A Tudor Ghost Story by Anne Clinard Barnhill

The Smell of Roses

By Anne Clinard Barnhill

     Hannah Bowles gripped her overnight case firmly, her knuckles white and lumpy, as she deplaned and headed for the woman holding the sign, “Selective British Tours.”  How many years had Hannah waited for this moment?  How many hours of overtime had she worked and how long had she saved every penny so she could finally set foot on the soil of what she considered her true home– England.

     She couldn’t remember the exact date her obsession with all things British began.  Perhaps as early as the Winnie-the-Pooh books or the wonderful Peter Pan.  Perhaps it was the romance of King Arthur and his round table that shook her imagination.  Certainly, by the time the Beatles appeared, she was already in love with the place and her fanaticism for the Fab Four simply reinforced her sense that she had, indeed, been born in the wrong country.  And when she read the story of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, she knew she had to go to England, to walk where Anne walked and see the things she’d seen.  For whatever reason, Anne Boleyn had become a beacon of womanhood to her and Hannah refused to leave this earth without travelling across ‘the Pond’ to explore Anne’s history with her own eyes.

     But now, she was here; she was breathing the same air as the Queen and Prince William and Kate.  And on every set of lips, the sounds of Britain, words like lorry for truck and bonnet for car hood, and her favorite–telly for television.  She walked over to the small group circling around the sign, nodded to the others with a small smile, then looked around her into the cloudy October sky.  She thought she might cry for sheer joy.

     The tour guide hustled the group onto a minivan and called their names.  Hannah sat beside an elderly gentleman with a trim grey beard and wire-rim glasses.

     “Your first time, is it?” he said, his voice sounding rough, though the tone was kind.

     “How did you know?” Hannah said.

     “I remember many years ago—my own first time.  I’ve been coming back every fall since then.  Wouldn’t miss her…I mean, wouldn’t miss the trip,” he mumbled.

     “Wow, that’ s pretty amazing.  Where are you from?” said Hannah.

     “Texas.  Fort Worth.  Long damn trip but worth it–always worth it,” he said, stroking his beard with a large, freckled hand.

     Hannah thought she could smell roses but surely an old cowboy would not wear such a delicate scent.  She inhaled again, trying to figure out where the smell was coming from.

     “Do you smell that?” she finally asked.

     For a full minute, the old man didn’t speak.  She watched as the color drained from his face.

      “What?  What do you smell?” he said finally.

      “I thought, oh, it’s just silly—but I thought for a moment I smelled roses, maybe some other flowery odor–” she said.

     Again, the man beside her was silent.  Then, he grabbed her hand and looked her square in the face.

     “It’s her.  That’s how it starts—first, the smells, then…well, don’t listen to me–I’m just a foolish old man,” he said, turning away from her.

     “What are you talking about?” said Hannah.

     “Nothing–forget it.  It’s a long way to Hever Castle–I’m going to catch a few winks–jet lag,” said the man.  He turned away from her and curled up against the seat, cushioning his head with his hands.

     Hannah stared out the window, drinking in all the sights and sounds and smells of London as the minivan rumbled through the city streets.  Then, as the city faded into the distance, she took in the countryside.  She didn’t even want to close her eyes to blink.  The landscape sped by her as she noticed the shifting shades of the trees.  Once they left the city, great oaks seemed to be covered in spun gold with occasional maple trees adding their own ruby-colored leaves.  The whole countryside reminded her of a cache of jewels.

      She must have dozed off for a while because she awoke to the gentleman next to her, nudging her with his elbow.

     “There it is!  Hever!  Where Queen Anne Boleyn walked and laughed and breathed–Henry wrote her letters while she hid away here…love letters full of all the wooing a young man can use to win a woman.  I love this place–it seems I am more at home here than anywhere else in the world–and I’ve been around,” said the man.

     Hannah gazed out the window and noted the luxurious grounds surrounding Hever Castle.  It seemed every blade of grass was in place.  The ivy covering the front wall was bright red and the moat surrounding the castle looked peaceful, as if nothing had disturbed the water for years.  Hannah felt suddenly transported back in time five hundred years.  The gardens blossomed with the tawny colors of autumn and the boxwoods had been carved into festive shapes.  She could imagine Henry VIII riding up on his enormous stallion, bluff and hearty, clapping Thomas Boleyn on the back and bowing cordially to Lady Boleyn, Anne’s mother.  As the minivan pulled into the visitor parking space, Hannah looked at her travelling companion.  His face was flushed and he seemed to have grown younger and more vigorous; evidently, his catnap had done him some good.

