The Secrets of Crestwell Hall: The BRAND NEW utterly captivating, emotional timeslip novel from Alexandra Walsh for 2024

By Alexandra Walsh

‘A king adorns the throne… He has no subtlety, no grace but he does not deserve to die in the way that has been planned and this is why we shall stop them, our men, our kin and save us all.’

1605

Bess Throckmorton is well used to cunning plots and intrigues. With her husband Sir Walter Raleigh imprisoned in the Tower of London, and she and her family in a constant battle to outwit Robert Cecil, the most powerful man in the country who is determined to ruin her, Bess decides to retreat to her beloved home, Crestwell Hall. But there she is shocked to hear talk of a new plot to murder the king. So, unbeknownst to their menfolk, the wives of the plotters begin to work together to try to stop the impending disaster.

Present Day

Isabella Lacey and her daughter, Emily, are excited to be starting a new life at her aunt’s home, Crestwell Hall in Wiltshire. During renovations, Isabella discovers an ancient bible that once belonged to Bess Throckmorton, and to her astonishment finds that it doubled as a diary. As Isabella reads Bess’s story, a new version of the Gunpowder Plot begins to emerge - told by the women.

When Emily’s life is suddenly in terrible danger, Isabella understands the relentless fear felt by Bess, hundreds of years ago. And as the fateful date of 5th November draws ever closer, Bess and the plotters’ wives beg their husbands to stop before a chain of events is set into action that can only end one way…

This unforgettable timeslip novel is perfect for fans of Barbara Erskine, Elena Collins and Diana Gabaldon.

'If you love timeslip stories with an intricate and intriguing historical thread, then this is for you. If you think you know everything about the Gun Powder plot, then think again! Alexandra Walsh has a completely fresh take on one of the most notorious episodes in English history. A fascinating page-turner.' Sarah Bennett

Praise for Alexandra Walsh:

'Alexandra Walsh’s best book yet, with strong echoes between the historical and present day timelines. The history is impeccably researched, bringing an entirely new angle to The Gunpowder Plot, and how it might have played out for the women behind the scenes.' Eva Glyn

'Alexandra Walsh weaves a perfectly crafted dual timeline tale that will enthral and delight the reader from the first words until the very last sparkling moment.' Elena Collins

'I absolutely loved this beautifully written and characterful novel which intrigued me as it moves seamlessly between 1900 and the present with a throwback to Theseus and The Minotaur of ancient Crete.’ Carol McGrath

'Alexandra Walsh is a master storyteller and does historical time hops so well. The mystery, the intrigue and beautiful storytelling is ever present in* The Forgotten Palace*, as it is in all Alex’s novels. The plot, mixed with the Greek mythology, and characters make her latest fiction another masterpiece and one that stays with you a long time after you turn the last page.’ Michelle Rawlins

What readers are saying about Alexandra Walsh:

‘This is a very beautifully written book, the characters leap from the page and we become invested in their lives… I cannot recommend enough.’

‘This book is so good I literally couldn't put it down. The research that Alexandra put into writing this novel is very clear. Each page was believable and beautifully written. I loved it and I want to book a trip to Crete right now’

‘I feel like this book was written for me, as it well and truly got hold of me. I thought it was perfect. Dual timelines, a bit of a mystery, archaeology and Greek Mythology all rolled up into an amazing package. What I especially loved was the authors research into women archaeologists at the turn of the century and how inspiring they are, even now. Overall, a spellbinding book.’

‘From the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781804159576

Alexandra Walsh

Alexandra Walsh is the bestselling author of dual timeline historical mysteries. Her books range from the fifteenth century to the Victorian era and are inspired by the hidden voices of women that have been lost over the centuries. Formerly a journalist, writing for national newspapers, magazines and TV.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The court is a dangerous place. There are those who thrust themselves forward, desperate to catch the eye of the monarch, craving the glory of power. These individuals delude themselves into believing they have reflected influence; that as a close companion to the queen, they wield a modicum of her sovereignty. What imaginative fools they are, making themselves absurd as they spin their elaborate webs of flimsy intrigue. They have no power, reflected or otherwise, they are pawns in the game of the court, used by the queen for her own ends. The light they think they create is an illusion, a glimmer of fairy fire that will one day consume their vanity and ambition as they are laid low by their hubris.

