Shadows Of St Morfa Hall by Lydia Jones

Could this beautiful house be brought back to its former glory?

CROSSING the bridge was like entering another world: like a portal to a time when she would have been arriving by horse-drawn carriage, not a small hatchback.

Zoe resisted the urge to roll down the window and stroke the weather-beaten stones, turning instead to savour the ruined splendour of St Morfa Hall.

If it was another world, it was her world now.

Parking in the deserted car park, she crossed the courtyard, her stomach fizzing with first-day nerves.

There was so much at stake; this had to work out.

“My dear, welcome!”

Before she reached the office door, it was flung open.

Lord Frederick Oxley, whom she’d met briefly at her interview, stood beaming on the threshold, his arms spread wide. “Morning, Lord Oxley.” “Call me Freddie, my dear. Everyone does.”

His handsome features stretched wider with benevolent mirth.

“Matt Jacobs will be along shortly to brief you, but I thought I might give you a quick tour before you begin,” he explained.

“It is my family’s ancestral home after all, despite the Trust.”

The smile dipped for a second as he led her inside.

“This will be your desk.” Lord Oxley waved an arm. “My office is through there – not that I’m here much.” He pushed the door ajar. “Anwen!”

A square-shaped woman of around forty appeared in the doorway.

“Be a dear and organise us some coffees.” He raised a brow at Zoe.

“Black, please. No sugar.” She smiled.

“We’ll have them when we get back,” he instructed Anwen, then turned to Zoe. “Not that a tour takes long since the fire, of course.”

“Such a tragedy.” Zoe tutted.

“I was only four when it happened.” Lord Oxley shrugged.

“Did they ever find out what caused it?”

“No. Forensics weren’t up to much in the Sixties. Still, we have the dining-room and the gardens. That’s more than enough for our purposes.

“So, Miss Weaver,” he went on. “You really think you can make a success of St Morfa as a corporate and wedding venue?”

He swivelled the full satellite of his aristocratic charm her way and Zoe felt herself colour.

“I hope so. Who wouldn’t want to have a function in this magical place?” she replied with a smile.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, that’s not been my experience.”

Something flickered behind Lord Oxley’s eyes.

“But I didn’t have the benefit of a business consultant like Matt Jacobs,” he continued. “I’m sure between the two of you it’ll be a success.”

Zoe followed him across the courtyard towards the vaulted entrance to St Morfa Hall.

“This is beautiful.” Zoe gazed up at the oak

vaulted ceiling of the entrance loggia.

Late summer sun picked out gold and blush roses that tumbled in clusters along lines of gilt-adorned timber.

“I was blown away at my interview, of course, but seeing it again now . . .” Zoe waved a hand. “It’s breathtaking.”

Lord Oxley swelled with pleasure.

“My great-grandmother, Lady Charlotte, was on personal terms with the leading lights of the Art Nouveau movement. The stained-glass windows are by Louis Tiffany.”

Zoe stroked the glass roses in awe. Sunlight streaming through giant petals sent shafts of peach, rose and ruby on to the marble floor tiles.

“Can you imagine stepping into this as a bride arriving at your reception?” Zoe smiled. “That’s something special.”

“You’d certainly hope so.” Lord Oxley pursed his lips. “The Trust has great hopes for your work here, Zoe.”

“It’s quite a responsibility,” she replied. “I’ll do my best to repay their – your – confidence in me.”

His brilliant blue eyes glittered and his stare made Zoe uncomfortable.

“I’m sure you will,” he said after a pause. “I look forward to seeing your plans. Shall we go into the dining-room?”

“Wow!” Zoe shook her head in wonder as she entered the room, then laughed. “That’s the only possible reaction to this room, isn’t it?”

“My mother loved it.” Lord Oxley caressed the polished stone of the Art Nouveau fireplace that stretched almost to ceiling height.

“The William De Morgan tiles were commissioned by Lady Charlotte; the coronet above the Welsh dragon bears our family crest.”

