"Dearest, would this be of interest to you?"

Edward passed the ancient letter across to his wife. He and Claire were both covered in dust and cobwebs for the attic in Darley House probably hadn't been entered in more than twenty years. It contained a dozen or more old paintings leaning up against the purlins and a wooden chest of the kind used by early settlers to store their personal papers. Sir George Darley's name was inscribed on the lid. There was little else up there except a few sticks of broken furniture.

The old house had always exercised a peculiar fascination over Claire that she found hard to explain and she had spent hours in the library researching its history. There was the intriguing story of the fatal quarrel between Sir George and his younger brother that, despite the coroner's verdict of accidental death, had left a number of questions unanswered in the minds of the local populace. Then there had been the mysterious death of the young maid who had been so peremptorily dismissed.

She took the letter but found it impossible to read in the dim half-light. She could just make out the date, 4th September 1843, and the opening words, "My darling George," and enough words of flowing cursive script to see that it was a passionate letter of love.

"Let me take it downstairs, where the light is better. It looks as if you've unearthed a skeleton in the attic! It certainly isn't from his wife, for it is signed, "from your ever-loving Annette".

Edward laughed.

"Your mother was called Annette, wasn't she?"

Claire gave him a playful nudge.

"You're not suggesting..."

"Well, it is quite a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Yet, as she climbed down the loft ladder, she felt a thrill of curiosity. She knew little of her mother who had died just a few weeks after giving birth, leaving her to be brought up by her aunt and uncle. The romantic idea of a link to Sir George appealed to her vivid imagination and she smiled.

She and Edward had leapt at the chance to rent the old house when she had seen the advertisement in the local paper. It was semi-derelict and badly overgrown, for the current owner had been overseas for several years. Nonetheless, it was a roof over their heads and within their budget. Probably no-one else would have even considered it, given the state that it was in.

Aunt Edith had been dead set against the idea.

"Why would you want to go and live in a run-down old place like that?" she had said.

There had been more than the usual amount of concern in her voice.

"It's an evil place. Some say haunted."

"Don't be silly, auntie! That's just old wives' tales!"

The words came back to her as she and Edward climbed up into the attic. The shiver they sent down her spine had added a vicarious thrill to the exploration.
Now that she was out in the garden in the bright sunlight again, she felt a bit silly. She went across to the rose-covered gazebo and sat down to read the letter in more detail.

When she came to the part that said 'and I have named her Rose, in memory of the place where she was conceived in our passion...' Claire gave a wry grin. She looked up at the climbing roses above her and wondered. At least one thing had been cleared up though, she thought.

***

Meanwhile, a few miles away, Edith turned to her husband and said, "Why did she have to go and do that! Stirring up old memories of my sister that should have remained dead and buried. As if the disgrace hadn't been enough when she came running home with her shameful little bundle. And when she told me why she'd called her Rose! Why, I could hardly believe it! The hussy! We couldn't have kept on calling the wee bairn that, now could we?"

"No dear, I suppose not."

"She said she'd written to His Lordship, pleading with him to make an honest woman of her, or at least to make provision for the little one, but he wouldn't hear of it."

"I still don't reckon that was no accident at the pond. I mean to say -- the state she was in. Real distracted she was, poor thing."

"Well, at least we've managed to keep it from young Claire for all these years. She's not had to hide the shame of it as we have."

***

Back at the old house Edward called out in excitement from the French windows.
"Claire! Come and look what I've found! There's a picture here. Uncanny! It's the spitting image of you. We shall have to dust it down and hang it up somewhere. In the bedroom, perhaps..."