The Secret of Hollyfield House, Jude Bayton [books for 20 year olds txt] 📗

book and decided to clean out my own room. I stripped the bed, dusted the furniture, and swept my rug. My eyes turned to the wardrobe where I had placed my belongings when I first arrived at my uncle’s. It was dusty and could use a liberal dose of oil to feed the wood.

I laid my meagre possessions on the bed, and with the bright sun beaming through the open window, I could see how grubby the old piece of furniture was. I set about cleaning with a rag soaked in lemon oil, and the wood soaked it up like a thirsty sponge. I finished the main area where my clothes usually hung and then turned my attention to the shelf above. I had trouble reaching it and dragged my small chair away from the vanity table and climbed upon it. I doused the shelf with oil, and as I wiped away years of dust, I knocked against something at the very back. I craned my neck inside the wardrobe and squinted. Practically invisible to the naked eye was a dark-coloured box, tucked right into the corner. I pressed closer and stretched my arm as far as I could. My fingers touched against it and, with some dexterity, I managed to move it.

It was grimy, thick with dust, and likely had not seen the light of day for many years. I stepped off the chair and took it over to the sunlit window while wiping off the lid. It was an old tobacco tin, the colours faded and the writing barely legible. Intrigued, I began to work on the lid and then hesitated. The tin did not belong to me. Should I show it first to my uncle? It was barely past midday, and he was still out on the hills. Curiosity burned. What could be inside? I made my decision, and pushed the lid from all sides, but it was on tight and would not come loose. I kept working at it until finally, it began to move, and then came away in my fingers.

The faint tang of sweet tobacco rose from the tin, still fragrant after many years. Inside lay a thick scrap of velvet, red as blood. I gently unfolded the fabric and then gasped. Wrapped inside the material lay a beautiful teardrop pendant the size of a penny piece. I lifted it out, holding it up to the light. It was beautiful. Cut prisms of the milky, glassy gem captured the sun’s rays and projected shards of sparkling light around the room. Was it a diamond? I looked closely at the jewel. It seemed too white for a diamond, and too large. Then what could it be? I put it back in the tin and replaced the lid. Where had this come from and who did it belong to?

I thought long and hard. As far as I knew, Uncle Jasper had always lived here alone. Perhaps the tin had been in the furniture when he bought it? Puzzled, I slipped it into my nightstand drawer, determined to ask Uncle Jasper when he returned home.

THAT AFTERNOON, AN INVITATION arrived for us to dine at Hollyfield House for the upcoming Sunday evening. I instantly baulked at the notion, assuming Uncle Jasper would do the same, as Mrs Stackpoole told me he disliked formal engagements.

“He prefers a-talkin’ to his blasted fungi,” she had commented when I read her the note.

But much to my disdain, when I spoke with him at supper, he appeared delighted by the missive, due to the existence of a particular moss growing in Hollyfield’s grounds. A specimen would be worth any inconvenience he might have to suffer.

For myself, I did not understand the interest shown toward us. After all, Ambleside was a large enough village to boast of other families in the community more suited to the social class of the LaVelles. Perhaps Evergreen LaVelle saw us as entertainment? Our unimportant lives were far different than her own. She must be bored indeed.

After we ate, Mrs Stackpoole declared she had a headache and excused herself early for bed. I waited patiently until Uncle Jasper settled into his armchair for the evening, and then retrieved the gem from my room and joined him in the parlour.

“Uncle Jasper, I was cleaning out my wardrobe today, and I found this.”

His thick eyebrows raised above his spectacles as I passed him the small container. “What of it? Looks like a tin of tobacco to me.”

“Open it,” I instructed, sitting down opposite him.

He pulled off the lid and frowned as he saw the velvet fabric. When he uncovered the pendant, his expression suddenly relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair with a great sigh. I noted the lack of surprise upon his face.

“Remind me where you found it?” Sadness laced his words.

“In the wardrobe, at the back of one of the shelves. Have you seen it before?”

He nodded slowly, lifted the pendant out of the tin, and held it in his large palm. He rubbed the stone with the pad of his thumb, and then looked up at me. To my shock, I saw his eyes fill with tears.

“Uncle Jasper, what is amiss? Are you unwell?”

This time he shook his head. “Calm yourself, Jilly, I am all right.” He closed his fist over the gem. ’Tis just a moment of passing sorrow. This pendant brings old memories.”

“Then you are familiar with the piece?”

“Indeed,” he said solemnly. “Beautiful as it may be, it never brought any joy.”

Puzzled, I began to ask a question, but he spoke before the words left my mouth.

“Some might not know this stone as ’tis uncommon in England. It can often be mistaken for an opal, even a diamond.” He held it up where it caught the light from the gas lamp. “But this, my dear, is a moonstone. And this particular piece is probably from India, or Nepal.”

“Like the stone in Wilkie Collins’s novel,” I said wistfully, the gem now more exotic because of its