The Secrets of Saffron Hall

Getting to her feet, she automatically hitched her trousers up. Even with a high percentage of elastane, her stretchy black trousers still gaped at the waist, and the charcoal grey sweater she was wearing showed deep hollows beneath her collarbones as it almost slipped from her shoulders. She’d lost more weight than she’d realised.

It was chilly in the office, but she decided against putting on the heating, there was little point when she’d only be working for a short while. Switching on her laptop she surveyed the books still left on her desk awaiting cataloguing. There were several first editions that should really be in the library, although thankfully being stored in tea chests and cardboard boxes hadn’t done them much harm.

Ignoring what was laid out in front of her, however, she knew which book she couldn’t wait another minute to investigate. What she was drawn to, and had been thinking of during the long insomniac hours of the night when the dark pressed in. Carefully Amber took the precious book from the safe. She’d undertaken some initial research, which had confirmed her supposition that it was a book of hours, a personal medieval prayer book belonging to a high-ranking lady. She laid it on the velvet book cradle she’d brought with her when she first moved in. She hadn’t expected anything as exciting as this would need her specialist attention.

After pulling on her gloves, gleaming white in their bleached freshness, once again she unwrapped the coarse coverings, this time looking more carefully at what she thought originally had just been a rag. Although textiles were not her speciality, she strongly suspected the fabric was linen and it looked fairly fine, high class, not rough workers’ material. This was compounded by the delicate embroidery that appeared to have once been blackwork, the simple geometric embroidery in black silk that was used to decorate the edges of shirts and smocks in medieval times, along one edge. In an age when all fabrics were expensive, they would have still used an item ruined with what appeared to be a dark stain, as a wrapping. She wondered why a damaged cover had ended up around a book as precious as this one.

She ran her fingertips over the thick deep brown leather cover, delicately tooled and engraved into a coat of arms, although it was now shiny and worn in places. It appeared to have originally been coloured, but that had almost worn away as well, just small traces of yellow and red visible. Running her hands over it, feeling gently with her fingertips like reading elaborate Braille, it was almost impossible to ascertain what had originally been there. She carefully turned to the first page and her eyes fell onto the writing she’d observed the previous day. Once again a shiver of distress ran down her spine and made her shudder. She tried not to look at the inscription for Mary, but opening a new document on her laptop she began to make notes. When she finally handed the book over to her colleagues at the Fitzwilliam Museum, she’d like to give them a full research paper as well.

List of births and deaths, she quickly annotated, but one – Thomas Lutton – does not have proper date of birth, just a month and year beside his entry.

Opposite the list of names, were the scrawling lines of Latin. It was almost impossible to decipher. She’d picked up a small amount from projects she’d been assigned to at work, but she could only recognise the more popular and frequently used words and phrases. Taking her magnifying glass from the desk drawer, she tried to see if making the words larger would help. She frowned as she squinted at it. What did it mean?

A quick glance at the corner of her laptop screen confirmed what she’d suspected, she needed to be leaving or she’d be late. Her investigations would have to wait, and after carefully rewrapping the book in its bindings she laid it in the safe in the corner of the room. There was a tiny stirring in the pit of her stomach, the smallest butterfly wing of piqued interest. After weeks and weeks of wading through Grandad’s collection, maybe she’d come across something exceptionally special.

Amber stopped her car in Swaffham. Driving in the rain had made her eyes feel gritty and her mood, which had improved just a little after her work on the book of hours, was now as damp as the weather outside.

She thought she could do this. See Jonathan, make small talk, avoid talking about the subjects he clearly wanted to discuss but never did because he was too frightened of putting his foot in it. To visit Saffron’s grave and see the new headstone, a visible reminder in perpetuity she wasn’t able to do that most basic of things and keep her baby safe inside. Now, she wanted to turn around and return to Grandad’s and hide. But she couldn’t run away forever. And hopefully it would feel cathartic to lay some flowers for Saffron.