     “I’m Tom, by the way.  Tom Helms,” he said, not taking his eyes from the castle.

     “I’ve enjoyed travelling with you, Tom.  I’m sure we’ll see each other at dinner,” she said.

     “Perhaps…if not, enjoy your visit.  And don’t forget to expect the unexpected–” he said.  He turned to her, his eyes narrowing and she was, for a brief moment, afraid.  “Old Texas saying.”

     “Oh.  Well, thanks–I think,” said Hannah as she moved into the aisle, lugging her overnight bag with her.

     The moment her feet touched the ground, she felt a shiver, a jolt almost like electricity.  She couldn’t help the smile spreading across her features.  She was excited but she was also content in a way she had not anticipated—she seemed to know this place deep in her bones.  Well, she had read about it for years, perusing brochures, checking online for pictures and any information she could find.  That must explain the strange sensations.

     The tour guide lined them up, made certain each person had her luggage and then led them into the massive hall.  Hannah had opted for a single room, though the cost had been a little more.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t want to share this once-in-a-lifetime experience with some stranger who might talk her ears off.  No, she wanted to savor every minute, allow her imagination to take over and see what she could discover about Hever Castle and its most famous occupant, Anne Boleyn.

     She followed the tour guide to the rooms, trying to keep her breathing steady but her heart was racing.  She watched as the tour guide put the key into the door to her home-away-from-home and Hannah entered as if she were a queen herself.  As the tour guide mumbled on about the features of the room, Hannah felt suddenly quite exhausted.  She didn’t want to appear rude but she hustled the tour guide out of her room as quickly as she could.  Her head was heavy, almost as if she’d been drugged.  She lay across the bed, kicking her shoes off in the process.  She barely had a moment to glance at her watch: 4:13 PM.  She had time for a good nap before dinner at 7.

     Hannah quickly fell into a deep sleep.  She felt herself walking, walking, walking down a long gallery, people bowing and curtseying to her as if she were someone royal, someone important.  The women wore long dresses with slashed sleeves, and radiant jewels adorned their necks and ears.  She felt along her own neck, slender and long, and found a necklace with a letter of some sort dangling from the rope of pearls.  She tried to figure out what it was, but her fingers felt clumsy and she was not able to decipher it.

     Suddenly, a handsome man came toward her.  He was taller than the other men in the crowd with a small mouth and pale blue eyes, which stared into her own.  He bowed low to her, though she could see a crown on his head.  She noticed his hair was thinning and, though mostly reddish-gold in color, there were a few strands of gray.  She felt herself curtsey and then, almost in relief, she fell to the floor in a faint.  At that point, Hannah awoke.  The room had grown almost dark and when she looked at her watch, she realized she had only ten minutes to dress for dinner.  She washed her face, brushed her teeth and slipped on the black silk sheath she’d brought for the occasion.  She hurried out of the room, her make-up barely on.

     When she entered the Tudor Suite Sitting Room, she found the other members of her party already seated.  She looked at the enormous fireplace, the roaring fire and the beautifully set tables.  She made her way through the labyrinth of chairs and tables to a partially-filled table across the room.  She smiled, asked if she might join them and was seated.  Next to her, Tom Helms chatted with a woman of about sixty.  When he saw she was sitting near him, he looked at her and smiled.  He seemed to have lost ten years while she’d been napping.  He was quite handsome in the candlelight.

     “How’s your room?” he said.

     “Well, comfortable–all I did was fall across the bed and catch up on my sleep,” she said, placing her napkin in her lap.

     “Did you have a feeling of being drugged?” he said.

     She thought that an odd comment–indeed, that is exactly how she’d felt, but how could he possibly know?  What sort of game was he playing?

     “Now you mention it, yes.  I simply could not keep my eyes open.  And I had the strangest dream!  I was here at Hever but it was as if I were really living here.  And there were lots of people in Tudor costumes running around.  I suppose my imagination has got the better of me,” she said.

     “Could it be?  Could you be…?  Well, we shall see.  Here comes the first course!  Ah, salad–looks lovely,” he said, sweeping aside any questions she may have had regarding his strange comments.  He must be getting senile, she thought.  He seemed to talk more to himself than to her and none of it made sense.

     The next morning, Hannah arose with the birdsong, dressed in jeans and walking boots, tossed a light jacket over her shoulders and headed down to breakfast.  She wasn’t one for big meals early in the morning, so she grabbed a scone and cup of tea, making quick work of both.  Mid-morning was the scheduled tour of the grounds complete with guide, but Hannah wanted to have the great outdoors to herself for a while before she joined a crowd.  She headed for the rose garden, hoping to find some blooms still opening in the autumn sunshine.  She was especially interested in seeing the Hever Castle Rose planted by Dame Judith Dench.

