The Art of Inheriting Secrets(27)

“Yes.” She took off her hat, revealing a thick pelt of silver hair I could imagine she was quite vain about. “What you may not know is that I’m also the conservation officer for the local authority, and if you intend to make any changes whatsoever to the house, you’ll need permission. Rosemere Priory is the prize of the county, you know. We are very protective.”

“Yes, I’ve been getting an education in listed buildings.” I crossed my arms nervously, looked over my shoulder. Wondered if it would be better or worse to let on that the Restoration Diva herself was about to appear. “I’m not sure at all yet what I’ll do. It depends on what the consultants say.”

“Mmm.” Her mouth pinched, exaggerating the faint stain of lipstick in the vertical lines around her lips. “Well, we shall see. I hate to see it a ruin.”

“So do I.”

Her blue eyes, pale with age, rested with some hostility on my face. “You look like your grandmother.”

“I have been hearing that. Did you know her?”

“I did.” She fisted a hand on her waist and looked away. Clear enough.

“Would you tell me about the garden? I’m going to meet someone, but she isn’t here yet.”

Another woman, softer looking and somewhat younger, wearing a dotted red blouse, leapt up. “Oh, I’ll show you, Lady Shaw!”

Mrs. Stonebridge nodded. “I’ve got to get back for a meeting.” She dipped her head. “Good day. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

“Good to meet you,” I said and gave her my most dazzling smile.

The other woman introduced herself as Ann Chop, and she gave me a tour. It was a very medieval garden, with yarrow and rue, chamomile and gillyflower, all arranged into tidy geometric shapes by the low-growing boxwood.

“These are not the original plants, I assume.”

She said, “Goodness no. They’ve been replanted many times, but we work from a set of maps the monks made in 1298.”

I gaped at her. “1298? That’s incredible!”

“It’s quite wonderful. We only have copies at the garden club, of course, but the originals are in the Shrewsbury Museum. They have a lovely collection of medieval garden materials, if you’re interested.”

“Thank you. I might have a few other things to study before I can get to that, but I appreciate it.”

She smiled. “I’m sure.”

A toot on a horn made us both turn, and up the back road came a cheery red Land Rover, shiny new, with a woman behind the wheel. I waved, certain it must be Jocasta Edwards, and she waved a hand out the window. When she stopped and climbed out, Ann squeaked. “Is that the Restoration Diva?”

“I think it is.”

“Do you mind if I meet her? Is she coming to look at the house? Oooh, she’s quite tall in person, isn’t she?”

At least six feet, I calculated as she came forward, a cameraman at her heels. Her dark hair swung neatly at her shoulders, a rich mink shade, and her clothes were country appropriate but expensive: a simple blouse, a split skirt, and tall boots with low heels. She looked ready to take the dogs out for a ramble.

She was also good-looking in a way that would play well on camera—wide mouth; straight, strong nose; and penetrating dark eyes, which she fixed on me. “Lady Shaw,” she said, extending a hand. “Jocasta Edwards. Very happy to meet you.”

“Oh, please call me Olivia! This is Ann Chop, who was showing me the medicinal gardens. The garden club in Saint Ives Cross looks after them.”

“I’m such a fan,” Ann said. “I’ve watched every episode. My favorite was the season on Turlington Castle.”

“Oh, that was a good one. I love it when things work out, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thank you, dear. It breaks my heart when these old piles can’t be saved, so I do my best.” She shook Ann’s hand, then purposefully turned to introduce me to her cameraman, a man in his late twenties with a tousle of blond hair and plenty of hipster facial hair. “This is Ian, and if you don’t mind, he’ll shoot our meeting so that we can have some footage later if it works out to feature the house on the show. Is that all right?”

For a moment, I wondered if that was a good idea. Secrets might be uncovered here, things I might not want the world to know. But honestly, I was so over my head with this whole thing that the revelation of secrets that were decades or centuries old seemed minor. Jocasta had access to the kind of information I would need, going forward, and I would take what help I could get. “Sure, that’s fine.”

We did not explore the entire house, but I took her on the same basic journey Samir had taken me on last week, up the back stairs to the third floor, then down to see various highlights. She paused to have Ian film the derelict ballroom, silently assessing it, and made notes on various things along the way. She pointed her cameraman to capture the bathtub that had fallen through the floor, and I held my nose and led them to the ruined room where it looked as if there had been a campfire.

We stopped in Violet’s room, and she gasped aloud. “That painting is an Ingres.”

I looked over her shoulder. “I thought it seemed familiar.”

She stepped into the room, turning in a slow circle to look at the rest of it. “Incredible.” In the hallway, she cocked her head. “Where is the rest of the artwork?”