Kettering Hall
by John Kiste
Even as the coach rumbled beneath the great
wrought iron gates that announced Kettering Hall, I
strained my eyes through the side window without ever
catching a glimpse of the manor through the crisp late
afternoon air. The extensive grounds ensured the driveway
to the hall took a quarter of an hour, and this road was not
tree-lined but was rather forest-enshrouded. After ten
more minutes of rattling along uncomfortably in the cold
carriage interior, I began to espy stone towers through
breaks in the autumn foliage, and we finally rounded a
sharp twist in the road which allowed a dramatic panorama
of the estate.
The castle, for such it truly was, was quite old but
wonderfully maintained. Two footmen awaited us before
the massive main oaken doors. I was led inside the
moment the coach pulled up, with assurances that my
luggage would find me within. The entrance hall was vast,
with dark recesses crawling away above me. I felt as
though hushed birds were perched in black niches
observing as I crossed the threshold. A footman guided
me down a corridor which branched off to the left and he
graciously pointed me into a huge library/study where a
bright fire crackled beneath an enormous mantel.
Lord Kettering rose from a comfortable armchair
positioned between the fireplace and a long wall of books.
His greeting was genuine and friendly, though I was only
18