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Still, Hattie seemed to like torture in a tutu and Josie wasn’t about to stop her doing what she loved. That was what good parents did—they supported their children’s choices and let them blossom into the unique creatures they were meant to be. She was not going to impose her own likes and dislikes on her daughter as if they were the Ten Commandments.
Just as she’d predicted, Hattie was sitting at the kitchen table looking expectantly at Mrs Barrett, Elmhurst’s cook. And just as her husband would answer to nothing other than “Barrett”, Mrs Barrett was conveniently deaf unless she was addressed as “Cook” by most people. Josie got away with Mrs B, but only if she wasn’t being too cheeky and the older woman was in the right kind of mood.
‘And will it be your usual, Miss Hattie?’
Josie smiled. This was a game they played, Cook and Hattie. She thought it reminded the loyal servant of the glory days of the hall when she’d had staff to boss around and ‘at homes’ to cater for.
There were no prizes for guessing why Hattie liked the game. It was every girl’s dream, wasn’t it? To be Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty and live in a castle. And she wasn’t going to stop Hattie having her dreams, even if she knew the reality was pretty grim.
Most people didn’t realise this, but living in a fantasy castle could drain a girl’s spirit. It wouldn’t be long before she’d go stir-crazy. She’d start snoozing all day, or losing her shoes, and do a Rapunzel—grow her hair so she could get the heck out of the stuffy old mausoleum.
Hattie folded her hands on her lap. ‘Yes, please, Cook.’
‘And can I tempt you with a freshly baked gingersnap to go with that?’
Josie tried hard not to laugh as Hattie considered the offer, her head tipped to one side, eyes focused on the ceiling. She looked so prim and proper sitting there, her back perfectly straight and her ankles crossed.
‘I think I would like that very much, Cook.’
Mrs B nodded and poured Hattie’s juice into a delicate little teacup, complete with saucer, reserved exclusively for that use.
‘Hi, Mrs B,’ said Josie, ruffling her daughter’s hair. The action was rewarded with a scowl as Hattie removed her tiara and smoothed down the fluffy bits.
‘Afternoon, dear. Catch any trolls today?’
Josie chuckled and slid into the chair opposite Hattie. ‘Not exactly.’
Cook gave her a quizzical look as she placed a mug of tea in front of her.
Hattie was happy to fill in the gaps. ‘We met a man in the gardens. His name is Will. I think he likes fairies,’ she said through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.
‘I took him in to see Barrett,’ Josie added. ‘Not that he’ll have much joy until the new lord is traced. Even then he’s going to have to join the back of a very long queue if he wants his money.’
Mrs Barrett parked her ample bottom in the chair next to her. ‘Barrett told me today that they’ve found him. Working overseas, he said. The late Lord Radcliffe’s great-nephew. Apparently he will be arriving some time this week. There’s an emergency staff meeting at four-thirty. I’ll look after Hattie while you go. Barrett can fill me in later.’
Josie took a sip of her tea. ‘I didn’t think Edward Radcliffe had any sons. I thought you told me he gave up trying after four daughters.’
‘No, Edward was Lord Radcliffe’s youngest brother. The new lord’s grandfather would have been the middle of the three Radcliffe brothers.’
‘I never knew there was another Radcliffe brother. I don’t remember seeing anything in the genealogy.’
‘No, well, you wouldn’t. It happened long before you were born, Josie. Some big family falling-out between Harry’s father and his youngest son. The whole family disowned him. The man the solicitors hired discovered that he’d changed his name, which explains why his descendants have been so hard to trace.’
Josie gave a wry smile. ‘Another black sheep, then.’
Mrs B just changed the subject. ‘You’d better hurry along or you’ll be late for the meeting.’
Josie leaned back in her chair, kicked her booted feet up to rest on the table and ignored the disapproving stare she got from the other two. ‘I’ve got a few minutes left. Time to drink my tea, at any rate.’
So, the black sheep’s grandson had inherited Elmhurst. There was no doubting that life at the hall had fallen into a rut as deep as the Cheddar Gorge. It could do with a good shake-up.
Only she didn’t want some Hooray Henry storming into her territory and causing a ruckus. If there was going to be an uproar, she’d jolly well cause it herself.
Josie returned from the staff meeting feeling a little foolish. Scratch that; she felt a whole lot foolish. Not that she’d let Will Whatever-his-name-was see how she was feeling.