Lord Oxley gave a sad smile.

“The restoration of this room and the gardens was my mother’s passion; you could say it was her life’s work.

“This wing of the house was used as a convalescence home during the war and it suffered accordingly.”

“It is incredible that everything in this part of the house was untouched by the fire,” Zoe remarked.

“Isn’t it? All of Mummy’s favourite rooms survived intact.” Lord Oxley grinned. “This is her: Lady Alexandria Oxley.”

Zoe studied the photo on top of the grand piano.

A handsome woman with dark hair looked out at the world with what seemed like spirited defiance. “Lovely.”

Lord Oxley laughed. “I doubt she’d approve of this commercialisation of her dining-room. You’d better watch out if you want to do anything drastic.

“My mother is said to haunt St Morfa Hall.”

Lady Alexandria was on her knees in a flower-bed.

It was February 1968 and the weather was finally mild enough to do some planting.

She pressed young nepeta into freshly dug beds beside the top terrace steps and smiled to herself.

It would billow beautifully there and Freddie would enjoy watching the bees and butterflies it attracted.

She could tell him again the story of how the furry caterpillar became the brilliant butterfly.

“Freddie,” she called to her son. “Come and look – the bulbs we planted after Bonfire Night have broken the surface.

“Do you see those green shoots?” She pointed. “They’re daffodils. If we’re lucky they’ll be ready for St David’s Day.”

They sat together on the terrace edge, legs dangling over the prepared beds below.

Alexandria gazed at the formal gardens, falling away in stepped terraces towards the distant sea, and felt a familiar tug of history.

“When my granny was a young woman, she designed this garden,” she told Freddie. “It was incredibly beautiful.”

“What happened?” he asked.

She gave a laugh. Out of the mouth of babes!

“Granny had a team of thirty gardeners to keep it in check and we only have Hughes.

“But Mummy is working hard, too, and together we will bring it back to its glory.”

“Excuse me, m’lady.” She turned to Alun Hughes’s teenage son, fidgeting at the foot of the steps.

She smiled and the boy blushed scarlet.

“Hello, Glyn. What is it?”

Freddie focused his blue eyes on the teenager with a typical four-year-old’s fascination.

“Dad sent me to say Mr Bradshaw – the new estate manager – is here. Dad told him Lord Oxley was away in London.”

“It’s fine, Glyn,” Alexandria assured him. “Tell him to come on up.”

The boy shifted from one foot to the other.

“Dad said – er – to warn you about his face.” “His face?”

“He was in a plane crash a few years back. Left his face – well . . .”

“Tell him to come,” she repeated.

John Bradshaw was tall and broad shouldered.

His gait as he crossed the path towards her was marginally lop-sided. “Your ladyship.”

His face was partly turned away from her and she felt a stab of pity.

“Alex.” She offered her hand. “Good to meet you, Mr Bradshaw.”

“John,” he said. “Likewise. Mr Hughes told me how much work you’ve done to restore the gardens. It has a great framework.” Alex smiled. “Hughes is generous with his praise. Most of the hard work is his, but I do my best.

“I’m sorry my husband isn’t here to greet you. His

London businesses keep him busy.”

“Ah, yes. Nightclubs, is that right?”

“Yes.” Alex turned to watch the sea.

When she looked back, she saw John Bradshaw’s face for the first time.

A livid scar began on his forehead, tugging down the corner of his left eye and fanning out in raised fingers across his cheek.

He saw her gaze and averted his face.

“So,” she began, deliberately moving to be on his scarred side. “Tell me what you think of

“You’d better watch out if you want to do anything drastic”

St Morfa estate so far.”

“It’s an incredibly beautiful place, your – Alex.”

She chuckled. “Correct answer, John. It has been in my family for seven generations, so I suppose I’m biased.

“How does it compare with where you were before?”

“Gloucestershire isn’t so wild, but the land is a mixture of livestock and arable farming, as it is here.

