Message Through Time

J Piper Meredith

Description

What truly went on above and below stairs in a Georgian household?Annie, like most, has romantic illusions of what might have taken place, embellished by television dramas and romantic books. Those illusions had been magnified ever more since moving into her late grandmother's old Georgian home in Royal Crescent, Bath. In the large basement kitchen, Annie gently touches the old leather casket she found in the attic before opening it. Looking inside, there is a piece of yellowing paper covering the contents. Faded and uneven at the edges. Strips of sticky tape keeping it together. Taking it out carefully, she realises this is not just a piece of paper - it is a letter.Lifting out the various musty smelling items below it, she comes to a faded red journal. The ink on the page has been dry for more than 100 years. This is not a diary, it is a life story...Annie gasps, looks at the letter, then back to the small book. In this could be her heritage. She knows her home had been handed down through generations and probably has secrets to tell. A deathly silence falls over the house like it was waiting - waiting for Annie to release those secrets.The house has concealed a gift. The house has heartbreak to reveal. The house is opening its doors to reveal life in its most beautiful and brutal aspects. The house has a message though time to share...

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 04 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843965633
• Langue: English

Extrait

A
Message
Through
Time

Meredith J Piper




Rosent Publishing
Published by Rosent Publishing

Copyright © 2019 Meredith J Piper

All rights reserved

Meredith J Piper has asserted their right
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988 to be identified as the author
of this work

ISBN 978-1-84396-562-6

Also available in paperback
ISBN 978-1-68801-975-1

No part of this book may be reproduced
in any material or electronic form, including
photocopying, without written permission
from the publisher, except for the
quotation of brief passages in criticism.

Ebook production
eBook Versions
27 Old Gloucester Street
London WC1N 3AX
www.ebookversions.com
Contents


Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Credits

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 1


2004 Bath

The house held a myriad of secrets; below stairs in the kitchen where the servants worked and gossiped, the servant s dining hall where loose talk could have implications beyond the speaker s comprehension and the back stairs where the unwary and unpopular could be bullied. In this level of society, not fitting in could have devastating consequences of rejection. The hurt of being spoken about behind your back but in earshot, could leave one feeling cold, empty and very, very alone. Unfortunately, when toiling in Service, the hierarchy of the servants and the desire to progress could be a brutal awakening, especially at the bottom of the pile.
Above stairs, the dining room had seen both simple and grand luncheons. It had seen quiet and sumptuous dinners as well as moody quarrelsome ones. The drawing room had been filled with music from the pianoforte, raucous card games, bitter gambling, and smoking. It had seen ladies dressed grandly who would flirt with the men, sing or discuss news and families or sat quietly doing their needlepoint or reading whilst the men would stare into the fire and either ignore or engage the ladies in conversation. The smoking room was where the men would gather to discuss politics and matters of intelligence considered too harsh for delicate ladies or beyond their understanding.
Floorboards had been dusted with damp tealeaves and then swept countless times, wax cleaned off silver and pewter, fire places lit, cleaned and lit again. Candles had been lit then lamps lit, then extinguished then lit again.
The bedrooms had their own stories to tell, including those in the attic where all but the lowliest servants slept. Tears, despair, hopes, dreams, sordid affairs, violence and sex all behind those closed Georgian doors.
The garden had seen season, upon season, upon season. New gardeners, new designs, new plants and new ideas. The flowering bushes and manicured areas protecting the crying servant, hiding from the spiteful bullying or fear of repercussion if they spoke out. Young ladies thwarted in love or filled with disappointment over the beaus they had chosen, or been chosen for, sought respite in the leafy areas, where they could sit and contemplate their future. But it had also seen the calmness of the person taking a turn with a companion, on their own and lost in thought, gathering flowers, or simply enjoying the beauty of the season.
So many people, so many years, so many changes, but still the house stood, holding on to its secrets.
The old wooden stairs creaked as Annabel Rose, always known as Annie, made her way up the final flight of stairs in the beautiful old Georgian house that was so warmly familiar to her. She switched on the light, illuminating the long corridor that ran along the attic rooms. Each of the doors was closed. She walked along; opening each door and each window just a tiny bit to let natural light and fresh air into the space, noticing the old musty smell had almost gone, until she reached the last room.
Swallowing down tears, she opened the door and walked into the sunlight flooded room. Dust particles danced before her eyes as she walked to the tall sash window and glanced out at the angry grey clouds that had decided to let the sun through momentarily. From the window she could see down into the garden. It was mostly overgrown but with the one tiny patch that was perfectly manicured with rose bushes surrounding a little white wrought iron table and two chairs.
Turning away from the window, the clouds quickly covered the sun, casting the room into dullness as she looked around. Only one corner remained to be tidied up in the shadow of the eaves. Picking up the roll of black bin liners she had been using from the day before, Annie walked purposely over to the area. Clearing away old newspapers and bed linen that smelled mildewed into the bin liners, she came across a small wooden chest and ran her hand gently over it.
The house belonged to her beloved grandmother whose name she shared. She still found it hard to believe she would never see her again. The funeral had taken place almost two months ago, the service as beautiful as her grandmother had been. She clearly recalled the scent of lilac, lilies and roses, her grandmother s favourite flowers in the church.
Annie hated to admit she was still devastated over her sudden death from a stroke at eighty five, when she seemed so fit and healthy. But she was more astonished that she had been left her grandmother s enormous Georgian house, in the most prestigious area of Bath, Royal Crescent.
She sighed and shivered, feeling a twinge in her back and twisted herself stretching. The attic rooms were drafty when open and not heated. She had been up there so long tidying up; she no longer noticed the fusty smell surrounding her. Picking up the wooden chest, which was heavier than it looked and the bin liners, she closed each of the doors and windows and then made her way carefully down the stairs. She closed off the door to the top landing where the attic rooms were and went down two more floors into the large kitchen in the basement. The house was on three floors, not including the attic, and each room in the house was a little treasure trove in its own right filled with trinkets from her grandmother s travels and her vibrant life.
Annie placed the chest by her chair next to the large stone fire place and stoked up the fire, before taking the bin bags out to the paved area in the front of the kitchen. A set of stone steps with an old iron hand rail went up to the path that led to the front door. Closing the bin, she glanced at all the pots filled with lavender and rosemary brightening up the sometimes dark and dull area.
Putting the kettle on, she made herself a mug of tea before going back to the fireplace and settling in her cosy arm chair. She looked at the chest for a little while, thinking, and then pulled it towards her.
The wood was dark and the clasps were decorative. She noticed there was no key for it and gently flipped the two clasps at the front open. Lifting out yellowing paper, she came to a small bundle of items. Wrapped in tissue paper was a decorative hair comb, it looked like ivory with a rose carved intricately on it. There was a little faded colour on the rose suggesting that it may once have been pink or red. In a box that had worn faded velvet on it and again wrapped in tissue paper was a string of beautiful pearls. They looked very old and Annie handled them cautiously, in case the string they were threaded onto broke. In another piece of tissue paper, there was a silk handkerchief with a deep lace border around the edges. It was obviously once brilliant white but was now a yellowish colour. Annie frowned and took a sip of her tea, wondering what she had come across. She touched the handkerchief again, the silk was still as soft as gossamer.
Placing the items on the small table in front of her, she went back to the chest and found an envelope. When Annie peeked inside, she saw there was a piece of yellowing paper, faded and uneven at the edges. It had strips of sticky tape in places keeping it together. Pulling it out carefully, she realised this was not just a piece of paper, it was a letter.

To my beloved daughter, Annabel
Your father wanted me to write this so you know from where you came.
Everything in this casket had special meaning to me and is linked to you and how you came about and grew up.
My dearest husband and the only father you know told me to write my life story in the hope that you would pass this on to your children so that they also know and understand where and from what our family began.
Be proud of your heritage my darling girl and never let anything stand in your way.
Your loving mama
Rosie

Annie looked back into the chest, touching it gently and wondering why her grandmother had never told her anything about the contents. They had shared so many conversations about her life and the family. She used to sit with her for hours, talking about the family history and her grandmother s life through the Second World War. Her grandfather had been Naval Officer and at one point, it had been thought that he was dead until he was discovered off the coast of Africa with seven other sailors.
Her grandmother had worked as a nurse at Haslar, where many of the young men who had been wounded in battle overseas were sent to convalesce. But in many of these sad cases, the young men were with them to see out their final days in as little pain as possible. Grandmother always had a story to tell about her time there, including how she used to get seasick on the short journey from the spit to the hospital on the small boat launch.
Her grandfather had been a happy and kind man, with a snow-white beard and a flock of white hair. Annie used to sit at his feet as he told her stories of life on a ship.