Then there are the rest of us. The silent army who dwell in the shadows, who understand the nature of survival. We go about our business, ensuring the court runs with a silken smoothness. It appears effortless, yet it is an Herculean task of organisation. Our travails pass unnoticed, our hours of planning invisible, nobody notices our work. For men, this is harder to bear and they feel humiliated but for we women who have always existed on the edges, who are able to navigate the shadows, it is a gift.

Throughout her reign, the queen had no choice but to listen to the pomposity of men. Each believing their intelligence was superior to hers when most were imbeciles in comparison with her own education and knowledge. Yet now, a king adorns the throne. A man who has never doubted his link to God, his divine right to rule and as he throws out his bright royal light, the shadows around him darken and danger stalks at his shoulder. He has no subtlety, no grace but he does not deserve to die in the way that has been planned and this is why we shall stop them, our men, our kin and save us all.

CRESTWELL HALL BIBLE BELONGING TO ELIZABETH, LADY RALEIGH, 1605.

1

CRESTWELL HALL, WILTSHIRE, NOVEMBER, PRESENT DAY

‘Your destination is on your right…’

The rain beat on the windscreen as the checkered flag and a red stop sign lit up the screen of her satnav. Isabella flicked it off.

‘My destination isn’t on my right,’ she muttered to the blank screen as she felt for the angel wing necklace around her neck in an unconscious gesture, ‘it’s another three miles away.’

Her aunt had emailed detailed instructions on how to continue when the satnav abandoned her in the middle of a country lane.

Keep driving until you come to a fork in the road,

she had written.

Follow it to the left and continue until you see the painted milk churn, the entrance is a few metres past it.

The downpour was like a drum tattoo on the roof of the car, the heavy clouds were drawing the night down as the rain turned the November afternoon grey with mist and twilight. As the heavy drops splashed onto the narrow road Isabella flicked on the radio wanting to fill the silence of the car as she travelled the final few miles to her new home, her new life. Her windscreen wipers tick-tocked like an old grandfather clock as they moved to and fro across the screen flicking the rain aside.

‘…traffic chaos on the M25 motorway continues following demonstrations from radical climate-change group, Empyrean. Members have formed human walls across three of the busiest sections of—’ Isabella switched off the news announcer on the radio.

The story about the protest had been developing throughout the journey and there was chaos on the orbital road around London. Isabella was relieved it had not impacted her own route. Teams of silent masked protestors had drifted into the early morning traffic with no care for their own safety, linking arms across the carriageways, forcing drivers to stop until the junctions serving Heathrow, the M23 for Gatwick Airport and the Dartford Crossing were blocked. The tailbacks had brought the road to a standstill. Dressed in black cloaks and plain masks making it look as though there was a void where their faces should be, the protestors had stood in eerie silence. Worse, in the past hour it had been revealed that several of the protestors were wearing what appeared to be suicide vests; whether they were armed or not, the police were unable to ascertain, but it was creating havoc.

The army had been consulted and a huge operation was taking place trying to clear the motorway of cars. Small sections were being guided away at a time and drivers were becoming stressed and frightened. Isabella shuddered at the thought of the carnage should someone detonate a bomb under such circumstances. She wondered if her ex-husband, Keith Smith, would have been consulted had he still been in the army, then pushed the thought aside. She had turned the radio on for music, a jangly pop tune or the thumping beat of a soft rock classic, not the terror of potential bombers on a packed motorway and thoughts of her ex-husband.

A sleepy murmur came from the back seat where her ten-year-old daughter, Emily, who had dozed off an hour earlier, stirred.

‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked, her voice full of sleep.

‘About five minutes,’ replied Isabella. ‘You OK, Em?’

‘Yep,’ came the reply. ‘Are there any more crisps?’

‘The picnic bag is on the seat beside you.’

There was no reply, instead Isabella heard rummaging, then the crackle of a crisp bag opening. Ever since they had left Pembrokeshire earlier in the day, Emily had been dipping into the enormous picnic packed by her grandmother, Cleo.

‘Auntie Tee said to look for a painted milk churn beside the road,’ said Isabella. ‘There’s an honesty box selling eggs and other produce nearby, could you help me look please, Em.’

‘The eggs will be wet,’ said Emily, staring out of the window at the driving rain.

