Free Evil Angels Among Them by Kate Charles
Authors: Kate Charles
Heâs expecting me.â
Becca stifled a sigh. âAll right. But hurry back.â
On a fine day, Stephen would have gone to the Hall on foot, taking the ancient path connecting the manor house and the church which the Lovelidge family had utilised for centuries. But the rain was coming down harder than ever and the path was likely to be muddy, so he opted to take the car round via the roads. Mrs Mansfield, he knew, was a rather finicky woman who would view with horror a Rector who tracked muddy footprints into her house.
Walston Hall, even in the rain, was an impressive sight. It was by no means among the largest or grandest of the stately homes of England, but in its compact, all-of-a-piece perfection there was great charm. It was an early Tudor house, built all of small red bricks, with two symmetrical side wings thrusting forward to embrace a courtyard and presided over by majestic zigzagged chimneys. According to Roger Staines, Walston Hall had been built by Cardinal Wolsey, who had acquired the patronage of St Michaelâs Church, with a view to using its rich revenues to fund his new Ipswich College. John Lovelidge, a man no more high-born than his master Wolsey, had been his local agent in the area, overseeing the collection of tithes. But the first Lovelidge had perceived the way the wind was blowing, and had transferred his allegiance to Henry VIII before Wolseyâs downfall. As a reward for his loyalty the newly ennobled Sir John Lovelidge had received Walston Hall, with its surrounding estate, and there he had founded the dynasty that had dominated Walston for nearly four centuries.
Now, of course, it belonged to Quentin Mansfield and his wife. Mansfield had toyed with the whim, when heâd bought the house, of changing its name to Mansfield Park, but the local outcry had been great, and the idea had been abandoned; Walston Hall it remained, and would as long as it stood.
The Mansfields employed no live-in servants, relying on part-time help from the village to keep the house running smoothly. Stephen was met at the door by Diana Mansfield, who took his wet umbrella gingerly, depositing it in an elaborate brass rack in the entrance hall. âCome in, Rector,â she said, standing aside. âQuentin is waiting for you in the library.â
Stephen never knew quite what to make of Diana Mansfield. She was an attractive woman of around fifty, thin as a reed, with champagne-coloured hair, beautifully cut to frame her taut-skinned face. At her age, the village concurred, that smooth skin was either a miracle of genetic good fortune or a marvel of the plastic surgeonâs art, but the latter seemed far more likely. Her clothes were clearly expensive, but were much more suitable for wear in and around Sloane Square than for the Norfolk countryside: today, for example, she was wearing a creamy silk shirt above fawn-coloured trousers of some drapey fabric which emphasised her thinness, and a heavy gold chain encircled her neck. Even the Barbour jacket which she occasionally wore around the village, in an attempt to look as if she belonged there, was pristine and unscarred, all too clearly bought in Knightsbridge.
It wasnât as if, Stephen reflected, Diana Mansfield hadnât made the effort to fit in: the Barbour jacket was evidence that she valued the opinion of the village. From the beginning she had proved herself to be a tireless church worker, joining the Mothersâ Union and volunteering to organise the annual summer fête. But somehow it hadnât worked; she was never accepted as one of them. She always seemed to be somewhere on the fringes of any group, yearning to belong but never quite making it.
Part of her problem, realised Stephen, was that she had been so much on her own in Walston, her husband living in London during the week and returning to Norfolk only at weekends. Her children had left home before the move to Walston Hall; it was the classic empty-nest
Becca stifled a sigh. âAll right. But hurry back.â
On a fine day, Stephen would have gone to the Hall on foot, taking the ancient path connecting the manor house and the church which the Lovelidge family had utilised for centuries. But the rain was coming down harder than ever and the path was likely to be muddy, so he opted to take the car round via the roads. Mrs Mansfield, he knew, was a rather finicky woman who would view with horror a Rector who tracked muddy footprints into her house.
Walston Hall, even in the rain, was an impressive sight. It was by no means among the largest or grandest of the stately homes of England, but in its compact, all-of-a-piece perfection there was great charm. It was an early Tudor house, built all of small red bricks, with two symmetrical side wings thrusting forward to embrace a courtyard and presided over by majestic zigzagged chimneys. According to Roger Staines, Walston Hall had been built by Cardinal Wolsey, who had acquired the patronage of St Michaelâs Church, with a view to using its rich revenues to fund his new Ipswich College. John Lovelidge, a man no more high-born than his master Wolsey, had been his local agent in the area, overseeing the collection of tithes. But the first Lovelidge had perceived the way the wind was blowing, and had transferred his allegiance to Henry VIII before Wolseyâs downfall. As a reward for his loyalty the newly ennobled Sir John Lovelidge had received Walston Hall, with its surrounding estate, and there he had founded the dynasty that had dominated Walston for nearly four centuries.
Now, of course, it belonged to Quentin Mansfield and his wife. Mansfield had toyed with the whim, when heâd bought the house, of changing its name to Mansfield Park, but the local outcry had been great, and the idea had been abandoned; Walston Hall it remained, and would as long as it stood.
The Mansfields employed no live-in servants, relying on part-time help from the village to keep the house running smoothly. Stephen was met at the door by Diana Mansfield, who took his wet umbrella gingerly, depositing it in an elaborate brass rack in the entrance hall. âCome in, Rector,â she said, standing aside. âQuentin is waiting for you in the library.â
Stephen never knew quite what to make of Diana Mansfield. She was an attractive woman of around fifty, thin as a reed, with champagne-coloured hair, beautifully cut to frame her taut-skinned face. At her age, the village concurred, that smooth skin was either a miracle of genetic good fortune or a marvel of the plastic surgeonâs art, but the latter seemed far more likely. Her clothes were clearly expensive, but were much more suitable for wear in and around Sloane Square than for the Norfolk countryside: today, for example, she was wearing a creamy silk shirt above fawn-coloured trousers of some drapey fabric which emphasised her thinness, and a heavy gold chain encircled her neck. Even the Barbour jacket which she occasionally wore around the village, in an attempt to look as if she belonged there, was pristine and unscarred, all too clearly bought in Knightsbridge.
It wasnât as if, Stephen reflected, Diana Mansfield hadnât made the effort to fit in: the Barbour jacket was evidence that she valued the opinion of the village. From the beginning she had proved herself to be a tireless church worker, joining the Mothersâ Union and volunteering to organise the annual summer fête. But somehow it hadnât worked; she was never accepted as one of them. She always seemed to be somewhere on the fringes of any group, yearning to belong but never quite making it.
Part of her problem, realised Stephen, was that she had been so much on her own in Walston, her husband living in London during the week and returning to Norfolk only at weekends. Her children had left home before the move to Walston Hall; it was the classic empty-nest