“I hope to introduce some ideas to benefit your tenants here.”

“Marvellous.” Alex’s interest was piqued. “Most of them have farmed our land for generations; it’s not always an easy life.”

“No, but they could help each other more. That is,

we could help them to help each other,” John replied. “How so?”

“It seems to me that many of them are lacking in essential machinery that would make their working lives much easier.”

“Most of them cannot afford the investment.”

“Exactly.” Mr Bradshaw’s eyes were alive with enthusiasm.

“If the estate could advance some money, and they all put into it, too, machinery and tools could be shared for everyone’s benefit.

“It’s a scheme I saw working well back

in Gloucestershire.”

“My goodness, John, how very radical!” Alex laughed.

The estate manager blushed.

“Sorry. This was meant to be just a polite introduction. I always get carried away. Forgive me.”

“No,” Alexandria assured him. “I’d like to hear more of your ideas. Do go on.”

Nanny came to collect Freddie for tea and Alex walked the terraces with John Bradshaw, listening to his explanations of how to develop the estate.

When he left, she stood alone for a while, staring out over the sea.

A biting wind whipped across her face, sending tendrils of her dark hair into her eyes and mouth.

Distractedly, she brushed them away.

Her brain buzzed with remnants of their conversation and her skin tingled. Somewhere inside, her heart swelled with an unfamiliar sensation.

Hope, she thought. I feel hopeful for the future.

And happiness? It had been a long time since she’d been acquainted with that emotion.

“That man has a nasty face,” Freddie stated when she joined him in his nursery.

“His face is damaged, but Mr Bradshaw is a good man. That’s what matters.”

Matt Jacobs knocked on the open door and entered at the same moment.

Zoe looked up and smiled.

“Sorry I couldn’t be here when you arrived. I had a meeting with another client,” he explained.

“That’s OK. Freddie has looked after me.”

“Good.” Matt turned to give Lord Oxley a nod of acknowledgement. “Freddie – good to see you up here.”

Lord Oxley clapped and rubbed his hands like an over-enthusiastic gameshow host.

“Couldn’t let our new marketing manager arrive without welcome, could I?”

Matt frowned. There was a brief, awkward pause.

“Matt,” Zoe said into the space. “We’ve just had coffee. Would you like one?” “No, thanks.”

He sat, placing an attaché case down on Zoe’s desk.

It was a pointed gesture and Zoe couldn’t help but feel the slight to Lord Oxley.

Turning to face the older man, she saw he felt it, too.

The blue eyes glittered again, before his face beamed in well-bred benevolence.

“I’ll leave you to get on with it. I need to call into Home Farm while I’m here.

“The tenants like to see me, you know – even if the Trust is the official landlord. If you’ll excuse me.” They watched him go. Matt was handsome, Zoe thought. She hadn’t appreciated at the interview quite how handsome.

He was older than her: perhaps mid-thirties. His suit was tailored, with pristine cuffs protruding from jacket sleeves that rested on her desk.

There was a look of Colin Firth’s Mr Darcy about him, and it seemed he was equally rude.

But when he turned back to face her, any tension melted.

He withdrew documents from his case and they were soon talking wedding and banqueting possibilities for St Morfa Hall and how best to promote them.

Matt passed over some print-outs.

“These are some of the things I’ve done with other clients,” he explained.

“Lovely.” Zoe nodded. “Do you have many clients?”

“Not really. I prefer to concentrate on a handful I feel I can genuinely help.”

“So your background is venue management, like mine?”

“Not exactly.” He mentioned the name of a city business consultancy and Zoe whistled.

“Wow! That’s a long way from North Wales.”

“Wales is home, so I suppose it was obvious to come back when I wanted to set up for myself.”

He flashed her a smile that was inexplicably fragile, then turned back to documents on the desk.

When he looked up, he was the consummate professional again.

Zoe realised the window to whatever it was inside Matt had been firmly shut.

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to get out on to the site?” she suggested.

“Then we can visualise everything better.”