‘Maybe there’s a shelter to keep everything dry,’ she replied. ‘The turning to Crestwell Hall is a few metres past the churn.’

Isabella slowed the car, searching the area as best she could without taking her eyes off the road. It was a long time since she had been here and nothing looked familiar.

‘There,’ shouted Emily, making Isabella jump, ‘the milk churn. Hey, it’s so cute.’

Isabella flicked on her indicator, taking deep, steadying breaths. The journey from the lighthouse where her mother, Cleo, and stepfather, Dougie, lived on the Pembrokeshire coast had been a long one and she was relieved to have arrived. Her nerves, already taut at the unknown world awaiting them, had become more frazzled throughout the journey. Although, it startled her that a simple thing like Emily’s shout of excitement could create such a tense response. I’m tired, she told herself, that’s all as she saw the quaint, hand-painted wooden sign. The words ‘Crestwell Hall’ were picked out in reflective paint beside an arrow pointing to the lane.

She did not remember the sign from their visit when Great-Uncle Philip had been alive, but she had been very young, perhaps Auntie Tee had added it, she thought. From what Isabella remembered of Great-Uncle Philip, he had not encouraged visitors, preferring the company of his small group of loyal retainers, his dog and the ten donkeys he had rescued over the years and nursed back to health. Despite shunning the world though, on the few occasions her mother and stepfather had brought her to Crestwell Hall, Great-Uncle Philip had been charming, if eccentric, roaming around wearing heavy brocade dressing gowns over three-piece suits even in the height of summer.

‘Strangers scare the donkeys,’ he had told Isabella as they had clambered aboard his mud-spattered Land Rover and driven to the donkeys’ stables and fields. ‘Which means only special people are invited to meet them.’

‘Am I special?’ she had asked, and he had winked, passing her a bar of chocolate.

‘Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t let you meet the donkeys.’

‘Not far now,’ said Isabella, more to herself than to Emily who was plugged into the new iPhone her grandparents had given her as a leaving gift.

The winding lane opened out into a crossroads, with a road branching left and right, immediately opposite the way was blocked by a set of vast gates, standing guard in what appeared to be an endless wall running in both directions.

‘Look, Em,’ said Isabella. ‘These are the gates in the photograph Auntie Tee sent to you last night. Are you excited?’

Emily leaned forward, hugging her toy knitted rabbit, MrRabbitSir, a sure sign she was nervous, and it was no wonder. Ever since Emily had been born, their lives had been an endless stream of moving house, never staying in one place for more than a few years. Isabella keyed a number into the discreet security pad on the wall, the light turned green and the gates swung open on silent hinges; glancing over, she saw her daughter’s impressed expression.

‘How big is Auntie Tee’s new house?’ Emily asked in awestruck tones. ‘She wouldn’t send me a picture because she wants it to be a surprise.’

‘It’s bigger than anywhere we’ve lived before.’

‘Even bigger than the Osnabrück House?’

‘Yes.’

Emily’s brown eyes were wide with excitement. Isabella crept up the driveway, adhering to the 10 mph sign at the entrance. Fields spread on either side, disappearing into the gloom of the wet November afternoon. Each was lined with neat poles and new wire making Isabella wonder whether any of the donkeys were still alive.

‘Em, we’ll see the house in a moment,’ she said, not wanting her daughter to miss her first glimpse of their new home. If she remembered correctly, this corner revealed the beauty of Crestwell Hall in all its glory. ‘Look.’

As they rounded the sweeping bend, the house came into view and Emily gasped. Isabella grinned at her daughter’s stunned face.

‘We’re going to live here?’ asked Emily in wonder. ‘It’s like a palace.’

‘Yes, this is our home for as long we like,’ replied Isabella.

Even in the pounding rain and lowering sky, Crestwell Hall was magnificent. It sat in the middle of vast parklands, positioned on a gentle slope giving it uninterrupted views of the surrounding area. The centre of the house displayed traditional black and white Tudor panelling with a legion of swirling Tudor chimneys standing guard across the rooftop. Built in the traditional Tudor E-shape of an Elizabethan manor, the two outer wings extended further than the central section, creating a courtyard with a well-tended garden around the double front doors.

