Ravenswood Hall

By E. Atkinson

"Ravenswood Hall' is a historical novel set in the 19th century. We follow Edgar Tirips, whose estranged mother has just died, leaving him the family home. He returns to England, unaware of the dark history that the house contains, where he takes up the reins of the family estate, aided by the irascible m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Free Spirit
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9789395193221

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Ravenswood Hall

The Grace Beale Series

Volume 1

E. Atkinson

All Rights Reserved

Published By

Free Spirit

RAVENSWOOD HALL

Copyright © 2022 E. Atkinson.

Written by E. Atkinson.

First Edition October 2022

Cover Designed By Koni Deraz, Germany

Book Designed By Laura Antonioli, England

Edited By Kaneez Zehra

Author photograph By Christiaan Kirkness

christiaankirkness.wixsite.com/my-site

ISBN: 978-93-95193-22-1

Price: $25

BCID: 546-16688381

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This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Publisher Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

References

To my husband Andrew

for his belief in me.

Chapter One

Lucerne in late autumn is a truly picturesque place. As I sat gazing out of the window of my small apartment in Altstadt I could hear the faint burble of the River Reuss in the distance. Now and again the clop of horses’ hooves accompanied by the rumble of carriage wheels would sound over the cobblestones in the market square.

Pulling my gaze away from the window, I looked again at the letter from James Erskine, Solicitor, EC4, London. The missive was brief and to the point. My mother was dead. Ordinarily, this should raise a feeling of grief in most people, but my mother and I had been estranged for many years because of my choice of career (drawing master). Yes my lifestyle, which had been hedonistic, even quite dissolute at worst. According to the letter, she had left me her entire estate, which was hardly surprising as I am her son, an only child.

I could imagine her begrudging instruction to J. Erskine Esq. as to the contents of her will. Had she had any other relatives I know she would have favoured them instead, but with no other family, I was Hobson’s choice. The main content of the will was some bonds, a moderate amount in a bank account and the family home, Ravenswood Hall in Suffolk, England.

Home, if I could call it that, was neither particularly happy nor unhappy for me. My father died when I was five and I then became the sole focus of my mother’s thwarted ambitions and frustrations. I would catch her looking at me in unguarded moments, as if she partly wished I wasn’t there. As a boy I would take myself off into the garden and as I grew older went for long walks through the Suffolk countryside. I came to really love the rural landscape and would spend hours walking and observing nature. I believe that was what led me to study drawing and painting, trying to replicate the scenes I would see on my lonely rambles.

Once I was old enough, I was packed off to boarding school in north England to spend my educational years feeling constantly cold and hungry accompanied by the sound of incessant school bells, which seemed to accompany any schooling in nineteenth century England. On completing my secondary education my mother had ambitions for me to become a doctor but I could never stand the sight of blood and the thought of listening to peoples’ ailments all day did not appeal. After obtaining an Arts degree at Cambridge, I advertised myself as a drawing/painting master and with the recommendation of a friend at university began tutoring the daughter of a mutual acquaintance.

This family lived in north Yorkshire and I spent many hours walking over the moors and enjoying the breathtaking scenery from the top of the fells. On fine days I would take my portable easel, paints and brushes and would sit in the watery sunshine painting landscapes through all the different seasons.

This idyllic situation could have continued indefinitely if it wasn’t for one fly in the ointment, the daughter I was tutoring. She was a lovely young girl on the cusp of womanhood, and having no other suitable male role model (apart from her obese and overbearing father) decided that all her developing emotions and sexual awakenings were focused upon me. Seeing as they employed me in a position of trust the attachment she was forming towards me was becoming very uncomfortable if not downright dangerous.

After many hours of thought, I decided the safest decision was to tender my resignation, citing ill health and travel to the Continent. I spent the next few years travelling through Europe, but sightseeing can only provide so much occupation, and after a while, I began to feel unfulfilled and without purpose.

Although I enjoyed my time in France, Germany and Italy, I found Switzerland suited me both climatically and culturally. An annoying and persistent cough had plagued me for some years in the damp weather of northern England, and I thought the fresh mountain air would benefit my overall health and wellbeing. With glowing letters of reference from my previous employers, I secured a position with a family in Lucerne tutoring their children in drawing and painting. Now my present life had been intruded upon by the letter arriving from London.