She stomped back to the kitchen. How dared he walk in here, looking all ordinary? He wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all. Anyway, it was his own fault she’d been a bit off with him. He shouldn’t go sneaking up on people in the gardens and expect them to know who he was.
It was still niggling her the following Monday morning as she was preparing the display of cakes for the tearoom with Mrs B.
‘Who is this guy, anyway? And where did he go after the meeting on Friday? He hasn’t been around all weekend.’
Mrs B sighed and carried on cutting a carrot cake into even slices.
‘Barrett says he’s a businessman of some sort, quite successful too, by all accounts.’
‘What kind of business, that’s what I want to know?’ Josie muttered to herself. Mrs B shrugged and placed the newly carved cake into the display case. Her baked goods were the most popular things on sale in the tearoom.
‘Oh, something to do with old buildings,’ Mrs B replied.
There was no point in pursuing this line of questioning further. To the loyal cook he was Lord Radcliffe, and that was that.
Nobody knew anything about him. Old buildings. That could mean anything. He could be a property developer planning to raze the hall to the ground and build a horrible modern housing estate.
Josie wiped her hands on a tea towel and took her apron off. ‘I’m off to the cash-and-carry to stock up on crisps and suchlike. I should be back before noon.’
Mrs B nodded and returned to arranging a tray of muffins in a pleasing manner. Josie put her coat on, pulled a stripy hat out of the pocket and plonked it on her head, tucking her hair behind her ears.
She drove through the village of Elmhurst and joined the main road that would take her to the nearby town of Groombridge. After she’d loaded up the boot of the old Morris Minor with provisions for the tearoom, she decided to take a little detour. Not exactly work-related, but it was in the interests of all those employed at the hall, so it almost counted.
The public library was only a five-minute walk away. She ignored the rows of books and headed straight for one of the computer terminals where she could get internet access. It was conveniently ready at the home page of a search engine and she sat down and typed in William Roberts with two fingers. She’d finally learnt his surname from Barrett.
Almost instantly a long list popped up. She discounted the first few—results from family history sites—and scanned down the list. A very long list.
The first site she tried was the cyber-home of William Roberts, die-hard fishing enthusiast. She smiled as she closed the page and looked for another link. She’d always thought that once you’d seen one picture of a dead fish, you’d seen them all. Obviously not.
The next try was more like it. It wasn’t exactly what she was looking for, but it had a link to another site and when she followed that she hit gold.
Her worst fears were confirmed.
The link brought up a news article. It seemed that only months ago, Will had picked up an award for one of his projects. The brief blurb underneath the photograph described his company as one that took on both restoration projects and property development.
She rested her head in her hands and massaged her scalp with her fingers. It was as if she could feel the structure of her life crumbling away. If Elmhurst Hall closed, her only option would be to go home and live with her parents. And she’d always said it would be a cold day in hell before that happened.
She navigated to a different page, hoping to garner a little more information on the mysterious Mr Roberts. The site only gave the most basic information, but she could see that he’d done very well for himself, building his company up from virtually nothing.
Out of the blue, she heard her mother’s voice echo in her head: ‘He might be rich, darling. But he’s hardly one of us, is he?’
Her mother was such a snob.
‘He’s a bit dishy, isn’t he?’
Josie turned to find Marianne, the librarian, looking over her shoulder. The silence rule was never going to be upheld very well while Marianne worked here. Somehow, a place of serious contemplation and study had turned into a hotbed of gossip. And Marianne was the main culprit.
‘I hadn’t really noticed, actually.’
Marianne whacked her on the shoulder with a paperback. ‘Go on! You can’t fool me. Look at that lovely thick dark hair and those brooding, serious eyes. I bet there’s a fine physique underneath that suit.’
‘Marianne, you’ve been spending far too long camped out in the spicier parts of the romance section. Not every woman thinks about a man in terms of hard abs and strong thighs. Some things are more important.’
Marianne hissed out a laugh. ‘Yeah, right! Just don’t dribble too much on that keyboard, OK?’
Josie turned back to face the monitor, closed down the page and stood up, whisking her belongings under her arm as she did so.
‘Nobody here is going to be doing any drooling, trust me.’
‘Whatever you say, Josie.’
The librarian sauntered off, a smug grin on her face. Josie sighed. Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—she wasn’t going to let herself think about moody looks and washboard abs. Those didn’t count for anything. A man with a heart and a soul was a much rarer, and infinitely more precious, commodity.