The diamond-pane windows were grey in the miserable light but above the door the ancient colours of the stained glass flashed with age and mystery, hinting at their vivid shades of red and orange. Shadows fell across the large courtyard and without realising what she was doing Isabella glanced upwards through the windscreen. A shiver ran down her spine. The Tudor chimneys were not the sole inhabitants of the roof. On the edges were gargoyles, their wide devilish faces designed to syphon water away from the red tiled roof, gurning down towards the ground with malevolent glee.

‘They take away the bad spirits,’ Great-Uncle Philip had told her. ‘Don’t be scared of them, they’re here to protect you. The gargoyles are the ones who spit water, the grotesques are the statues who keep guard.’

The grotesques, she remembered, had been a mixture of mythical beasts and more familiar animals: a griffin, a phoenix and a yale, interspersed with statues of greyhounds, owls and lions. The griffin remained over the door as did the smaller creatures, but she could not see the phoenix or the yale and she wondered whether time had made them unsafe and Great-Uncle Philip had been forced to remove them.

‘Do we knock on the door or shall I ring Auntie Tee?’ asked Emily, and Isabella dragged her eyes away from the roof with its stone menagerie.

‘Can you ring her, please?’ said Isabella. ‘She said to drive past the house and around the back where there’s another courtyard through an archway. The lock on the front door needs repairing so we can’t use it yet.’

Isabella crept the car around the corner, marvelling at the sheer size of Crestwell Hall. When visiting as a child, the scale of the place had not imprinted itself. She had been too busy meeting the donkeys and pretending to be a princess as Great-Uncle Philip insisted on calling her, ‘My Lady, The Princess Isabella’, and encouraging her to walk on tiptoes. They had found it endlessly funny and laughed throughout the visit. Finally, she saw the enormous arch her aunt had described and turned into the courtyard. Three cars were parked near the wall and Isabella slid hers in beside the sleek red Audi she recognised as belonging to her aunt. The moment she cut the engine, a door was flung open and Thalia Beauchamp came hurrying towards them smiling with warmth and love.

In her early seventies, Thalia was tall and slim, her hair, once the same deep auburn as Isabella’s, was now a shining silver making her piercing blue eyes stand out in her pale, high-cheekboned face. Her skin was a delicate pink-and-white with a fan of laughter lines around her eyes but few other obvious signs of ageing. Her flowing pink wool trousers, long white cashmere jumper and wide patterned scarf would have graced any catwalk and a nudge from Emily with the whisper, ‘Her boots!’ caused Isabella to grin at her aunt’s hand-painted DM boots, resplendent with flowers and butterflies.

‘My darlings,’ exclaimed Thalia as they climbed out of the car, hugging first Emily, then Isabella, who allowed herself to melt into the familiar scent of her aunt’s Chanel No 5 perfume. ‘Welcome to Crestwell Hall, your new home.’

2

‘Quick, come into the warm,’ Thalia said, leading them into a vast kitchen.

As she ushered them inside, the high white vaulted ceiling gave the impression of entering a mediaeval banqueting hall. Emily gasped at the grandeur and scale of the room. Yet, despite the height and drama, it felt lived in, warm, a place to kick off your shoes and relax. Isabella gazed around, as much in awe as Emily, her anxiety about their relocation beginning to turn into a fizz of excitement.

On one side of the room was a vast Aga abutting a modern electric cooker, while marble worktops stretched away, home to a variety of appliances. An array of cupboards with mismatched handles and a large old-fashioned dresser created an eclectic but homely atmosphere, complemented by the large scrubbed pine kitchen table around which was a selection of comfortable dining chairs. In the centre was a fruit bowl beside table mats bearing plates of cakes and sandwiches.

In the vast hearth at the far end of the room was a log-burning stove blazing merrily, blotting out the greyness of the rainy afternoon. Arranged around the fireplace was a large sofa covered in patchwork throws and cushions, two leather wing-backed armchairs and a two-seater sofa in peacock blue. Beside one was a table where Isabella saw her aunt’s reading glasses and a small pile of books. A large, ultra-modern television was positioned nearby and in the centre of the sofa was a long-haired tabby cat who glared at them. In the other corner of the room there was a desk with a computer and to Isabella’s surprise, an upright piano.