“Good idea. It’ll give us an appreciation of the practical problems, too.”

Zoe grabbed her jacket, eager to be outside.

“It’s brilliant the way the offices have been built into the back of the ruined façade,” she remarked, looking back across the courtyard.

“Thanks.” Matt looked pleased, pinpricks of colour highlighting his cheeks. “They used reclaimed bricks from the fire.

“When the Trust appointed me in 2007, the admin office was a Portakabin surrounded by rubble with weeds and moss growing all over it.

“There was no way any company was going to let guests see that on arrival, however impressive the dining-room is.”

Zoe nodded.

“I know my hotel was a modern city centre one, but the same principle applies: first impressions are everything.”

She chuckled to herself. “Listen to me talking about my hotel. I meant –”

“No, I like that.” Matt’s smile was full of warmth. “It shows identification with a place and that’s important.

“I’m the same. I talk about my venues, which makes me sound like some sort of property magnate.”

They both laughed and Zoe felt again that something she’d glimpsed at her interview: that the two of them could make a good team.

It was a shame he had to be so good-looking.

She swallowed a twist of something treacherous inside her stomach. She could get over that.

“I meant to ask,” she began. “How did the estate end up in trust?”

“Charlie Oxley, Freddie’s father, died leaving quite a bit of debt.

“He hadn’t made provision for death duties, either.

“The only way the estate could be kept together and the tenants not turfed off their farms was to apply to become a charitable trust.”

“So Lord Oxley doesn’t own anything?” Zoe asked.

“No. He’s just one of the trustees.”

“How sad,” Zoe commented. “To lose his inheritance and both parents in the fire.”

“Oh, no.” Matt stopped on the threshold of the loggia. “His mother wasn’t killed in the fire. Lady Alexandria took her own life.”

“Matt, there you are!” A grey-haired man was striding towards them. He smiled broadly at Zoe. “Good morning, Miss Weaver. Good to see you in situ.”

Matt was all formality. “You remember the chairman of the Trustees, Sir Gerald Morgan-jones, Zoe?”

“Of course.” Zoe smiled. “Lovely to see you again, Sir Gerald.”

“I wonder if I might borrow you for a moment?” he asked Matt.

“Of course.”

“I understand Freddie Oxley is up,” Sir Gerald went on.

“Yes.” Matt’s face was unreadable.

“If you will excuse us, Miss Weaver . . .”

“Certainly.” Zoe waved some papers at Matt. “I’ll just walk through some plans.”

The two men walked back across the courtyard, deep in conversation.

Zoe moved through the dining-room and out into the gardens, making notes as she went.

She sat on the terrace steps, her gaze following the lawns and flower-beds that sloped away to the distant sea.

She had come here to find new purpose and peace.

The beauty of the place was certainly going to deliver that, but she wasn’t so sure about

Craft

Cookery

the working environment. Clearly there were tensions here of which she hadn’t been aware. What had she had let herself in for?

She inhaled the saltscented air and placed her palms firmly on the terrace balustrading.

Whatever the problems, she would succeed.

“Tell me again, Mummy! Who bought these books?” Freddie’s eyes were wide with earnestness. His father’s eyes.

“Well,” Alex began, tousling his hair. “Some of them belonged to my dad, but most of them . . .”

She cast an arm around the mahogany-panelled library.

“Most were bought by his dad, my grandpa, Lord George Oxley. He was a scholar.

“He travelled to all the countries of Europe and beyond when he was a young man. Everywhere he went he collected books.”

“Show me,” Freddie demanded, starting the familiar game.

They moved to the giant globe. Alex swivelled it gently with the tip of a finger.

“Here is Wales.” Freddie put his thumb in place.

“All the way over here is a country called Italy. The books at the top of the west wall were from there.

“They were written by a man called Dante. He was very famous and the books are very old.”

“What about this one?” Freddie stood next to a bound volume on the bottom shelf that was almost as tall as himself.

