Prologue
She liked to walk around the maze alone – once the housekeeper and the gardener had left for the day. That was when Morton Hall became hers again and she would walk through the panelled corridors, her feet soft and silent on the patterned rugs, passing the rich tapestries depicting Arthurian legends and doomed lovers, and the enormous paintings in jewel-bright colours.
It was her great-great-grandfather who had built Morton Hall in the 1860s with proceeds made from the Industrial Revolution. She’d never thought of it as a particularly attractive house; she’d never been a fan of the Victorian Gothic style. Its interiors were too dark for her liking and, many a time, she’d joked that she was going to whitewash the whole place with a nice cheap emulsion. She wouldn’t, of course, because she knew that she was living in a little piece of history and that it wasn’t hers to change. She was merely a custodian who was passing through, so she endured the dark corners and the oppressively patterned curtains and wallpaper.
But what would become of the house and garden after she died? This problem weighed heavily upon her as her health was deteriorating, but she also realised that she could do pretty much whatever she wanted, couldn’t she? She could hand the whole place over to the local cat rescue if she wished. Just imagine the fun those darling animals would have scratching their claws on the priceless tapestries. Or maybe she could bequeath it to one of those heritage trusts, although she had to admit that the idea didn’t really appeal to her. The house would simply be one of many open to the public. It wouldn’t change anybody’s life or make any real difference, would it? It would simply be yet another national treasure.
She’d had many approaches over the years from people wanting to buy the house or its collection. A Russian had once offered her an eye-wateringly large seven-figure sum and was affronted when it had been turned down. When she’d asked him what he’d do with the collection, he’d said most of the pieces would be kept in a vault. All that beauty and colour shut away where nobody could gaze upon it. She could never agree to such a thing.
Art dealers galore had forged a way to her door too, begging to rehome her Rossettis and Holman Hunts. Each one of them had been sent away empty-handed. She wasn’t selling, it was as simple as that.
She’d had one idea about what to do with the place. She’d been in the maze when she’d had it; she had all her best ideas in the maze. At first, she’d shrugged it off. It would be too complicated, too idealistic. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work.
Or could it?
She took a settling breath, putting all thoughts of wills and other worries to the back of her mind as she walked down the wide staircase with its deep-crimson carpet and ornate balustrades carved from oak. She crossed the hallway towards the enormous front door and let herself out into the garden. It was in the garden she could breathe properly, come alive again, be herself. She never tired of it. In all the long years she’d lived at Morton Hall, she had never been bored by the garden. Or, at least, one small corner of it.
Crossing the herringbone path, her slippered feet sunk into the cool grass and she took a deep breath of evening air. It was late September, and she could smell woodsmoke from the cottages in the village. The nights were drawing in, the year was winding down and everything had that melancholic feel about it. One could no longer pretend it was summer. The warm days were over and there was a chill to the air now that meant long sleeves were necessary.
She entered the maze at the west side. There were two entrances and this was the one she favoured. She could navigate her way through the maze blindfolded if she wanted to. She knew each curve, each false path and how long it would take to get to the centre.
It hadn’t always been that way. As a young girl, she’d been frightened of the long leafy walls, thinking them monstrous. The dead ends had confused her. But, as she’d grown, the maze had become a great refuge. She would often steal into the kitchen and pinch a few biscuits from the tin, sneak a cushion out of the east drawing room, which she knew wouldn’t be missed, and choose a book. Then she would pick one of the sequestered dead ends of the maze in which to hide herself. She would sit there for hours, wondering blithely how she’d ever managed to be scared of the maze for it was her very best friend now.
Hiding there infuriated her family, who would shout her name from every corner of the garden.
‘She’s in that maze again!’ she’d hear them call.
‘Well, I’m not going in after her!’
She’d smile then, knowing she was safe and that she’d be left undisturbed to read her book.
She didn’t read in the maze any longer. She simply walked in there. It was the only place she felt any love for. It was her green sanctuary, her place to think or to empty her mind.
It was also the place she’d been going to meet her lover all those years ago. Only, he’d never shown.