Ring of Stone

A Novella by Bronwen Welsh

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Part Five - A visit to Aunt Mary

The following afternoon I set out to visit my Great Aunt Mary. No, I will change that. From now on I will refer to her as Aunt Mary for, as she was fond of saying “Great Aunt makes me sound like I came out of Noah's Ark.”

I presented myself at the door of Aunt Mary's house at three o'clock as arranged. It was a big old house near the centre of Oxford, and had once been filled with family members, but now she was the only one remaining, and how she managed to keep it running I had no idea. I rang the old-fashioned bell and heard it tolling somewhere deep inside the house. After a minute the front door opened and there she was, just as I remembered her. Her face broke into a beaming smile at the sight of me and she held out her arms in welcome. I hugged her tiny bird-like frame cautiously, afraid I might break one of her bones. Her hug was altogether more enthusiastic.

“How lovely to see you again Jack,” she said “and I see you're handsomer than ever. No wedding on the horizon yet?”

How ridiculous! Here was I, a grown man being embarrassed by an old lady.

“Well, err, no as a matter of fact.”

Aunt Mary looked serious. “Don't wait too long Jack. I had offers I knocked back, and look at me now, an old lady rattling around alone in a great big old house. You may never find 'Miss Perfect', but I'm sure there are plenty of very nice girls around who would make you a lovely wife. Anyway, what are we doing standing on the doorstep? Come on in.”

She led the way down a rather dark hallway lined with photographs, and into a very pleasant sitting room. On the table were two plates, one with sandwiches and the other with little cakes. She had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble.

“Make yourself comfortable and I'll put the kettle on,” she said, bustling out of the room. I walked around the room while she was gone. Filled with rather heavy old-fashioned furniture, the walls of the room were filled with bookcases, and there were old prints, probably of family members on the little free wall that was left exposed. Soon she returned with a tray bearing a silver teapot, two cups and saucers and a small jug of milk, carefully placing it on the table.

“How are your parents Jack?” she inquired, and I replied that they were well but that I didn't see too much of them since they retired to Devon. I promised to pass on her regards. We continued to chat about this and that, mainly my work, until the burden of guilt got too much for me and I decided that confession would be 'good for the soul'.

“I have to be honest with you Aunt Mary. I did intend to come and see you, and I know it's been far too long, but there is another reason why I came to Oxford on this occasion. Do you remember an old school friend of mine called Leonard Bolton?”

She screwed up her face in concentration “Yes I'm sure I do but I never met him. Didn't something happen to him?”

“Yes, he mysteriously disappeared about seven years ago,” I replied, and went on to tell her the story about Leonard and how he was now officially declared dead. I said how sorry I was that I hadn't told her about that reason for my visit, right from the start.

“It doesn't matter Jack,” she said, patting my knee affectionately, “The main thing is that you are here now.”

Feeling much better, I changed the subject.

“Aunty, the last time I was here, you tried to tell me about your research into the family's history, and I confess I didn't show much interest. Well, I've grown up a bit now, and I'd really like to know more about the d'Anglais if you wouldn't mind telling me?”

She beamed. “I'd love to. Why don't you come into the library. I've charted the family tree as far as I can, and I'd love you to see it.”

We walked into the adjoining room, which had even more book cases than the previous one. There was a round table in the centre, and on it was a huge sheet of light cardboard, covered with names and dates.

“This is you down here, see?” she said, pointing to my name on the bottom line of the family tree. Then her finger traced upwards through my father and grandfather, further and further up the sheet through about ten generations. I had my fingers crossed that she had managed to trace the line back far enough, and sure enough, there they were, close to the top of the chart, only one line for their parents above them: Richard Charles d'Anglais and his wife Leonora Elizabeth Bolton. They had had six children, four boys and two girls, and Aunt Mary pointed out that I was descended from their second son John. It seemed there was a tradition to alternate the names Richard and John through the generations. Only knowing my father's and grandfather's names previously I hadn't realised that.

“That's amazing Aunty, how did you manage to find out so much information?”

“Well it's much easier nowadays. I learned to use a computer in the library, and there are sites where you can find out information that you used to have to pay someone to look up for you.”

“I wish I could see a picture of Richard d'Anglais and his family,” I said wistfully.

“I think I can help you there,” Aunty replied, opening a very large photograph album and consulting a sheet of paper on the inside cover. “Yes here we are.”

