Silent in the Sanctuary

“Oh, it is a very peaceful place. I cannot think of any place I would rather die.” She smiled broadly, baring her pretty, white teeth, and Alessandro returned the smile, still looking a trifle hesitant.

“There,” I said, nodding to a bit of grey stone soaring above the trees. “There is Bellmont Abbey.”

The drive curved then and the trees parted to give a magnificent view of the old place. Seven hundred years earlier, Cistercians had built it as a monument to their order. Austere and simple, it was an elegant complex of buildings, exquisitely framed by the landscape and bordered by a wide moat, carp ponds, and verdant fields beyond. The monks and lay brothers had laboured there for four hundred years, communing with God in peace and tranquillity. Then Henry VIII had come, stomping across England like a petulant child.

“King Henry VIII acquired the Abbey during the Dissolution,” I told Alessandro. “He gave it to the seventh Earl March, who mercifully altered the structure very little. You’ll notice some very fine stained glass in the great tracery windows. The Cistercians had only plain glass, but the earl wanted something a bit grander. And he ordered some interior walls put up to create smaller apartments inside the sanctuary.”

Alessandro, a devout Catholic, looked pained. “The church itself, it was unconsecrated?”

“Well, naturally. It was a very great space, after all. The Chapel of the Nine Altars was made into a sort of great hall. You will see it later. That is where the family gathers with guests before dinner. Many of the other rooms were left untouched, but I’m afraid the transepts and the chapels were all converted for family use.”

Alessandro said nothing, but his expression was still aggrieved. I patted his hand. “There is still much to see of the original structure. The nave was kept as a sort of hall. It runs the length of the Abbey and many of the rooms open off of it. And the original Galilee Tower on the west side is still intact. There is even a guest room just above. Perhaps we can arrange to have you lodged there.”

Alessandro smiled thinly and looked back at the towering arches, pointing the way to heaven.

“How wonderful it looks,” I breathed.

“That it does,” Plum echoed. He looked rather moved to be home again, and I remembered then it had been nearly five years since he had seen the place.

“È una casa molto impressionante,” Alessandro murmured.

The great gate was open, beckoning us into the outer ward. A long boundary wall ran around the perimeter. Original to the Abbey, it was dotted with watchtowers, some crumbling to ruin. Just across the bridge and through the outer ward was the second gate, this one offering access to the inner ward and the Abbey proper. The horses clattered over the bridge, rocking the carriage from side to side. Overhead, emblazoned on the great stone lintel was a banner struck with the March family motto, Quod habeo habeo, held aloft by a pair of enormous chiselled rabbits.

“‘What I have, I hold’,” translated Alessandro. “What do they signify, the great rabbits?”

“Our family badge,” Plum informed him. “There is a saying in England, a very old one, ‘mad as a March hare’. Some folk say it is because rabbits are sprightly and full of whimsy in the spring. Others maintain the saying was born from some poor soul who spent too much time in the company of our family.”

I clucked my tongue at my brother. “Stop it, Plum. You will frighten Alessandro so he will not dare stay with us.”

Alessandro flashed me a brilliant smile. “I do not frighten so easily as that, dear lady.”

Portia coughed significantly, and I trod on her foot. We passed through the second gate then to find the inner ward ablaze with the reflected light of a hundred torchlit windows. “Ah, look! Aquinas is here.”

The carriage drew to a stop in the inner ward just as the great wooden doors swung back. Led by my butler, Aquinas, a pack of footmen and dogs swarmed out, all of them underfoot as we descended from the carriage. Aquinas had accompanied me to Italy but had returned to England as soon as he had delivered me safely into the care of my brothers. I had missed him sorely.

“My lady,” he said, bowing deeply. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Aquinas. How good it is to see you! But I am surprised. I thought Aunt Hermia wanted you to tend to the London house while they were in the country. I cannot imagine Hoots has been very welcoming.” The butler at Bellmont Abbey was a proprietary old soul. He knew every stick of furniture, every stone, every painting and tapestry, and cared for them all as if they were his children. He was jealous as a mistress of anyone’s interference in what he regarded as his domain.

“Hoots is incapacitated, my lady. The gout. His lordship has sent him to Cheltenham to take the waters.”

“Oh, well, very good. He wouldn’t be much use here, barking orders from his bed. I suppose you’ve everything well in hand?”

“Need your ladyship ask?” His tone was neutral, but I knew it for a reproach.

“I am sorry. Of course you do. Now tell us all where we are to be lodged. I am perished from thirst. A cup of tea and a hot bath would be just the thing.”

“Of course, my lady.”

The second carriage arrived then, followed hard by the baggage cart. There was a flurry of activity as I made the introductions. Plum and Lysander had met Aquinas in Rome, and Portia was a favourite of his of long-standing. But he seemed particularly pleased to meet his compatriots. He offered a gracious greeting to Alessandro and advised him that he had been assigned to the Maze Room, one of the best of the bachelor rooms.

“Oh,” I said, turning to Aquinas, pulling a face in disappointment. “I thought Count Fornacci might have the room in the Galilee Tower. Quite a treat for a guest, what with the bell just overhead.”