The timing was inconvenient if there can be any good time to die. It would take me a few weeks to set my affairs in order because of having to provide one month’s notice to my employer and then booking my passage back to England. I contemplated leaving it until the New Year, but the weather could be quite unpleasant through to as late as April, so I resolved that there was no time like the present.

The solicitor had enclosed a brief but instructive letter as to the approximate state of the house and adjacent farm. The staff at the Hall was comprised of the current housekeeper named Crabbe, a local woman from the village who came in to clean once a week and the estate manager called Phelps. That was the total of my employees, not including the casual farm labourers and seasonal workers who came to help with the shearing.

Sitting back and reading the letter for the second time, I suddenly realized that I was now a man of property and whether or not I liked it, I was obliged to return to England and take up the reins of the family home and its contents.

Over the next few weeks I sold most of my possessions and booked my passage on the train to France and onwards by ship to London. I set my affairs in order with my landlord and began to pack my few remaining belongings. As a single gentleman of limited means, I barely filled two leather bags. These would be easy to carry and lift into overhead baggage racks or stowed under a seat.

I said my farewells to my employers and their children, paid off my accounts with a couple of local businesses, and finally shut the door on my apartment.

I turned and looked for the last time at the old clock tower in Altstadt. I would miss it’s chiming the quarter-hour and the view of the River Reuss in the distance. I felt an odd sense of belonging nowhere and being adrift in some sort of no mans’ land, I was alone and had no surviving family and faced an unknown future. Unusually this prospect did not fill me with dread, but excitement as I felt I was at a crossroads in my life. I could turn down this path or the other, and each way would bring fresh challenges and experiences.

Hoisting one bag over my left shoulder and picking up the other, I crossed the cobbled street and hailed a fly to take me to the station.

Chapter Two

For a man in his mid-twenties who had known a small town for the last few years, the prospect of a journey filled me with excited anticipation bordering on apprehension. I would take a train through Germany to the northwest coast of France and there connect with a ship bound for London. From London, I would board the mail coach to Ipswich, stay a night at the Great White Horse in the centre, and then continue on the following day to Ravenswood Hall a few miles further – deeper into the countryside.

The morning was a dull, overcast one. I settled into one of the second-class carriages after stowing my bags in the rack above my seat. The whistle blew, and the train chugged out of the station.

We proceeded at a smart pace through the Swiss countryside and made good time to the first stop. Here an elderly man got in and joined me along with his numerous cases. He was quite tall, very thin and smartly dressed. He looked at me somewhat oddly when he took his seat but produced a book from his leather document case and began reading.

We continued in silence for some way until we were well into the heart of Germany. For my part, I mainly looked out of the window at the countryside sliding past the puffing train. After a while, my companion gave a deep sigh and closed his book, placing it on the seat next to him. For the first time since he had joined the train, he looked at me full in the face. You have not been well, he remarked, more than a statement than a question.

Startled by his abrupt foray into a conversation, I blurted, No, I have had a persistent cough for some time, which is why I moved to Switzerland from England, hoping that the alpine air would help my lungs. He considered this for a moment.

Whilst he did this, I was able to better observe his face, which was not exactly handsome in the traditional sense but was what some people would call attractive. He possessed a wide forehead with high cheekbones, a straight nose leading to a strong chin with a firm mouth. Large grey eyes rested upon me now with a small frown.

Where are you headed now? He enquired.

To England, I have come into a recent inheritance and am going there to take up the reins of a new life.

And your old life?

My old life, I replied, I am not sure.

You appear somewhat vague about your previous abode and occupation for such a young man.

I am merely between worlds, Sir that is all I meant.

He looked at me oddly with those clear eyes that reminded me of a winter sky.

Indeed, it would appear that you are between one life and another. I wish you all the best with your future endeavours.

I murmured some bland reply and thanked him for his good wishes.

After that, we both lapsed into silence, me watching the passing vista and he back to his novel, although now and again I was aware of him surreptitiously glancing at me from under his eyelashes.