After getting out of the car, she splashed her way down the High Street trying to dodge the puddles, and darted into the florist. There was only one flower shop in the town, otherwise she’d have gone elsewhere. This was where Jonathan had brought her to choose flowers for the funeral. Even walking into the shop again, the overwhelming smell of flowers and greenery, of new life, threatened to push her over the edge.

Thankfully the young woman behind the counter was a different florist, so no problem with being remembered and having to have an uncomfortable conversation. Instead, after exchanging pleasantries about the poor weather, Amber was able to ask for a bouquet of gypsophila and leave with her purchase, laying the flowers with their small, fragile white petals gently on the car seat beside her. It was the flower they had chosen to be laid on the tiny white wicker coffin at her funeral, and Amber couldn’t think of anything else to buy.

Eventually she pulled up in the lay-by beside the church. Her hands trembled as she wiped her damp palms down her trousers. She knew she should have parked on the drive at home – the vicarage was right beside the church. Through the trees, she could see its dull yellow bricks threaded with ivy. But for the moment, she didn’t want to alert Jonathan to her arrival.

Before, in that other life, the one before Saffron, she’d loved being in that house. It was their hideaway from the world. There had been many lively meals with friends, which carried on long into the night. Her academic colleagues from Cambridge were a good match with Jonathan’s ecclesiastical ones, together with old school friends and couples from the village, some with small children or expecting their own babies.

The rain had finally stopped, the sky slowly clearing as the constant drips from the trees bounced off her head and shoulders as she walked slowly towards the church. Maybe she should be doing this with Jonathan, but she wanted silence and peace to be alone with her thoughts.

She followed the path around to the back and then across the grass, freshly mown but sodden with the rain, the grass cuttings sticking to her shoes. The area for the children’s graves was in the far corner, set slightly apart from the rest. A small cluster of sorrow. Some of the graves were decorated with plastic windmills, soggy teddies and pottery rabbits. Everyone dealing with loss in their own way.

Saffron’s pale cream headstone, its gold lettering glistening under the beads of raindrops decorating it, sparkled in the weak sunlight pushing through the clouds. Kneeling beside it, Amber ran her fingers over the engraved words.

Saffron Morton, born asleep 18 February 2019

And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,

Live but to light your passing feet

It was every bit as permanent as she had imagined. And it hurt, seeing it, just as much as she knew it would. Gently she laid the flowers she had brought on the small bump of grass in front of the headstone.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry you aren’t here with us, like we planned. I miss you every day and I know your daddy does as well.’ Talking to her daughter was easier than she had imagined it would be and she had a small insight into how Jonathan could find it a comfort to visit the grave and talk to Saffron every morning. She got to her feet and retraced her steps towards the car. She knew what she needed to do now, what she’d agreed to, but she couldn’t manage it. It was too hard. Another time, she’d go and see Jonathan another time. She was sure he’d understand why she couldn’t do this now.

Standing at the window of the empty nursery, Jonathan watched her kneeling at the graveside before getting slowly to her feet and walking away, her head bowed. Minutes later he heard her car start up and drive away. He rubbed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, stopping the hot tears from running down his face.

Chapter Nine

2019

The following day, Amber was surprised she had no messages. No missed calls or voicemails, no texts. Nothing. Had she got the day wrong? Hadn’t Jonathan been expecting her the previous day when she’d raced back to the sanctuary of Grandad and Saffron Hall as if the devil were at her back? She’d be lucky if she didn’t get a speeding ticket.

She double-checked her calendar. She’d definitely got the correct day, so why hadn’t he called to find out the reason she hadn’t arrived for lunch? After his numerous messages previously, it seemed odd. And maybe, she admitted to herself, she was a tiny bit disappointed there hadn’t been a single enquiring message. Even she could tell she was being contrary.

Thankfully Grandad hadn’t questioned her when she returned, his tentative ‘you’re earlier than I was expecting,’ was met with her terse ‘yes, I am,’ and that was the end of the conversation.

