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    The Lady in the Veil
    The Lady in the Veil
    The Lady in the Veil
    Ebook126 pages2 hours

    The Lady in the Veil

    By Leah Fleming

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    'I found the photograph album by chance when we were clearing out the old coach house. It must have been sitting on the garage shelf for years among all the other family rejects.'

    When a woman finds a lost photo album in a garage clearout, she is drawn to the images of her ancestors. But one image in particular stands out: a baby sitting in the lap of its mother, both draped from head to toe in a cotton lace curtain or something, completely enveloped and unrecognizable. Who are they and what has happened to them?

    In a story that moves between 2012 and 1850, the shocking secrets of one family are gradually revealed…
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster UK
    Release dateMay 21, 2015
    ISBN9781471141027
    The Lady in the Veil
    Author

    Leah Fleming

    Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire of Scottish parents, and is married with four grown up children and four grandchildren. She writes full time from a haunted farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and from the slopes of an olive grove in Crete. She is one of a group of volunteer drivers for her local branch library’s ‘Books on wheels.’

    Read more from Leah Fleming

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    Reviews for The Lady in the Veil

    3.5/5

    19 ratings2 reviews

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    • 3/5
      The book is well written, and of a style I expect from this author, since I've read a few of her books before. It draws the reader in from the start and I wanted to know how the plot would develop and what happened at the end.
      A shorter story than some of her other books - it's slightly less than 100 pages and includes a preview of another of this author's books to complete the 126 pages advertised - but I think it's not a particularly believable story for that period of time.
    • 5/5
      My fav author...I have no words to describe this

      3 people found this helpful

    Book preview

    The Lady in the Veil - Leah Fleming

    Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire and is married with three sons and a daughter. She writes from an old farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and an olive grove in Crete.

    Also by Leah Fleming

    The Girl from World’s End

    The War Widows

    Orphans of War

    Mothers and Daughters

    Remembrance Day

    Winter’s Children

    The Captain’s Daughter

    The Girl Under the Olive Tree

    The Postcard

    First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015

    A CBS COMPANY

    Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2015

    Extract from The Postcard copyright © Leah Fleming, 2014

    Extract from The Last Pearl copyright © Leah Fleming, 2015

    This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

    No reproduction without permission.

    ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

    The right of Leah Fleming to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

    Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

    1st Floor

    222 Gray’s Inn Road

    London WC1X 8HB

    www.simonandschuster.co.uk

    Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

    Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

    A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

    Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47114-102-7

    This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

    THE LADY IN THE VEIL

    CONTENTS

    2012. YEWBANK HOUSE

    1. 1850

    2

    3

    4

    5

    6

    7

    8

    9

    10

    2012

    2012

    YEWBANK HOUSE

    I found the photograph album by chance when we were clearing out the old coach house. It must have been sitting on the garage shelf for years among all the family rejects consigned to this glory hole.

    At first I thought it was just a family Bible, the sort the Victorians furnished for their parlours with names and dates at the front. I hoped it might help my current mania for researching the history of Yewbank House, but no such luck.

    There was so much de-cluttering to do before the architect came to discuss turning the stone buildings into a holiday let. As usual, only Bill and I had turned up to see to the clearing up. Stockdales were always hoarders, I thought, as I sifted through the suitcases full of musty books and papers. The farmhouse was big enough to shift stuff from parlour to attic or cellar, cellar to coach house but as this was now our new home I wanted everything out and sorted.

    It must have been at the weekend when Bill and I sat down with the books and the Bible by the fire. ‘You’re not throwing that out!’ my husband laughed.

    I realized it was a fine piece of Victorian tooled leather and gilt work with a gilded clasp opening up into a huge thick album full of photographs of beautiful Yorkshire Dales scenery, hay timing in the fields, the house during renovations, horse and carriages. These pictures were works of art. There were later sepia portraits of ladies with parasols sitting by the front portico, children in ringlets and tartan dresses and I could see at once the genetic inheritance: those strong brows, high cheekbones and ruddy country faces of the Stockdale clan. I looked at Bill and laughed. ‘Easy to see who this lot belongs to. Do you know any of them?’

    He turned over the pages slowly. ‘That must be my great-grandpa as a baby, judging by the date. But what the heck is this?’

    We stared in shock at the toddler sitting in the lap of its mother or at least someone holding him, draped from head to toe in a cotton lace curtain or something, completely enveloped and unrecognizable.

    ‘That’s weird,’ I answered. ‘How bizarre . . . who would take a photo like that? Is she a corpse?’ I had heard that infants were often photographed on their deathbeds, but a mother concealed under lace? I dropped the photo quickly. ‘Put it away!’