“That’s from Africa.” Alex swivelled the globe. “It’s a book about the wonderful plants and animals that live in that faraway land.”

Freddie bounced over to another bookcase, his fingers stroking spines of books until he found the copy he was seeking.

“This one was Grandpa’s favourite: ‘Treasure Island’. It’s my favourite, too. Will you read it, Mummy?”

His huge eyes implored her and Alex melted. “Just one chapter.” The little boy bundled on to her lap.

Alex breathed deep the baby-sweet scent of him, mingled with antique leather, and began to read.

Freddie sighed in contentment and put his thumb in his mouth.

“Why did Grandpa die so young?” he asked suddenly.

Alex rested her chin on Freddie’s head and sighed.

There could be no doubt her own life might have been easier if she hadn’t been left so rudderless by a mother unable to recover from her husband’s loss.

“He flew planes in a war to fight bad men,” she replied.

“Was he a hero?” “Yes, Freddie.” Alex smiled. “He was a hero.”

The library door was opened wide with energy. “Daddy!” Freddie cried. Alex’s husband crossed to the drinks trolley in the corner, where he poured himself a Scotch, squirting in the merest splash of soda.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Before dinner, Charlie?” she asked.

He downed his drink in one mouthful and exhaled with a loud, satisfied sound.

Freddie squirmed in his mother’s lap and the movement caught Charlie’s attention.

“How many times have I told you the child should be in his nursery at this hour? Where’s Nanny?”

“He was waiting until you came down, darling. Nanny is in the kitchen; I told her I’d ring the old service bell when she was required.”

Alex pulled the cord next to the library fireplace, giving her husband a tight smile that he returned. “Drink?” he offered. “A small G and T, please.” Freddie’s nanny appeared in the doorway and the child ran to her.

The woman smiled. “Say goodnight, there’s a good boy.”

Freddie ran back across to his mother, who enveloped him in a hug, then he hovered awkwardly in front of his father.

“Off you go, then.” Charlie gave a cursory tousle of his son’s hair. “Good man.”

“What’s wrong?” Alex asked when they had been alone for a few moments.

Charlie laughed without mirth.

“What’s always wrong?” “Is business so bad?” “There’s competition around Carnaby Street nowadays, that’s the trouble,” Charlie grumbled.

“When I opened those clubs they were groundbreaking.”

“I know, darling. I remember when they were the talk of the town. Everybody wanted in on them.”

Charlie smiled softly. “They did, didn’t they?” Alex thought how gentle his face could be when he was happy.

The smile died as quickly as it had come.

“But everyone else began to copy me,” Charlie said. “And the managers have no idea how to create atmosphere at all.

“I’m there as much as I can, but it’s not enough. The clubs need innovation, renovation and funds.”

Alex’s stomach twisted at the familiar turn the conversation was taking.

“I thought you were talking to investors?”

“Lily-livered, the lot of them. The clubs are too much of a risk apparently. And here I am sitting on all of this . . .” He gestured around the room.

“We’ve spoken about this,” Alex told him calmly.

“We can’t sell the land because of the tenants. Any other funds are needed in trust for Freddie’s future.”

“He won’t have a future if his father’s bankrupt.” “It’s not that bad, surely?” Charlie’s lips became a thin line.

“You don’t understand.” Alex ignored the taunt. “The new estate manager dropped by today,” she said to deflect him. “He has all sorts of ideas for making the farms more efficient.”

“So we could increase their rents?” Charlie’s eyes were instantly alight.

“Perhaps.” Alex squirmed. “In time.”

“Excellent.” He beamed. Really, Alex thought, his moods changed more quickly than a child’s.

“Tell me more over dinner,” he went on. “It’s about time this place was dragged into the twentieth century.”

Alex smiled as she followed her husband into dinner. At least he was taking an interest in the estate for once.

“Her body was found at the foot of the cliffs.”

Zoe’s housemate, Nia, took a bite of thick toast. “No!”