She turned over several leaves and stopped at one photograph. It was a large family group arranged on the broad outside steps of what appeared to be a substantial house from what I could see of it. At the centre of the group was Richard, and seated beside him was Leonora wearing a black dress. They both appeared to be in their late forties and still looked like a very handsome couple. Surrounding them were their children and a number of grandchildren. Aunt Mary pointed to one man standing on the top step.

“I believe that is John your direct ancestor, and here on the lower step is his son Richard.”

“That's truly amazing, Aunty, I never expected I'd actually see them. Thank you so much for showing me. You know, I would have loved to seen how Richard and Leonora looked when they were younger, about the time they were married, but that was before the invention of photography wasn't it?”

“Yes, you're right, Niepce's first photo is dated to 1826 I believe, but all is not lost. Richard and Leonora both had their portraits painted, possibly as wedding presents to each other. My niece Jennifer has Richard, and I have Leonora's portrait in the dining room. Come, I'll show you.”

She led the way into yet another large room, dominated by a huge dining table which could accommodate at least twenty people, and walked to a corner of the wall near the window. The painting was not very big, about two feet high and a foot wide, and the artist may not have been an 'Old Master', but there was obvious talent in the way he had captured his subject. Leonora must have been aged about twenty when it was painted. She was obviously clad in the height of Regency fashion, and the delicate fabric of her high-waisted muslin dress was caught to perfection. Her left arm leaned on a very large harp and clasped the right one, her head faced the viewer and she had a slight smile on her sweet face. I had little doubt of the relationship, her resemblance to Leonard was striking. Then I saw something else that made me gasp. On the wall behind her, the artist had depicted in the greatest detail he could manage with brush strokes, a framed pencil sketch, which Leonora had obviously drawn. There was little doubt of its identity — Castlerigg. It was also very similar to the sketch which had been enclosed with Leonard's letter.

So engrossed was I in the painting that for a moment I forgot Aunt Mary's presence until she spoke.

“I may be old Jack, but I haven't lost my marbles yet. This isn't about Richard d'Anglais, it's about Leonora isn't it.” She said it as a statement, not a question.

I nodded slowly “Yes it is, Aunty.”

“You see something in that portrait, something very significant don't you?” This time it was a question and I nodded again I was thinking of what Leonard, or as I now thought — Leonora, had written in the letter, about trying to find some way of sending me a message down through the years to prove that what she had written was true. What better way than through a portrait which stood the greatest chance of being cherished as a family heirloom and passed from one generation to another? I looked at Aunt Mary, and made up my mind.

“Aunt Mary, would you mind waiting here for a moment? There's something in the car I'd like to show you.”

A minute later I was back with a photograph of Leonard, and the envelope with the letter and sketch. I handed her the photograph.

“This is my friend Leonard, taken on that holiday to Cumbria, just before he disappeared. Can you compare it to the portrait please?”

Aunt Mary held it up next to Leonora's face. “Well there is certainly quite a resemblance there,” she conceded. “So you think Leonard has turned out to be a long-lost relative?”

“Yes I do,” I replied. “Aunty, in addition to the bequest, Leonard wrote me a rather long letter explaining his disappearance. I'd like you to read it with an open mind and then come back and look at Leonora's portrait again.

I pulled the sheaf of papers out of the envelope. “There's one other thing, he included a sketch which you might find interesting.”

Aunty Mary's eyes widened at the sight of the sketch “Now that is very interesting,” she responded

“Something else I'd like to ask you, I was wondering if you know where Leonora is buried?”

“Oh that's easy. She and a number of your early ancestors are buried in the graveyard of St Oswald's church in Grassmere, Cumbria. It's quite famous because William Wordsworth and his family are there too. What is it my boy, you look quite pale?”

“It's probably a co-incidence, but we visited that churchyard during our holiday, just before Leonard disappeared,” I replied. I looked back once more at the painting. “Leonora was said to be good at drawing wasn't she? Do you know if any of her other sketches survive?”

I realised what I'd said and expected Aunt Mary to question how I knew that, but she didn't.

“Alas no,” replied Aunt Mary “They were all lost in a house fire many years ago, together with her journal. Nowadays we could have scanned and copied them to make sure they were preserved. I really do think that modern technology is wonderful. You know I do remember seeing her sketches when I was a young woman, and while I couldn't swear to it, the sketch you've just shown me could easily have been by the same hand, except of course we know it isn't.”

I could see Aunt Mary was getting tired, and besides, I thought enough had been said for one day. I made my farewells, saying I would travel to Cumbria the next day to see Leonora's grave and return in a couple of days to see what she thought of the letter.

Next time: My visit to Cumbria