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The chain squeaks as he lifts the padlock to examine the underside. “Bilson and Sons locksmiths.” He reads out. “Est. 1961.”
“So, we’re not the first people to discover this place,” Pierre says, looking around. “It makes sense because someone must have cut back those bushes and placed the rocks around the plateau to keep it clear. And it must have been kept up because three hundred years would have had the place completely overgrown.”
“Can someone hold this?” Hal asks, drawing our attention back to the door. He’s holding a pair of metal cutters to the padlock. “The chain keeps pulling it down.”
Gabriel steps forward and takes the end of the chain while Hal tries to break the shackle, but after a few tries he says, “It’s too strong. Someone really wanted to keep the place locked. The chain might be easier.” After a few attempts, one of the links breaks and the whole thing comes off the door with a metallic clang.
Still, the door won’t budge.
“The wood is swollen with damp.” He waves us away then takes a step back and aims a solid kick at the lower half. Sure enough, the door scrapes open.
I have to wave both hands in front of my face to clear the cloud of dust that forcing the door has sent up in all directions. Then we step inside and look around.
Hal whistles softly as our eyes travel around the dark room. Pierre goes to the windows and pulls back the tapestry. Light floods in to show a living room-cum-kitchen. A rocking chair sits on a tattered old rug by the fireplace. There’s a small table and two chairs with a ceramic washbowl and jug. At the back, a door leads to another room. We all walk that way crowding into the small space.
If there was ever any doubt this was Ada Montague’s hideaway, seeing this proves it. Two small cots, pushed against the wall, are covered in beautiful lace-edged bedding. It must have been very pretty once, but now it’s faded with age. There’s a clear swirly letter M embroidered into the corners of the pillowcases and the sheets.
“Montague.” Pierre’s voice is little more than a whisper.
"What makes me curious, though, is the large four-poster bed that takes up most of the space."
“Well, Ada must have slept in this room too,” Pierre observes, “all that ‘being insane and sleeping in the garden’ was actually her staying here to look after the boys.”
Gabriel is walking around the bed. “I think Elodie is right. Look.” He points to something above the bed. Something like a dangling thick rope of red fabric hangs from the top of the frame. It’s badly frayed but clearly twined silk cord, the kind used to tie curtains.
“If I’m not mistaken this was a canopied bed.” He brings his camera up and takes a couple of pictures.
Hal and Pierre both look at him with puzzled expressions. My own mind is racing, putting clues together.
“It’s too much bed for a mother alone kipping overnight with her kids.”
Pierre thinks then shakes her head. “It’s common for that period. Remember there was no central heating. The canopy and curtains would help keep the sleeper warm.”
Hal, too, seems curious and unconvinced. “I’m just confused how she got this down here. Even if she didn’t build the cottage, let’s say it existed before. How did she furnish it? who carried the beds and mattresses down here?”
“My guess,” I say slowly, trying to picture it, “would be the boatman. The sailor who was so moved by Ada’s pain that he refused to take the boys that first time. My guess is he…” I’m trying to imagine how they might have concocted the plan to deceive Sir James Montague.
“They became lovers.” Hal comes over and sits on the bed. “They were together in this room. It was their secret place.”
“Love nest?” I ask, laughing.
“I mean why bring down a large bed when a single would have been enough?”
Now the idea is mentioned, we all look around with new eyes and notice the little clues. The plates and cups, four of each. There are framed pictures on the walls, too faded to make out but obviously someone’s attempt to make the place more homey.
“So, what?” Pierre walks around the bed again. “During the few months between Sir James’ first and second attempts to send the boys away, Ada met and fell in love with the boatman and made this plan?” she asks.
“Or,” Hal says slowly, thinking. “Maybe he sought her out and offered to help her, and the love thing grew later, after the boys were smuggled here. Maybe to begin with there was indeed nothing but mattresses and blankets. But he stayed to guard the boys and over time he fell in love with Ada and made them proper beds with his own hands.” Hal’s hands trace the carved wood.
I can imagine it, but in my mind, it’s Hal I see in eighteenth-century linen shirt, ruffled at the collar and cuffs, and knee breaches. I imagine him building this bed for him and the woman he loved.
Despite trying not to look at Hal, my eyes go to him; he’s watching me, and his expression makes my heart flutter.
“Let’s clean this place.” I get off the bed and walk back into the kitchen. If Hal continues giving me these smouldering looks, I’m going to swoon as easily as a renaissance lady.
We stay all afternoon. We give the inside of the cottage a dust and wipe, clear out the cobwebs and the dirt. By the time the cottage is clean, we are filthy. So, we change into swimsuits and cool down in the pond. Pierre and Gabriel splash each other under the small waterfall.
“I wish I could have seen you shoot out of the rocks.” Gabriel laughs at me. “It must have been fun.”