They were wrapped in dressing-gowns, seated at the kitchen table.

It was still surprising to Zoe how quickly the two of them had settled into communal life.

She’d seen the advert for the house share on the day of her interview, and phoned Nia when she was offered the job.

The room had still been available and it had felt like fate smiling on her new start in Wales.

“You’re a life-saver,” Nia had declared. “I couldn’t manage the mortgage now my ex has slung his hook.”

It seemed they had a lot in common.

“So Lady Alex jumped from the cliffs?”

“That’s what they reckoned. It was a terrible scandal at the time,” Nia said. “They found a note after the fire.

“I only know what I was told by my grandma, but she said Lady Oxley would never have done it.

“Nain said she loved life too much – and this place and her son, Freddie.”

“He told me his mother haunts the house,” Zoe admitted.

“Oh!” Nia squealed. “Mind you don’t work late alone!”

Zoe crossed her arms against the sea breeze blowing over the late roses of the formal gardens.

Here was the peace she’d been seeking.

There had been a time she’d loved the fast pace of city life and thrived on the

pressure. Then it had fallen apart and she’d wanted to escape.

St Morfa was everything she could have hoped for.

“Focus, Zoe,” she chided herself.

She flipped open the cover on the tablet she was cradling and began pacing the large lawn, making notes as she walked. “What are you doing?” The scowling figure of the gardener, Glyn Hughes, blocked her progression.

“Morning, Mr Hughes. I’m taking measurements. I’m looking for a place to put a marquee.”

“Not on this here lawn, you won’t.”

“I’m sorry?” Zoe frowned. The man’s eyes regarded her with the scrutiny of a bird of prey.

“I’m not having swanky tents ruining my lawns, or flower-beds getting filled with all sorts from those city types.”

“I don’t think –” Zoe began, but was interrupted.

“Oh, but I do,” Glyn retorted. “They’ve no feeling for the place, see? Not like us that have lived for it all our lives.

“My father was gardener here before the fire, and he carried on for the love of the place after, even when the Trust couldn’t pay.”

He placed his hands on the hips.

“Dad passed on last year,” he stated.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t want his work ruined. And neither would she.” “She?” Zoe asked. “Her ladyship. You’d best look out: she’ll be watching.”

Lord Oxley’s PA set a mug down on Zoe’s desk.

“I could have made my own,” she told her kindly. “I don’t want to trouble you.” “No trouble.”

“Can I ask you something?” Zoe asked. Anwen shrugged. “Glyn Hughes seemed to think guests might cause a problem in the gardens?”

“That’ll be because of that lot that came up from London a few years back – Lord Oxley brought them to show off the hall.

“They let him down and left a right mess behind for Glyn to clear up.”

“How awful.”

“You’ll find you have more to bother about than Glyn,” Anwen went on. “There’s folk round here would love to see you fail.”

Zoe’s fingers couldn’t keep up with her thoughts as she tapped ideas into her computer.

St Morfa was such an inspiring place – she was sure she could make a go of things here.

Anwen had left some time before and Zoe was shocked to see how late it was. Time to call it a day.

She locked the office and stepped out into the courtyard. Against the dark sky, the lights of the dining-room dazzled like a lighthouse beacon.

Why would the lights be on? Everyone had gone.

She turned to enter the darkened loggia, following the line of stained-glass roses that glowed in the final shards of daylight.

She turned the key to the dining-room and opened it on to darkness.

The giant fireplace was a silent silver monolith.

The air in the room was so dense that Zoe felt she had to take a deep breath.

Fumbling for switches, she flicked on the lights and the room’s glory was briefly illuminated. It was empty.

She put out the lights, locked up, walked to her car and looked back.

Lights blazed out from the dining-room once again.

Something twisted in the pit of Zoe’s stomach. Was this the ghost of Lady Alexandria playing games?

She shook her head. She had enough to deal with without worrying about phantoms. There must be an electrical fault. She’d sort it out tomorrow.

To be continued.