    When Bill left the room I found myself strangely drawn to take a second closer look at this portrait. I noticed her ladylike fingers clutching the child as it sat looking puzzled at the camera. The baby was sunk into her groin, relaxed, almost smiling. This was no dead infant and the hand that held it was firm and alive. It was then I noticed another faded hand to the left of the hidden mother reaching out to steady the both of them. This was not a female hand with its broader palm like a spade. I sensed a muscular grip on the child’s shoulder, but why was he also cut out?

    Who were they? Why was this photograph loose, not fixed like the others and what had it got to do with Bill’s family? Why had his gran never shown the album to anyone? Those early landscapes were skilled, taken by a man with an eye for beauty, which made this portrait all the more strange. Who was left now to answer all these questions? It was going to be up to me to find out more about these lost relatives of Yewbank House.

    I turned the photo round, hoping for some clue. In a spidery hand was written: my father, William Albert Dacre Stockdale. Nothing more; but who was the lady in the veil?

    1

    1850

    ‘Last one to the stone cross is a sissy!’ yelled William Dacre as he spurred his horse past his sister.

    ‘Wait for me, that’s not fair!’ Mirabel Dacre shouted, not so easily shaken off, especially as she’d ditched the side-saddle in favour of a proper saddle, her riding habit daringly hitched up. Why should boys have all the fun? They were racing along the ridgeway on top of the Yorkshire moor looking down into the valley where the silver river snaked past the gardens of their residence, Lawton Hall.

    Will was home from his boarding school. There was always good-natured rivalry between them, being just a year apart, while their younger sister, Eliza, stayed indoors, believing it was unsafe to venture out onto the hills.

    Someone had to keep an eye on Papa when he was in one of his black moods. Ever since their dear mama died in childbirth, he had ignored his other children in favour of business activities: the mills, the district bank, the Assizes. Sir Barnett Dacre was renowned for his involvement in Dales affairs. Mirabel knew he didn’t care what they got up to as long as they kept out of sight.

    Will was racing ahead faster and faster on Hector while she was lagging behind, but not for long. She kicked hard and bent her head into the wind to chase after him, breathless, her determined jaw set for victory, her ringlets whipping her cheeks. Her eye was on the stone cross by the finger post at the crossroads from Skelsby to Dallingford. Then to her horror she saw a wild deer leap over a stone wall in Will’s path. Hector reared up catching the deer, flinging it aside but Will was thrown right over the horse’s head and into the stone cross.

    ‘Will!’ Mirabel screamed, screeching to a halt, leaping down from the saddle with difficulty, seeing him lying prostrate on the bridle path not moving.

    ‘Will! Wake up!’ She lifted his head onto her lap. He was breathing but was fast asleep and she felt helpless to know what to do next. The deer lay on the ground wounded. Hector had dashed off. Suddenly the sky glowered over then; the moors empty of carts or coaches. Only sheep grazed curiously. ‘Oh Lord, what do I do now?’ she cried into the wind. ‘Please help us.’

    Matt Stockdale was busy setting up his tripod to catch the light before the sun descended behind the hidden gill. Ever since he had read Mr Fox Talbot’s book, The Pencil of Nature, that told him how to capture images on paper by the action of light, he was hooked on the new art of Photography. He had even made his own equipment for outdoors work. His late father had thought it was queer to want to steal pictures from the sunlight. ‘Nowt’ll come of it. Don’t waste yer brass, lad.’ But Matt knew better and the discussions at Skelsby’s Men’s Forum agreed that photography was a new science. Even the Queen had herself portrayed by light.

    As a grammar school boy, he had had some chemical lessons, but he had to leave school to help his mother on the farm when his father died suddenly. Yewbank was a hard taskmaster and with only a yard boy and dairymaids, he was in charge of hundreds of sheep roaming on the fells. It was the life he was born to and they owned a stretch of moorland thanks to the dedication of his Stockdale ancestors who fought off the land-grabbing Dacres for centuries.

    He wanted to capture the waterfall in the rocky gill where the stream cascaded down the ravine in such force. He had even brought his own dark cabinet to process his plates quickly. It was an expensive hobby for a Dales farmer but Matt was careful and made what he could himself. He had brought the cart to bring back some good stones for walling later. Work first, then pleasure, he smiled to himself. It was then that he heard the scream carried over the wind but it often played tricks on him so he stopped. There it was again, not the screech of a bird but a woman’s cry. Someone was in trouble.

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