‘Have a seat, darling,’ Thalia said to Emily pointing her towards the kitchen table where a pile of papers sat beside a closed laptop, on top of this was a battered box with the words:

Angel Oracle

written in faded gold letters. Thalia removed the kettle from the ancient Aga, filled a blue willow pattern teapot and placed it on the piece of slate that acted as a mat in the centre of the table. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

‘Do you own all of it?’ asked Emily in awe.

‘Yes,’ said Thalia. ‘It’s enormous, isn’t it? This is why I need your help.’

‘Our help?’ asked Emily, and Isabella smiled.

‘There are too many rooms for me to live in, you’re here to help fill up the space,’ Thalia replied. ‘And now you’ve arrived, our new adventure can begin.’

Emily laughed. As she did, the tabby cat jumped down from the sofa and walked the length of the kitchen towards them. She sprang onto the table and made her way down the centre before settling in front of Emily and putting out her paw as though shaking hands. Emily stared at her in delight, then glanced at her mother and great-aunt as though asking for permission to touch her.

‘She wants to sit on your lap,’ said Thalia. ‘If you push your chair back, she’ll climb down.’

Emily grinned as she followed Thalia’s instructions and within moments the cat was in a tea-cosy-position on Emily’s lap, purring as the little girl stroked her.

‘She’s gorgeous,’ said Isabella.

‘Her name is Queen Bess,’ said Thalia. ‘She was Uncle Philip’s and she was very sad when I first arrived. She and Philip were inseparable but the angels told me she would soon recover. Oliver and I have slowly earned her trust. You must be very kind to her, Em, although, it’s clear she likes you. There are very few people whose lap she’ll choose to sit on, it’s a high honour indeed.’

‘Wow, Mum, this is amazing,’ whispered Emily.

‘She’s fallen in love with you,’ said Isabella, ‘but remember, cats are born from a line of royalty and can be easily offended. Be sure you don’t take her affection for granted.’

‘I won’t, I’ll love her very, very much.’

Isabella took the tea her aunt offered and nodded towards the battered box.

‘Were you casting spells?’ she asked, and Thalia smiled.

‘It isn’t magic, as you well know, it’s tapping into the angelic energy and protecting those I love. It’s why I gave you the angel wing necklace. Archangel Michael was guiding and protecting you throughout your journey.’

Isabella reached over and squeezed her aunt’s hand. Emily who was whispering endearments to Queen Bess had not heard the conversation and as Isabella watched her daughter’s rapt expression, she felt a warm glow of delight that at last Emily’s dream of having a pet could come true. Whenever she had suggested the idea to her ex-husband Keith he had always replied with a firm no.

‘It’s not practical, Belle,’ he would state. ‘We move every few years and when she’s older, Em will probably go to boarding school. Who’ll look after it then?’

‘I will,’ she had replied, but Keith was adamant and despite knowing the lack of a pet was breaking Emily’s heart, with great reluctance Isabella had presented a united front with her husband.

‘We can have a full tour tomorrow in the daylight,’ said Thalia, holding the knife above the chocolate cake in a questioning manner. Emily glanced at Isabella who grinned and murmured, ‘Of course,’ before Thalia passed Emily a slice, ‘but for the rest of today, I thought you’d like to get settled. I’ve put you in adjoining rooms with your own en suite but as we clear the house, we can decide which areas we want to make our own private apartments.’

‘Apartments?’ said Emily. ‘Won’t we live in the whole house?’

‘We’ll live in a lot of it,’ said Thalia, ‘but we all need private areas because remember, at some point, the house will be open to the public.’

Emily returned to stroking Queen Bess and did not reply. Isabella watched her daughter for a few moments. She was disappointed to have to wait for the tour but she knew this was sensible, they were tired and it was nearly dark; everything would still be there in the morning.

‘Crestwell Hall is as magical as I remember,’ she sighed, accepting the slice of cake Thalia proffered.

‘It is,’ agreed Thalia.

‘You said you were having surveys done. Do you have the results?’

‘Yes, and thankfully it’s structurally sound.’

‘What a relief.’

‘The majority of the property is in a reasonable state and Philip managed to obtain a grant to repair the roof a year ago so we have no more problems with damp. The holes have been mended and the tiles that the team were able to repair have been refitted, the rest are either being handmade or bought from other Tudor properties.’

‘Don’t you need scaffolding to finish the repairs?’ asked Isabella.

