the works of art on show were acquired by the fifth earl, John Lawrence, on the Grand Tour undertaken by all young men of aristocratic families. He had taken in the classical sites of Rome and Athens, and consequently brought an immense collection of antiquities and paintings back to Derbyshire on his return.
It was these which Phyllida gazed up at admiringly as she made her way, laptop computer under one arm, through the Blue Gallery towards the East Wing. The collection of oil paintings, varying from allegorical and religious scenes to family portraits, was her favourite aspect of her job. She paused in front of one of them. The small plaque underneath read âThomas William Lawrence, Sixth Earl of Goodford, painting by Pompeo Batoni dated 1774â. A young man in an expensive and sumptuous silk suit, adorned with lace and bows, reclined arrogantly next to a marble Venus. The painterâs hand skilfully suggested every fold and curve of the sensuous fabrics and surfaces. Phyllida stepped over to the next painting on the wall. Its label announced it as âMrs Mary Robinson by George Romney, 1781â. A woman of about thirty years old stared out at the viewer, her features strong and well balanced, but not exactly pretty. Phyllida recalled that the woman had enjoyed a brief fling with the Prince of Wales around the time of the painting. She felt uncomfortable at this thought, perhaps even experiencing a pang of jealousy. She had been single and living alone for what seemed like an age. She surveyed a few more works, the floorboards underneath her creaking loudly until she came to what was by far her favourite.
âJane, Lady Lawrence. By François Boucher 1743â read the legend. Phyllidaâs heart fluttered at the sight of the huge framed canvas, a large as life representation of the notorious wife of the Fourth Earl who was rumoured to have had her husband murdered so she could marry a French duke. She lived a life of idleness and pleasure, and in the painting she reclined lazily on a couch, absentmindedly leafing through a book while gazing at her reflection in the mirror next to her. Around the voluptuous Lady Jane in her beribboned green silk gown, flowers were dropped to the floor, a letter sat half-written, and one of her tiny pink slippers hung off her foot. She was clearly a kept woman, her porcelain-white skin and luxurious apartment testifying that her lifestyle was one devoted to indulgence and beauty. The dress was typical of its time in that it showed off the bosom, which was made more prominent by the restrictive corsets. Phyllida noticed that she had begun to blush, and to breathe a little more huskily. She admitted to herself that she had a little crush on the beautiful Lady Jane.
She continued through to the Heaven Room, so called because the walls and ceiling were completely covered by painted trompe-lâoeil murals of columns and a host of putti and other angels, intended to give the impression that one had stepped into the afterlife. Ben sauntered over to her, his hands in his back pockets. She laid her computer down on a table and they walked in silence to a panel in the wall that opened up into a small hidden room. This windowless chamber originally housed an on-call manservant to attend the master, but these days it contained part of the houseâs archive. Coughing slightly in the oppressive, dusty air, the two searched the shelves for the volumes they needed.
âIâve never stayed here after dark,â ventured Ben in an attempt to break the awkward silence. âI hope we donât have any spooky visitorsâ.
âDo you refer to that old wivesâ tale about the murdered earl?â said Phyllida, tutting. âWhole load of nonsenseâŚâ
âDonât you think itâs an interesting idea, though, that he fell from the bell tower in such suspicious circumstances? And that so many people claim to have seen him, accompanied by the sound of tolling bells?â He related this last remark in a dramatic tone and with his eyes bulging out, while wiggling his hands in front of her.
âMr. Andrews, if I was susceptible to such superstitious and exaggâŚâ
Suddenly in the Heaven Room, a clock began to strike. Phyllida was startled and dropped the book she was holding as she grabbed Benâs arms for support. Her heart pounded in her chest as he began to chuckle. He saw the expression on her face and asked gently if she was OK. A quiet âyesâ was all she could manage. She looked into his eyes for a moment. She noted that his arms were very strong and well toned. Composing herself, she picked up the heavy leather-bound tome from the floor and dusted it off.
Half an hour or so later, the pair were deeply involved in their work, cross-referencing the centuries-old purchase ledgers with their own inventory of the East wing. Phyllida was perched on the edge of a chair, keying information into the laptop, while Ben preferred to sprawl on a rug, while he scribbled notes onto a pad. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on the screen because Ben continually played with his shaggy brown hair. She was thinking how the few grey strands were the only giveaway to his years, as his face and figure remained irritatingly youthful. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his tanned arms and hands, which she was admiring when he looked up at her.
âDo you live locally?â he enquired, trying once again to break the tense atmosphere.