Eventually, after some hours, the clouds parted, and the sun started to peep through. I opened the sash window in the door in order to get a little fresh air into the carriage. A salty tang wafted in, which led me to believe that we were nearing the coast.

My fellow traveller seemed to have lapsed into a light doze as we began the descent towards the coast and the ferry port. He slowly roused himself and fixed me with that direct gaze.

You must look after your health, he said to me, his head on one side.

Thank you, I replied with some confusion.

It is most important that you avoid damp conditions and cold air: they are extremely bad for the lungs. I was a field doctor during the wars, and my experiences told me something of these things.

Well, I responded, the place to which I am travelling is my old childhood home, and from what I remember, it is situated on a slight hill overlooking an estuary in the Suffolk countryside so that I will be surrounded by clear, fresh air.

Indeed? Well, that is comforting to hear.

With that, the distinguished gentleman gathered his belongings in readiness for disembarkation. I followed suit, although I had somewhat less baggage to organise.

The train gradually slowed as it approached the terminus, and I could hear the faint scream of gulls as we approached the coast.

We slowly drew into the station, and once the train had stopped armed with my two bags, I slid open the carriage door and disembarked whilst taking a good healthy lungful of sea air. My journey was about to take on a new dimension, and walking along the platform, I spied a row of hansoms waiting to transport connecting passengers to the ship.

I was decanted at the port, and after a refreshing pot of tea and a slightly stale scone, I stood upon the quayside watching as the ship docked and the lines were thrown ashore. I was astounded at the crew’s speed and efficiency as they cast their lines to the waiting stevedores who tied the ship to the enormous bollards that dotted the quay.

After a brief period during which the gangplank was lowered and secured, we began to board the ship. My heart lifted to feel the dip and swell of the vessel beneath my feet, and I began to anticipate my journey across the Channel to England and then onward to my old childhood home. Whilst I did not relish the prospect of putting my late mother’s affairs in order, I was curious to see Ravenswood Hall again – to revisit the old sights and sounds of my childhood. I sincerely hoped that a change of scenery would awaken my artistic capabilities and, with that, enable me to create something of my own rather than teaching others to copy and ape the masters of old.

My modest funds afforded me a small cabin, which I shared with three other occupants, and to this I retired as it was to be a night-time crossing. I barely had time to undress and complete a very minimal toilette before I rolled into my bunk and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The first thing I registered on waking was the scream of gulls and the shouting of men as we tied up alongside the quay in London. Sitting up in my bunk, I peered through the small porthole in the side of the ship and perceived several pairs of feet running to and fro in front of my nose. Realising we had docked and that disembarkation would begin shortly, I hastily got up, dressed and gathered my belongings and joined my fellow passengers awaiting further instructions. A rough sailor came down the gangway stairs and shouted, Disembarkation in five minutes! before disappearing up the stairs again to carry on doing whatever sailors do when a large ship arrives in port.

After a short wait, we began filing off the vessel, and I got my first look at the Pool of London and the stretch of the River Thames alongside Billingsgate. Being adjacent to the fish market explained the number of herring gulls that filled the sky above us, and in the distance, I noted a small row of hansoms waiting to convey passengers to other destinations.

The Royal Mail Coach to Ipswich was a night-time journey, as the roads were less busy and we could make better speed, so I had nearly the whole day to amuse myself in London. I looked forward to spending a pleasant day taking in some of the sights and reacquainting myself with my fellow countrymen.

I made for Covent Garden market. Being so early in the morning, I caught the stallholders’ cries as each one outdid each other to gain the attention of passing buyers.

Fresh fish! One stout lady called, her face reddened by the cold and the effort of shouting.

Best flowers! Yelled another, as she displayed baskets of flowers for the passers-by to look at and inspect.

I wandered up and down the stalls, picking up this and that, smelling, tasting, touching until eventually, I reached one of the last stalls. A small, dirty little boy operated this.

Buttons, gov’nor, he called softly. I looked into his filthy, pinched face. How old was he? Nine, ten? Maybe even younger, and on his own too, trying to ply his wares.

I stopped in front of his stall, not because I