Amber decided to put all thoughts of Jonathan to one side, at least for a few hours. If she hadn’t heard from him by lunchtime, she’d send an apology and explanation. First of all, she was desperate to start some in-depth investigations on the tiny ancient prayer book, without interruptions. Her heart beat faster every time she thought of it, but she hadn’t wanted to start an examination of it the previous day after the upset and the drive home. This precious object required a level head. She pulled on her white gloves.

Before she had a chance to start tackling the Latin, however, she was disturbed by a loud thumping on the front door, followed by the doorbell ringing.

Cursing under her breath – she knew for a fact Grandad was outside in his greenhouse – she pulled her gloves off and marched through to the entrance hall, opening the door.

‘Oh. I’d been expecting you to call, not for you to drive all the way here.’ Her shock at finding Jonathan on the doorstep made her blurt out a less than polite welcome.

‘If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain.’ He tilted his head to one side and gave her a brief apologetic smile, his eyes creasing in the way that had always made her tummy flip. She felt a flush of embarrassment at her behaviour the previous day as she opened the door wider so he could step inside.

‘Come in. Coffee?’ she asked. ‘There’s only instant I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll cope, thanks.’ His need to drink thick, freshly brewed black coffee both day and night was a constant source of jokes between them. ‘I hadn’t realised the damage to the tower that you mentioned was so bad. I saw the scaffolding around it as I drove up from the village.’

Walking through to the kitchen, she explained about the problems Kenny and Pete had discovered. She filled the kettle and took cups, coffee and a teabag for herself from the cupboard.

‘I owe you an apology,’ she finally admitted, making herself face him. ‘I was going to call when I thought you’d be at home and not busy. I’m sorry about yesterday. It all overwhelmed me, and I didn’t know what to say to you. I still don’t. I did visit Saffron’s grave. The headstone looks … good. Well, not good. How can anything about her being there and not with us, be good? But you know, it looks like I expected it to. And I still like the Yeats quote. I’m glad we went with it.’ She smiled at him gently, softening her features.

‘I saw you,’ he admitted.

‘Sorry? You did? Where?’ She was confused.

‘With Saffron. I was watching you from the back bedroom window.’ She noticed he no longer called it the nursery. ‘I wasn’t spying, I happened to glance out, and you were there. Then you left and didn’t appear at our front door, so I guessed you’d changed your mind.’

She passed him his drink and squeezed the teabag in her cup, throwing it into the food compost bin. No wonder the weeds grew so profusely in the garden, given the size of compost heap Grandad was building.

‘I didn’t change my mind,’ she protested, immediately on the defensive. He must be so tired of her prickly attitude, because it was certainly exhausting her. It pulled her down to a place she didn’t want to be. ‘You make it sound so fickle. I just couldn’t cope with it. I was upset and I didn’t want to talk.’

‘About Saffron, or about us?’ His shoulders were rigid as he exhaled sharply.

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Both maybe.’

‘We have to talk at some point, Amber.’ His voice rose, his knuckles white as they clasped his cup. ‘We can’t just drift along like this forever.’

‘I know, I know, but not at the moment please – it’s not the right time. Not yet. Have we had a letter with an appointment to see the consultant? Remember they said we’d get one?’ Abruptly changing the subject, she poured milk into her tea and sat down opposite him.

‘No, I’ll give them a call and chase it.’ He took a sip of his coffee and stared out of the window. ‘Have you seen Becky since you arrived?’ Becky, her best friend and closest work colleague. They’d both started work at the university within a couple of months of each other, Becky as a lecturer in medieval art history and Amber as an archivist in the same department, often working alongside each other on projects. Within hours of being together they had discovered that Becky lived in the same village as her grandfather, and that coincidence had been one of many.

‘No, not yet,’ she confessed. ‘She called me when I first got here and I said I’d get back to her but I haven’t yet. I keep chickening out. The less I talk to people, the less I feel able to.’