Will Roberts might look ‘dishy’ but he might also be the worst thing to happen to Elmhurst Hall in five centuries. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
CHAPTER TWO
WILL sat in the corner of the tearoom, partly hidden by a hideous piece of garden trellis with faded plastic ivy poking through it. He picked up a leaf that had either fallen off or been picked off by a bored customer and fixed it back onto one of the many waiting stubs.
Something would have to be done about this place.
While the hall looked elegantly shabby at present, the tearoom just looked cheap.
The only possible problem might be its manageress. He’d been here a month—well, not an entire month. Only weekends, really—and he still had no idea how she’d react to the news that he wanted to completely gut and refurbish the tearoom. In the end, he’d had to cut short his work in London and come down here on a Monday afternoon.
You’d think the pink-haired girl would be pleased he was bringing this beautiful place back to life, but every time he was in her presence it was as if he could hear her tutting at him. Not out loud, of course. But the noise was there all the same. Inside his head.
He watched her as she chatted to customers, and, clearing their plates, said goodbye. She might look a little strange, but she was good with people. Warm. Engaging. With other people.
He checked his watch. Only five more minutes and the tearoom would close. Then she’d have to talk to him.
Over the last few weeks he’d met with all the staff, one by one, to talk through their jobs and find out if they had ideas for improvement. And, while he’d listened carefully to each one of them, he hadn’t been convinced about some of the ideas. Especially Molly’s. She was one of the more enthusiastic volunteer guides. Somehow, a garden-gnome museum didn’t sit right with his vision for the hall. It needed ideas with taste, class—initiatives with a certain sense of respect for tradition and the history of the place.
He wiggled another leaf on the ivy trail and pushed it back into position. Totally fake and out of place.
A cup of tea clattered onto the table in front of him. He looked up to find Josie staring at him. Let’s get it over with, then, her expression said.
‘Thank you. Why don’t you sit down?’
She looked away for a split-second then dropped into the moulded plastic seat bolted onto the metal supports that held the table in place.
‘I’ve been looking over the accounts for the tearooms.’
She let out a breath through her nostrils and continued staring at him.
‘They’re not good—’
She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. ‘I do as well as I can under the circumstances. You try running a place like this with only one working oven, not enough staff and a budget that only allows for the cheapest, lowest-quality ingredients. I’d like to see you do better.’
‘I said the figures weren’t good. I didn’t say they were terrible. In fact, if you’d let me finish, I was about to say that the tearoom seems to be the only part of the estate that’s made any money in the last few years and, reading between the lines, I’d say that had an awful lot to do with you.’
Her arms dropped to her sides. ‘Oh.’
‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Josie. You’re producing a great menu under severe limitations, but this place is a dive.’
Her body straightened and her hands flew to her hips, but then she looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the ivy, and she slumped again.
‘You’re right. It’s hideous. I told Harry that over and over, but he wouldn’t hear of changing anything. Couldn’t see what the problem was.’
He took a sip of his tea. It was hot and strong and exactly how he liked it.
‘So, you won’t have any objections to a bit of refurbishment, then?’
‘A bit? I’d say we ought to rip the whole lot out and start again!’ She jumped off the chair. ‘Just look at this.’
He almost choked on his tea as she ran to get a wooden chair from near the till, balanced it on the table next to him and vaulted onto the table-top.
Circus tricks? What the heck was she doing?
Unfortunately his legs seemed to be half-wedged under the plastic table and he wasn’t about to go anywhere fast.
‘Josie! I don’t think you should…’
She made a dismissive noise. ‘I’m not very heavy. It’ll be fine.’
Finally his leg came free and he lurched forward trying to grab hold of her. Too late. She was atop the chair and poking at the polystyrene-tiled suspended ceiling.
There was nothing else to do but join her on top of the table and hope the plastic was stronger than it looked.
‘See?’
‘Josie, I…’
And then he did see. Beyond the polystyrene tile she had moved was the original ceiling, beams and all. It was dark and dusty now but if it were restored it would look sensational.
She was smiling down at him. Even standing on the chair she wasn’t a whole lot taller than him and he suddenly became aware of the rise and fall of her chest, of the glow in her eyes.
‘I…um…think we ought to discuss this at ground level.’
Something in the way she looked at him changed. She closed her mouth and stared at him. Hard, but without the familiar hint of disapproval. ‘OK…Lord Radcliffe.’
When they’d clambered down and found their seats again he said, ‘Call me Will.’
