I glanced out the window, longing for a glimpse of Lockwood Hall and wishing this seemingly interminable ride would finally come to an end. Just then, the trees parted, and I was treated to a view of the reservoir, which looked like a huge lake surrounded by lush woodland, the leaves just beginning to turn with the approach of autumn. It was a beautiful, peaceful scene, the reservoir as picturesque as if it had always been there, a natural part of the landscape.
“Was Lockwood Hall part of the village?” I asked, still gazing out over the still water that reflected the puffy white clouds in its mirrored surface.
“That it was, but it was spared, since it sat perched on a hill, overlooking the valley.”
“But surely any historic building would be spared anyway,” I said, thinking how proud England was of its history.
“History mustn’t get in the way of progress, love,” the cabbie said. “Derwent Hall was a historic building, but it was demolished and drowned along with the rest of the dwellings in the valley, reduced to a pile of rubble. Funnily, the only building left standing was the church in Ashcombe—St. Botolph’s. I suppose someone at the water board had a good sense of humor.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, smiling at the relish with which the cabbie was telling the story. I could tell he was enjoying himself now.
“Because when the water levels drop, the tower emerges from the water like an accusing finger, rusty bell and all. Spooky, it is, especially at night when there’s a strong wind. Some folk fancy they can hear the bell ringing.”
“Does it?”
The cabbie shrugged. “Never heard it myself, but anything is possible, I suppose. Certainly adds to the eeriness of the place, doesn’t it? Lockwood Hall has a grand view of the reservoir, so you’ll see it for yourself.”
“Are the water levels low?” I asked, peering out the window.
“Lowest they’ve been in a good long while. We’ve had a hot summer and a surprisingly dry autumn so far, so the tower’s been visible for weeks. We’ve had people from the surrounding areas coming to gawk at it, taking photos to post on their social media.” He said the last two words with distaste.
“I take it you don’t approve,” I said, trying to hide my smile.
“Scourge of our generation,” the cabbie remarked. “It used to be only the rich who had the hubris to have their portraits painted and hang them on the walls for the benefit of future generations, but now all people do is take photos of themselves and post them nonstop, like their lives are so fascinating. Worse yet, they write blogs about their experiences and make pointless videos, obsessing about how many views they get. People have too much time on their hands, if you ask me.”
I hadn’t actually asked, but I nodded in agreement, hoping the cabbie would move on to some other topic. I followed several blogs and found them to be not only entertaining but highly helpful in my line of work. In fact, it had been a blog post that put me on to Lockwood Hall, the author singing the praises of the retreat and the couple that ran it.
“So, are you published or one of them self-published authors?” the cabbie asked, his disapproval of indie authors obvious.
“I’m traditionally published,” I replied, not without pride.
“Well, then,” he said, grinning at me in the mirror. “Anything I might have read?”
“Not unless you’re a history buff and have a soft spot for Alfred the Great,” I joked.
“Nah, not me. I like me a good thriller or murder mystery. Never miss any new detective programs on the television. Endeavour is my new favorite.”
“I quite like it too,” I said, relieved to see the house in the distance. It looked just like it had on the website, its tall chimneys rising above the twin peaks of the slate roof and the mullioned windows reflecting the early afternoon light. The house was said to date back to Tudor times, but unlike most homes of that era, built of wattle and post, Longwood House was built of solid gray stone that gave it an almost fortress-like appearance. Today, with a gentle sun shining out of a pale blue sky and the reds and oranges of autumn leaves offsetting the somber color of the walls, the house looked more welcoming than forbidding. I couldn’t help imagining what it must have been like to approach it in a horse-drawn carriage, the skirts of my gown taking up most of the cushioned seat, the bench across from me occupied by my male companion, for a woman of an earlier era would have never traveled unescorted.
I felt the now-familiar twinge of claustrophobia. I loved history and had made it my life’s work, but I was glad I didn’t have to live it as it had been during the time of the house’s heyday, in the seventeenth century. As hard as life was for men, it had always been more difficult for women, who often fell into one of three categories: wife, servant, or whore. Having read many historical accounts of life in Tudor England, I was hard-pressed to decide which one was the most intolerable, since they were all forms of servitude, the level of misery most often determined by the disposition of the master or the kindness, or lack thereof, of one’s clients. In any case, few women lived to see old age, mowed down before their time by illness, childbirth, and sometimes utter despair.
The cab turned in between massive gateposts that framed the house like a camera lens, bringing it into focus. There must have been a formal garden at some point, but the current owners seemed to prefer a more natural landscape. As the cab
