The Mystery of Wickworth Manor (18 page)

‘Oh, right.’

‘And Liam, I didn’t snitch either. I promise.’

Liam nodded. ‘OK, new man.’

‘You can call me Curtis. If you want.’

‘OK, Curtis.’

Paige appeared by his side, still carrying the bundle. ‘What are you doing out here? There’s a firing squad to face,’ she said.

‘We’re in trouble, aren’t we?’

‘Yup.’

‘We’re going to be sent home?’

‘Yup.’

‘Shame,’ Liam said. ‘I was just starting to like you.’

Ten minutes later Curtis found himself in dry clothes, with a cup of hot chocolate, standing in the middle of Mrs Burton-Jones’s drawing room.

He had carried the portrait of Christopher down from his room. Now, it was propped up on the sofa. Paige leaned the wrapped object next to it. They were roughly the same size and shape.

‘I think you’d better tell us exactly what’s been going on,’ Mrs Burton-Jones said in a quiet voice.

‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ Miss Brown said.

Curtis nodded. He looked at Mum. She was smiling at him, but it was a pinched smile, worried. He knew she would take some convincing.

Paige came and stood next to him. He could see flecks of grey rubble in her blonde hair. There was a streak of dirt across her face. He must look as bad. But there was no mistaking the huge grin on her face. She held the final clue – the envelope that had been hidden in the chapel – and she was ready to be sent home in disgrace, if that was the price they had to pay.

Curtis cleared his throat. ‘This is Christopher,’ he said. ‘He came here from the West Indies. He was a slave. We don’t know when he arrived, but he died in 1805. The same year as Patience Burton, and her father, William. Verity Burton inherited the estate and hid the truth about their deaths.’

‘Christopher and Patience were in love,’ Paige interjected. ‘He’s the Wickworth Boy.’

‘We don’t
know
that they were in love. We just know that there was something Verity didn’t want anyone to find out. We hope –’ he paused as he realised how much he wanted it, ‘– we hope that we’ve found the true story in the chapel tonight.’

He put his mug down carefully and then walked over to the sofa. He took the cloth wrapping in his hand and lifted it gently. It unwound like a shroud being removed. The painting, when he saw that that was what it was, made his breath catch in his throat. A girl smiled at him from the canvas. She was blonde, with clear green eyes; her skin was pale as dawn. Her pink silk dress was decorated with a brooch: a golden globe.

‘Patience – it must be,’ Paige whispered. She thrust the envelope towards him. ‘Read it,’ she said.

Curtis’s hand shook as he took it from her. He cracked the red seal. A thick fold of paper slid out. He scanned it quickly, looking for the name at the bottom of the letter. ‘It’s from William, not Verity,’ he said.

‘What does it say?’ Paige asked.

‘Listen,

‘“Dear Maggie,

‘“It is with a mixture of sadness and shame that I write to you now. A tragic event has taken place, the repercussions of which will surely stay with our families for many years. I know for my part that the loss I feel can hardly be borne.

‘“My daughter, Patience, was taken from me. Your son, Christopher, was also taken from this world. They died moments apart. Your son acted with valour such has surprised and astonished us all.

‘“Four days ago, Patience took it in mind to go boating upon the lake here with a party of friends. Christopher took the oars. Her friends tell us that when the boat reached the centre of the lake, Patience stood in an attempt to pick one of the lilies that grow there. What happened next is painful to relate, but I must do so. My daughter fell from the boat into the water. With great presence of mind and superlative courage, your son dived in to rescue her. Tragically, that attempt was in vain. Both she and he perished in the water. Their bodies were recovered, but life had left them.”’

Curtis stopped reading; he looked up at the room. The adults sat so still they were hardly breathing. Paige, next to him, had eyes that were damp with tears.

‘Is that it?’ she whispered.

‘No, there’s more.’

‘Well, keep reading then!’

‘“The cause of my shame will be obvious to you, madam. It was I who brought your son here. I took him from you as though he were a pet dog that I could do with as I wished. I treated him as less than a man. Despite this, his bravery showed me that he was more than I could ever hope to be. He was a true friend to our family. A true friend to Patience. I am only sorry that I was less than a friend to him.

‘“I cannot return your son to you. I should not have taken him from you. But I can promise you that your son will be held in high regard among my family for generations to come. Furthermore, his story shall be told amongst all the citizens here. In our darkness, we shall bring light.

‘“Death masks have been taken of our children. I have commissioned two portraits to be painted from these likenesses.

‘“The painting of your son will hang here in Wickworth Manor alongside the mask of Patience. Both will remain side by side, their memories cherished by my family.

‘“The portrait of my daughter, and the mask of Christopher, I send to you along with this letter, that you may be reminded of the esteem in which your son will be held in his master’s country.

‘“In further recompense, I send a sum of money for yourself and your remaining family. This comes in addition to your family’s freedom which I shall arrange with the foreman of my plantation. I am currently unwell and so I shall commission my remaining daughter, Verity, to see that all this is done.

‘“I am no longer your master, though I wish to become,

‘“Your friend,

‘“William Burton”’

There was silence for a moment.

Then Paige said, ‘She never knew. His mother never knew how brave he’d been. She never received her own freedom. Verity didn’t send William’s letter or the painting. She hid them instead. Why would someone do that?’