‘Look, I know it’s hard to reach out and speak to people, but it may help. She’s your friend and she’ll want to help you, and if you can’t talk to me then maybe to her? Don’t be short-sighted, go and have a chat, even if it’s just to have a shoulder to cry on.’

‘Crying isn’t the answer though, is it?’ Her hand came down sharply on the table. ‘I spend half my life crying but that won’t bring our baby back and neither will talking to someone. How can I pretend to be the old happy smiling Amber when that person has gone and I’ll never be her again?’

‘I don’t know, Amber, I don’t have all the answers. But I do know that I miss having you at home. It feels so empty, like you’ve been gone forever. I want our lives to move on somehow. How much longer will the book archiving here take?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. This time it was Amber’s turn to admit she didn’t have any answers.

‘There’s still over half to catalogue,’ she explained. She almost told him about the precious book of hours, but then stopped herself. Just for a little while longer she wanted to keep it to herself, at least until she’d unearthed the secrets it held. ‘I can’t come home yet. I feel so upset there, reminders everywhere. I feel calmer here, safer. Saffron Hall has always felt special to me; you know that. We both decided to call our daughter after this place because of the bond I have with it, and right now I feel as if it’s protecting me from the world.’

‘I know how it makes you feel, but is it protecting you from me as well? You don’t have a monopoly on being sad.’

‘Of course not from you.’ As she said it she wasn’t sure the words were true, but she hated seeing him this way, his shoulders hunched as he leant on the table, a broken man. ‘But you’ve got your church, and your calling, a reason to carry on. At the moment I don’t have that. I don’t have anything.’

‘You do have something – you have me. Staying here forever and wallowing in grief isn’t the answer, Amber. You’ve pressed “pause” on both of our lives, but somehow we have to try and find a solution.’ Jonathan laid his hands on the kitchen table, palms up.

‘I’m not “wallowing”—’ she made little inverted commas in the air with her fingers ‘—I just need a break from life for a little while. Sometimes I really wonder if you know me at all. If you ever did.’ She regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth and she was devastated when Jonathan, her rock, always her tower of strength, agreed with her.

‘So do I, Amber, so do I.’ Getting to his feet he shrugged his jacket back on, leaving his coffee on the table. ‘We aren’t getting anywhere. Perhaps you were right not to stay for lunch yesterday. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’ Rummaging through his pockets, always full of the detritus of life, he located his car keys. He came around the table and gave her a peck on the cheek; his dry, cool lips there and then gone, so brief she hardly felt it. She moved to hug him, but he wasn’t there. The front door opened and there was a moment’s silence as if he’d stopped for a moment, then it slammed shut and she heard his car engine start up. The house was quiet again, every fragment of it holding its breath, as shocked as she was.

Amber poured her cup of tea down the sink and immediately began to make herself another. Now she wished she’d gone to lunch with him the previous day. If they’d been in public neither of them would have felt able to throw accusations at each other as they just had. She felt further away from him than ever. She still loved him, she truly did, but from behind the barriers she’d erected around herself she didn’t know how to show him anymore. She had no strength left to try.

Leaving her tea beside the kettle, she wandered back to the office, making a mental note to call Becky and see if they could meet up for a coffee. At least then she’d have done one little thing Jonathan had asked of her.

The book of hours was still resting in the cradle where she’d left it when Jonathan had knocked on the door. She sat back down in front of it, picking up her gloves but not pulling them on. Leaning back in her chair she gazed out of the window, but the vast expanse of pale cloud, the brilliant light of Norfolk so loved by artists, wasn’t offering her any answers.

Finally, giving herself a little shake, she turned to the book. It didn’t have any solutions, but it might hopefully provide some distraction. She opened it at the front to reread the Latin inscription, which she had now fully transcribed and couldn’t stop thinking about.

infans filia sub pedibus nostris requiescit

nunc mihi tempus fugit

oro vos et spero in vobis

pro illa

ut ea in pace requiescat

What did it mean? She opened the translation app she normally used. There were a few words she recognised but not enough to make sense. The translation wasn’t completely straightforward, and eventually Amber had before her a passage that she was still unsure of. The hairs stood up along her arms as she read it and she gave an involuntary shudder.

