tea for both of them. ‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me. He is terribly good-looking and I can quite see why women adore him – after all, poor Amelia Robsart was dotty about him for a while – but they had a name for his sort in my mother’s day, you know, dear. He would have been spoken of as a cad.’
‘You’re talking about Dudley,’ Lizzie said, her lips twitching.
‘Well, of course! Dudley Lester!’ Avery shook her head in disgust. ‘He’s a dreadful lothario. I know you’ve been friends for ever, dear, but don’t step over that line. Not that we think you have,’ she added. ‘We all know it’s complete nonsense. We weren’t surprised to hear about Lettice Knollys.’ She fixed Lizzie with her very clear blue gaze. ‘You need to find yourself a nice beau, my dear. Would you like another croissant?’
‘I couldn’t squeeze any more in, thank you,’ Lizzie said. She was simultaneously distracted by Avery’s use of the word ‘beau’ and the fact that she was as on top of all the gossip as any celebrity reporter. ‘I didn’t realise you knew Amelia,’ she said. ‘How was that?’
‘I know everyone, dear,’ Avery said benignly. ‘Amelia’s mother Jessica Scott was a client of mine in London in the nineteen eighties. I was a fashion designer,’ she added, seeing Lizzie’s look of bemusement. ‘I’m very disappointed you haven’t heard of me. I designed the dress Jessica wore for the premiere of Chariots of Fire. It was known as the naked dress ever after and quite stole the show!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’d have liked to see that.’
‘I’ll show you the photographs,’ Avery said with a smile. ‘Celebrity is very fleeting, Elizabeth dear. None of us are immortal, as you’ll discover.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘I think I’ve already learned that,’ she said. ‘Do you know Amelia’s brothers and sisters as well?’
‘Not the younger ones,’ Avery said, ‘not the poor boy that’s disappeared.’ Her expression lightened a little. ‘I know Arthur. I knew his fiancée Mia too.’
‘I thought she was called Jenna,’ Lizzie said.
‘Jenna,’ Avery said vaguely. ‘Of course. Yes, she was sweet girl but so frail. In spirit, I mean. For a while they were all so close, Arthur and Jenna and Dudley and Amelia, before it all turned sour. Amelia bought Oakhangar Hall from me, you know. It had been in my family for centuries. And then she did all those appalling alterations,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘as though it didn’t look like a dog’s breakfast already.’
‘I hadn’t realised,’ Lizzie said slowly. ‘That Oakhangar had belonged to your family, I mean. I’ve only been there the once, when Dudley and Amelia got married.’
‘Don’t go back,’ Avery said, and suddenly her voice was devoid of all warmth. ‘It’s not a good place, Elizabeth. There’s something wrong with it. My ancestor built it from the stones of Cumnor Place.’ She spread her hands expressively. ‘What can you expect if you build the memory of a tragedy into the very fabric of a new building? Nothing happy will come of it, that’s for sure. And so it proved, with Amelia falling down the stairs…’ She shuddered. ‘Just like poor Amy Robsart.’
Lizzie felt the light brush of something along her spine like feathers, or cobwebs. She shivered convulsively. ‘Who?’ she said.
‘Amy Robsart,’ Avery repeated. ‘She was the wife of Robert Dudley, later Earl of Leicester. He was the favourite of Queen Elizabeth I. Such a demeaning word, “favourite”,’ she added. ‘It makes him sound like a gigolo. Still,’ she shrugged, ‘women have been demeaned as royal mistresses for centuries and I don’t suppose we should feel sorry for Robert. He did very well for himself.’
‘You said Amy was called Robsart,’ Lizzie said. ‘Was Amelia descended from her?’
‘Amy had no children,’ Avery said, ‘but yes, it’s the same family as Arthur and Amelia. They originated in Norfolk in the fifteenth century, I think, but Amy lived – and died – at Cumnor in Oxfordshire, which is only a few miles from here. So is Oakhangar Hall, of course. I did wonder…’ She looked troubled for a moment. ‘When I heard about Amelia’s death I wondered if the curse of Oakhangar had struck again,’ she said slowly. ‘It sounds fanciful, but it has happened a number of times before and the circumstances were so similar I could not help but think on it. My son tells me I’m a silly old woman, but he is a quantity surveyor and has very little imagination.’