‘No, you can access the roof through the east wing,’ she said. ‘It’s quite common in old houses to give access when there are flat roofs. The remaining stonework is Oliver’s domain and he has a few people who are helping him reconstruct the grotesques and gargoyles.’

‘Who’s Oliver?’ Isabella asked.

‘He’s a stone mason and sitting tenant. He lives in one of the cottages, although he offered to move out when I inherited but there seemed no reason. His lease runs until the end of the project which is estimated to be next summer so I asked him to stay. He’s very considerate about filling up the log baskets and when the tap began leaking in the downstairs cloakroom he fixed it.’

‘Useful,’ said Isabella. ‘It sounds like the beginnings of Marquess House.’

‘Where, dear?’

During the summer, she and Emily had been staying in Pembrokeshire with her mother and stepfather. They lived in a decommissioned lighthouse on the cliff above the tiny village of Dale, and one afternoon she had bumped into an old friend from Royal Holloway University.

‘I saw Perdita Rivers,’ Isabella explained. ‘Although, she’s Perdita Mackensie now. It turns out, the historian Mary Fitzroy was her grandmother and when Mary died a few years ago, Perdita and her twin sister, Piper, inherited her fortune and a huge manor called Marquess House. It’s in the village of St Ishmaels, not far from Mum in Dale.’

‘Perdita? She was the tall girl with striking eyes?’ checked Thalia, and Isabella nodded.

‘They invited us to their summer barbecue and it was interesting to see how they live in such a huge house. It’s vast and they have private apartments but there are loads of families who live in and around the house and grounds. She told me her husband Kit’s family has run their business from Marquess House and lived there for years. She works there too in their huge research centre.’

‘It’s our home but it’s also a place of work,’ Perdita had explained to Isabella as she and her twin sister, Piper, had shown them around. ‘Our motto is: the more the merrier.’

Isabella had enjoyed the friendliness and camaraderie, waving goodbye to Perdita, Kit and their daughter, Penny, alongside Piper, her husband Callum and their daughter, Louisa. The buzzing atmosphere of Marquess House had given Isabella a host of ideas and possibilities for Crestwell Hall.

‘Interesting,’ said Thalia, when Isabella had finished describing it. ‘And you say they have a research centre? Well, that could come in useful because our other major task is sorting out Philip’s collection.’

‘Is there much of it?’

‘Yes, it fills a large portion of the house. This is the reason I want to leave the tour until tomorrow. It was only after I inherited this place from Philip and was able to see it properly that I realised what an enormous task it would be to save it. In his later years, Philip’s collection became an excuse for hoarding.’

Isabella could hear the hint of despair in her aunt’s voice. She leaned over and squeezed her hand.

‘Whatever it is, we can deal with it together. We’re here now and we’ll help.’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Thalia as her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears which she wiped away with impatient hands. ‘The rain seems to have stopped. Let’s bring in your overnight things.’

They ran outside and gathered the bags. Everything else could wait until the morning when the lorry with the rest of their belongings would arrive. Back inside, Isabella rang her mother, Cleo, reassuring her they had arrived safely and with shouted greetings from Thalia and Emily, she promised she would ring in a few days.

‘Can I have a princess bed?’ asked Emily in excitement.

‘Maybe,’ said Isabella, ‘or you might prefer a four-poster bed.’

‘Could I?’

‘No reason why not,’ said Thalia, and Emily squealed in excitement.

‘The useable bedrooms are in the south wing,’ said Thalia, leading them up the narrow servants’ staircase which was reached through a door at the opposite end of the kitchen.

They emerged onto the first-floor landing where Thalia guided Isabella and Emily along a wide corridor lit with ancient wall lights. The wattage in the bulbs was so low it gave a shadowy, other-worldly feel to the wooden panelling.

‘I’ve taken over the one of the plusher guest suites,’ she pointed to a door before walking around the corner, ‘and for the moment I’ve put the two of you in here.’

Inside was a large square room decorated with a shimmering pale lemon wallpaper, the newness a stark contrast to the rest of the house. The furniture was a mixture of glossy and brand-new, mingled with antiques that, Isabella guessed, had been gathered from around the house including a delicately carved wooden bed.

‘This door,’ Thalia said walking across the room, ‘opens into what was probably once a dressing room but I’ve had it redecorated because I thought it might be suitable for you, Emily.’