A baby daughter lies beneath our feet

time escapes me now

I beseech you and place my trust

for her

so she may be at peace

What was Eleanor asking? This book was hundreds of years old, and yet Amber had an eerie feeling this was a personal message for her, reaching down through the centuries. If only she knew what Eleanor wanted. It was baffling, and yet there was a connection. A plucking at the filaments of time trying to catch her attention.

Leaving the passage for a moment, she carefully turned the page. She gasped with delight at the miniatures that shone out, their brilliance and colours, rich reds and vibrant hues of blue, with flecks of brilliant gold. It seemed as though the book hadn’t been opened since it was originally scribed. These illustrations were saints, she was certain, although she had no idea which ones they were. Becky certainly would. Turning the page again, she was keen to discover what other secrets the book was holding between its covers. Despite the Latin, she recognised the first few words of the Invitatory from other prayer books she had studied, followed by Psalm ninety-four, decorated with yet more delicate illumination that surrounded not just the initial letter, but almost half the page. Either the scribe who worked on it had been paid by the hour and had wanted to drag out the time it took him, or he was really devoted to his work. Either way, it was exquisite and incredibly well preserved.

The following two pages were less decorative and contained a calendar of church feasts as she would have expected, but her eyes widened and she held her hand to her mouth as she turned to the next page and discovered not more prayers, but what appeared to be a journal entry written in a different hand. It was decorated around the edge of the page with a careful attempt at some illuminated art in blues and yellows, although not as fine as the previous pages.

Written in the same distinctive handwriting as the entries in the frontispiece of the book, Amber found it almost as difficult to decipher as the Latin she’d struggled with on the front page, but as time went on, she found it easier to recognise individual letters. Whoever had written it had to be well educated – the writing had been precisely executed. Finally, with the assistance of her app, she was able to read the whole thing, tapping into her laptop as she repeated it out loud.

‘Eleanor Lutton, born 29 November in the year of our Lord 1520. Married this March 21 1538 to Sir Greville Lutton. I hope my husband will love me and be kind to me.’

This prayer book must also be Eleanor’s journal. The names at the beginning and the dates corresponded. Gently she turned to the front again to check, whilst doing some mental arithmetic. In 1538, Eleanor would have been seventeen, so more than marriageable age. Greville had been almost thirty, so quite a bit older. And Jane’s date of birth was 1534, so did Eleanor already have a child? A widow at seventeen, she’d have had Jane aged fourteen – not unheard of in the sixteenth century. But the entry said Jane Lutton, so it seemed more likely Greville was the one who’d been widowed, and the little girl was his.

Why did she hope he’d be kind to her? There was something in the way she wrote it. She sounded scared and worried, a little unsure. Amber gave a shudder. Back in Tudor times, she reminded herself, someone as educated as Eleanor must have been, to be able to write in both English and Latin, would have been married for family or political reasons, or money. Not for love.

She must have been muttering to herself out loud as she worked, because Grandad appeared in the doorway, bringing her back to the present day and making her jump.

‘I thought I heard you talking,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you had a visitor.’

‘I was working. Wait until I show you – you’re going to love this. But yes I did have a visitor earlier. Jonathan was here.’

Grandad raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

‘And nothing. We argued, he stormed out. I feel so guilty. We don’t seem to be able to agree on anything at the moment. He suggested I go and visit Becky, see if that helps.’

‘You should call in on her. She’s your best friend and only a mile away. Locking yourself away here with me and my books all the time isn’t going to do you any good. You need to go out and see other people occasionally. Have a chat, get things off your chest. Or invite her up here for dinner again?’ He reminded her about the time Becky had come for dinner and a tour of the hall when they’d first realised she lived in the same village as Grandad.