Alessandro shied and I gave him a soothing smile. “It never rings, I promise. It’s just an old relic from the days of the monks, and no one has bothered to take it down.”

Aquinas cut in smoothly. “I regret that one of his lordship’s guests is already in residence in the Tower Room, my lady. I believe Count Fornacci will be very comfortable in the Maze Room.”

I sighed. “Perhaps you are right. It’s warmer at least.”

Aquinas bowed to Alessandro. To Violante he was exquisitely courteous, and upon hearing his flawless Napolitana dialect, my sister-in-law embraced him, kissing him soundly on both cheeks.

“That will do, Violante,” Lysander said coldly. She ignored him, kissing Aquinas again and chattering with him in Italian. Aquinas replied, then bowed to her and addressed his remarks to Lysander.

“Mr. Lysander, I have put you and Mrs. Lysander in the Flanders Suite. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction.”

Lysander gave him a sour look, collected his wife, and disappeared into the Abbey. Aquinas turned back to the assembled party. “Lady Bettiscombe, you are in the Rose Room, and Lady Julia is next door in the Red Room. Mr. Plum, you are in the Highland Room in the bachelors’ wing. Signore Fornacci, if you will follow me, I will make certain the Maze Room is in perfect readiness for guests.”

That was as close as Aquinas would ever come to admit to being unprepared. We had arrived with an unexpected guest, but Aquinas would forgo his own supper before he let it be known that all was not completely in order. We trooped into the hallway and Aquinas turned. “His lordship is in his study. He asked not to be disturbed and said he would see all of you at dinner. The dressing bell will sound in an hour and a half. I shall order tea and baths for your rooms. I hope that these arrangements are satisfactory.”

He bowed low and turned to unleash a torrent of orders upon the footmen. In a matter of minutes we were whisked upstairs, separated according to our gender and marital status. Portia and I were in the wing reserved for single ladies and widows. Formerly the monks’ dorter, it was now the great picture gallery, with our rooms opening off of it. Dozens of March ancestors gazed down at us from their gilded frames, punctuated by enormous, extravagant candelabra and a number of antiquities, some good, some of doubtful provenance. There were statues and urns, one or two amphorae, an appalling number of simpering nymphs, and even a harp of dubious origin. No weapons though. Those were reserved for the bachelors’ wing in the former lay brothers’ dormitory. Their paintings were all martial in subject, with the occasional seascape or Constable horse to provide a respite from the bloodshed. Between them hung arquebuses and crossbows, great swords and axes for cleaving, and in between perched suits of armour, some a bit rustier and more dented than others. I preferred the ladies’ wing, for all its silly nymphs.

Some time later, after I had enjoyed a hot bath and a pot of scalding sweet tea, I was sitting in front of a roaring fire, enjoying the solitude, too drowsy to rouse myself. Morag had gone to her room to whip the fur back onto my glove. I had bribed her with a plate of fruitcake to take Florence with her, and I was very near to dozing off when there was a scratch at the door. Portia entered, already dressed in a magnificent gown of heavy oyster satin trimmed in puffs of sable.

“Portia! You do look spectacular. You will put us all to shame as country mice. What is the occasion, pray tell?”

She flopped as far as her corset would permit into a velvet gilt armchair and pulled a face. “I am meant to be the hostess, remember? I have to look the part, and make certain I am the first one in the drawing room to welcome our guests.”

“Thank heaven for that. I thought I had dozed off and slept through the dressing bell.”

Portia waved a lazy hand. “You’ve ages yet. So, what do you think of our new sister-in-law? I think she is just what Lysander needed,” she said, a trifle smugly. Lysander had been rather brutal in his criticism of Portia’s marriage to Bettiscombe, a sweet hypochondriac nearly thirty years her senior. No doubt watching Lysander and Violante bicker from London down to Blessingstoke had been rather deliciously gratifying for Portia.

“Don’t be so cattiva,” I warned her. “We have all made mistakes.” We were silent a moment—both of us, I imagine, thinking of our marital woes.

“I am rather surprised Father wasn’t present to greet us,” I put in finally, breaking the somber mood that had befallen us.

Portia shrugged. “You heard Aquinas. He is doubtless up to some mischief. I had a guest list from him in my room, so at least I know the names. Aquinas, bless him, had already ordered the meal and prepared the seating arrangements, so there was nothing for me to do but approve them.”

“And with whom shall we be dining?” I asked, yawning broadly.

“Heavens, I do not know half of them. Uncle Fly, of course, and Snow, the curate. Oh, and Father has apparently decided to begin his Christmas charity early—Emma and Lucy Phipps are here.”

“You are in a foul mood, dearest. Perhaps you’d better have some whiskey before you go down.”

She tossed a cushion at me and I caught it neatly, tucking it behind my head. “Besides, I always liked Emma and Lucy. They were nice-enough girls.”

“But so desperately poor, Julia. Did it never trouble you, the way they would simply stare into our wardrobes and fondle our clothes? And Emma always read my books without asking leave. It was rude.”

“She is our cousin! And she was our guest, in case you have forgotten.”