‘She said in her letter,’ Curtis said. ‘If the real story got out, it would have been ammunition for the people fighting against slavery. People would have known that a slave had a mind and a will of their own and could be brave. Verity didn’t want that to happen. Her fortune depended on it.’

‘For all the good it did her.’ It was Mrs Burton-Jones who had spoken. Curtis looked across at her, sitting in one of the armchairs. Her face was still, shocked; her hand rested on her chest. ‘She died alone, you know. Not even her own servants with her. They were frightened of her. I heard the stories when I was a little girl.’

‘What stories?’ Paige asked.

Mrs Burton-Jones didn’t seem to notice that it was Paige who’d asked the question. Her eyes were fixed on the painting. ‘They said she was haunted by the Wickworth Boy. That he had cursed her. It seems it was the other way around; she cursed him. I should thank you,’ she said, finally looking at Paige. ‘You’ve uncovered a story that my family should have told a long time ago.’

Curtis felt Paige lean against his shoulder. She smelled of dust and shampoo. ‘What now?’ he asked. ‘Are we being sent home?’

Miss Brown looked at Mrs Burton-Jones and raised one eyebrow. Mrs Burton-Jones shook her head. ‘In the circumstances, I shouldn’t think that’s necessary, not unless you want to go.’

‘No!’ Curtis said. ‘I don’t want to leave.’

‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked.

‘I’m staying here,’ Curtis said.

‘OK, but we’re finding you a proper room to sleep in and that’s final,’ Mum said.

Chapter 34

October

Paige Owens turned over the tarot card and slapped it down on the back seat of the bus. ‘The Star!’ she said.

Curtis Okafor grinned. ‘You know I’m not listening.’

‘
I’m
listening,’ Sal said. ‘What does the Star mean?’

‘It means recognition, success. You know, like making it through to the final round on
The X Factor
.’

‘Is that what we’ve done?’

The bus pulled up outside an old building. It had lots of columns and big windows, like the bank in
Mary Poppins
. ‘Neoclassical,’ Paige said.

‘Get you, Miss Know-it-all,’ Curtis laughed.

Jo leaned over the seat in front. ‘This is cool, you two being the guests of honour at the Museum. Isn’t it, Liam?’

She nudged Liam, who was sitting beside her.

‘Yeah. Cool,’ he said.

Mr Appleton stood up at the front of the bus. ‘Everyone, please remember that you are here representing Avon High School, so no nonsense. Go straight off the bus and through into the Main Hall.’

Paige and Curtis were the last to get off.

Curtis looked at her. ‘You OK?’ he asked. He was smiling slightly and his face was relaxed. It was good to see him happy.

Paige nodded firmly.

Inside the Museum, a curator was waiting to lead them into the exhibition hall. The room had been decorated to look like an eighteenth-century drawing room. Objects were arranged in cases, things that the museum had collected together over the last few months – a model of a ship like the one Christopher sailed on; brushes and combs used in the eighteenth century, all kinds of things that would tell people more about that time. In the centre of the exhibition, hung above a fake fireplace, were two paintings, side by side. Patience and Christopher.

Paige walked past the crowd of people towards the fireplace. The canvases had been cleaned and the two figures looked bright and full of life. Underneath, the museum curator had added a label:

CJTE/060 Two paintings, oil on canvas, artist unknown. 1805.

‘Look,’ Curtis said, joining her. ‘The museum has written his story. Or rather they’ve guessed at his story. The label on the crew list says he got seasick on the way, and that one says he heard about a runaway slave.’

‘Can they really know that, do you think?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But stuff like that would have happened to
someone
, even if it wasn’t Christopher. So it’s kind of true, isn’t it?’

Paige looked up at the portrait of the Wickworth Boy, at Christopher, one last time. His eyes were as fierce as ever, but the cleaning of the surface had revealed something new, something like a smile.

The curator began speaking from a portable stage near the window. ‘I’m Veronique Bernard. We are delighted to host this exhibition, which will travel on to the West Indies later in the year. These paintings and the surviving letters shed light on one of the most intriguing artefacts in the Fitzgerald Archive . . .’

The speech went on for a while. Paige looked at the model of a ship in the glass case next to her, imagining it being tossed and thrown by a stormy sea.

‘You know,’ Curtis whispered, ‘there still isn’t the tiniest scrap of evidence that Patience and Christopher were in love.’

Paige sighed. It was awful to have to admit that Curtis was right about something, but he did have a point. ‘Nothing except the stories,’ she said.

‘They’re just stories though.’

‘Good stories.’

He nodded. ‘Do you remember that first day we met and you told me about a ghost who haunted the place looking for his lost love? Out seeking revenge?’

She nodded. ‘We put his spirit to rest. Mum said so.’

‘Maybe we did, in a way,’ Curtis agreed. ‘But I’m afraid that without any proof of them being in love, you still owe me a Curly Wurly.’

CJTE/060 Two paintings, oil on canvas, artist unknown. 1805.

Christopher did not know if he would ever see his home again. He had left it hoping for a new life, a new freedom. But although the landscape around him had changed, the rules that bound him did not. Possibly he would have been aware of stirrings of reform as the voices against the slave trade grew stronger. In the courts, the law was tested. But there would have been no way for Christopher to know what the future would hold. He would have faced that without certainty – as we all do.