Emily peered inside and gasped in delight. The walls were pale pink and a bed with a white canopy dominated the space.

‘It’s a bit cramped,’ Thalia admitted, ‘but these rooms are a good place to start. There’s an en suite over there and to save you from constantly traipsing down to the kitchen I’ve put a kettle and toaster on the dresser.’

The room reminded Isabella of a luxurious bed and breakfast but she knew once she and Emily had unpacked, it would feel like home.

‘When the house is in better condition, we can always change rooms,’ Thalia added, ‘but I thought this was a comfortable place to start.’

‘Auntie, they’re perfect,’ Isabella smiled. She had been worried how her daughter would cope if their rooms had been too far apart or too grand; the adjoining rooms were ideal.

A few hours later, after a huge supper, when Emily had wandered away to stretch out on the sofa with Queen Bess and watch television and Thalia had cleared away their dishes, Isabella topped up the wine glasses and gazed around. The kitchen was warm and comfortable, her and Emily’s rooms were beautiful and the excitement she had felt earlier at finally being at Crestwell Hall hummed through her veins with a ting of anticipation.

The feeling of happiness was unfamiliar but she understood the reasons why. For years, she had been marking time, fitting her own life around her husband’s job and the care of her daughter, ignoring her own dreams. Her previous career plan was no longer open to her but life had thrown her other opportunities and this was one she intended to grasp with both hands.

Three months earlier, when Thalia had first mooted the idea of her and Emily moving to Crestwell Hall with an offer of a home and a share of the business, she had claimed Isabella’s background made her the ideal partner.

‘You have everything I need in one perfect package,’ Thalia had assured her during her visit to see them all in the lighthouse.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have a History degree and an MA in Theology, which covers the serious side of the house and research. You also have extensive marketing and events skills too from the courses you’ve taken online over the past years. Between us, we can restore Crestwell Hall in an historically sympathetic manner that can make it a viable business concern.’

Isabella had laughed, ready to dismiss it but by the following morning, the idea had taken root in her mind. After discussing it with Emily who was enthusiastic about the idea of living in a stately home, especially after her visit to Marquess House, Isabella had begun to consider her aunt’s offer with genuine curiosity and hope.

‘How long do you see this venture lasting?’ she had asked Thalia, aware her aunt was an experienced businesswoman who never entered into a project without planning her exit strategy first.

‘I hope for a considerable number of years,’ Thalia had replied, ‘but we’re both aware these old houses can drain resources, therefore, I propose between six months to a year preparing the house and building interest with maybe a few taster events to test the market to see if we’ve pitched it correctly. After that, I estimate it will take five years to turn a profit. If we have annual reviews, we can gauge whether or not there is a genuine future for the property and, if there isn’t, we’ll rethink our strategy⁠—’

‘And do what?’ Isabella had interrupted.

‘I’ve already had offers from two hotel chains, one of which wishes to turn the grounds into an exclusive golf course but I’ve refused. There are a multitude of possibilities for stately homes but it’s imperative to find a unique selling point for Crestwell Hall.’

‘You obviously have an idea,’ Isabella had said, looking at her aunt’s twinkling eyes.

‘I do,’ she had replied. ‘From things Philip has said over the years, I believe this house is a forgotten historical treasure. I wish to explore this angle first, which is why I need you.’

‘You look very comfortable,’ said Thalia, joining Isabella having finished stacking the dishwasher in the adjoining scullery, bringing her back to the present.

‘I am. I was thinking about your belief that this house has an important historical past. Do you know much about it?’ she asked, sipping her wine.

Thalia sat in the chair beside Isabella.

‘During the Second World War, the army commandeered the house,’ said Thalia. ‘By the time they left, it was in a terrible state. Walls had been covered in plasterboard, the roof was leaking and there were even bullet holes in the stable walls where they’d had practice drills. The family who owned it then had lost all their heirs and it was being sold for death duties which was when Philip bought it. He’d made a lot of money in bonds in America – I never asked the details – and the restoration of Crestwell Hall became Philip’s life’s work. He achieved a great deal when he was a younger man but as age and ill health plagued him, he lost impetus. Instead he began collecting and his purchases now fill a large number of rooms.

‘However, wandering the corridors and looking at the original features which remain uncovered it’s clear