     Hannah was rounding the corner when she caught site of a man and woman in full Tudor dress.  They were intent on each other and didn’t even notice her as she passed by.  She was amazed at the accuracy of the costumes, the rich velvets and silks, the jewels that sparkled in the morning light.  Even the actors were well-chosen: the man was tall and burly and looked very much like the man in her dream.  When she looked at the woman, she felt a sudden rage rising.   She had the impulse to slap the plain-faced girl across her pale, pale cheeks.  Her heart beat hard and fast and she didn’t quite know what was happening to her.  She began to run as fast as she could, running down the garden path propelled by a jealous rage.  When she finally stopped and turned around, the couple had disappeared.

     What was that about? Hannah thought.  She shook her head and felt her body begin to calm.  She continued on her walk, disturbed by the fierce emotions she’d experienced, but finding no cause for them.

     On the fifth day of the tour, the guide found Hannah in her room, reading one of the many Tudor books she’d purchased in the gift shop.

     “It’s Mr. Helms—he’s fallen ill and he’s asking for you,” said the guide, peering in at Hannah from the door.

     “Oh, no!  Nothing serious, I hope,” said Hannah as she put down her book, rose, shook loose her hair with her fingers and followed the guide.

     “I don’t think so…but he is rather old,” said the guide.

     “How old is he?  I was thinking in his mid-sixties,” said Hannah.

     “Well, you won’t believe it because he gets on marvelously well—I’ve been doing the tour for about thirty-five years and I was here on his very first one–he was sixty-five then,” whispered the guide.

     “But, that would make him a hundred years old!  He was dancing just the other night–he can’t possibly be that old,” said Hannah as the guide knocked on the door to Room 19.

     “I’m just telling you—he always takes the same room–the date of her death, he says.  Never have I met a man so in love with Anne Boleyn,” said the guide under her breath.

     Hannah’s head was reeling, thinking about what the guide had told her.  One hundred years old?  But he seemed to grow younger with each passing day, she thought.  There was a mystery here, one she found impossible to solve.  She heard a weak voice call out, ‘Come in’ as the guide opened the door and led her inside.

     There, on his bed, lay Tom Helms.  And now, he looked every minute of his one hundred years.  His hair was sparse, his face wrinkled as a raisin.  He motioned for Hannah to come closer.  He began to speak, but his voice was so faint she had to lean over and put her ear to his mouth.

     “You are the one,” he whispered.

     “What do you mean?” said Hannah.

     “She has chosen you and you must serve her well.  If you do, you shall be rewarded with a long and pleasant life.  But never fear–you can refuse her if you wish…she will not hurt you,” he said.  He tried to sit up but was too weak.  He fell back onto his pillow.

     “Who has chosen me?  To do what?  I don’t understand,” said Hannah.  But in her heart, she did understand; she just didn’t believe.

     “She wishes for you to come once a year–here to Hever.  She will make use of you as she has made use of me–you will provide a body for her,” said Tom.

     “And what does she need a body for?  And why me?” said Hannah.

     But it was too late; he was gone.  Hannah watched as his face relaxed and a smile spread across his features.  It was as if he’d seen someone or something, and he was relieved and happy to see whatever it was.  Hannah felt a great sense of peace as the tour guide called for assistance.  She made her way out of the room and headed for the gardens.  She needed a walk now more than ever.

     As she walked out into the fresh air, she smelled roses again, a very strong scent.  But she was not yet near the rose gardens.  Suddenly, she felt a strange sensation–she was being watched.  But as she looked around, she saw no one.  She shivered, a cold blast of air coming at her from nowhere.  Her hands began to shake.  Then, she heard whispers, soft, high-pitched whispers all around her.  Her ears rang, louder and louder and her head seemed to be disconnected from her body.  She tried to find a place to sit, for she knew she was going to faint.  But there was no place and she fell down in a swoon.

     This year would make the twentieth year Hannah had come to Hever Castle.  All her friends were amazed that for over two decades, Hannah had not aged much.  Her hair had one gray streak in the front, but her face was as smooth as ever.  Her trip to Hever was the highlight of her year and she made it a point to come at different seasons.  But she refused to visit in May, though her friends thought the place would be beautiful in that month.  Hannah never talked much about her visits, though she did take a few pictures.  In one, there is the vague image of a woman in Tudor dress, standing right beside Hannah, reaching out to her as if she would embrace her.

     Hannah is not smiling in that picture.

(Visit Anne Barnhill’s official website here)