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‘Jeez,’ Gabe said. ‘Makes you wonder how folks managed. It’s hard enough the first time when you know what you’re supposed to do!’
Rachel studied him. Despite what he’d said, she imagined Gabe having no problems in that department. He seemed very at home in his skin. ‘Erm, yes. Edward must have been an unusual man to have that conversation with her. I just can’t picture a repressed Edwardian telling a young girl the facts of life like that.’
Gabe scratched his head with the pencil that seemed to be permanently stored behind his ear. ‘Don’t know how repressed they were. You say this Edward was some sort of scientist?’
Rachel nodded. ‘He went off to university, apparently.’
‘Well, maybe he took a scientific approach. Just told her the bare facts, like. Probably the best way. Better than being all coy.’
Rachel nodded. ‘Possibly.’
‘Kind thing to do, though. Think I like Edward. So, do you reckon she’d been hauled in to marry him, then?’
‘Well, Hetty certainly had that impression. It sounded as if they needed her money to keep the house going. It had fallen on hard times.’ Rachel paused. ‘She sounds torn, though, between the two brothers. As you say, Edward is kind, but Richard sounds far more fun.’ She turned to Gabe. ‘Do you know anything about the old house?’
Gabe shifted, as if uncomfortable on the step. ‘What, this Delamere House?’ Gabe shoved the pencil back behind his ear and shrugged. ‘Don’t know, I’ve never heard of it. Likely it’s been pulled down. Especially if you said it was in a pretty poor state.’
‘It was, at least Hetty gives that impression. What a shame. I was hoping I could go and see it.’
Gabe couldn’t bear the disappointment evident in her expression, so he added, ‘Tell you what, I’ll ask Mum. She’s lived round here all her life and she’s interested in old houses. She might know something.’
‘Oh, thanks Gabe, that would be wonderful. And thanks for all you’re doing, by the way. I really appreciate it.’ He always went that one step further, like today; she was sure he wasn’t supposed to be clearing gutters as well as re-pointing.
‘Not getting in your way too much, then?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Not one bit. In fact, I really like having you around. I hadn’t predicted how isolated I’d feel up here sometimes. It’s lovely knowing you’re here.’
Gabe coughed to hide his pleasure. Rachel hadn’t said anything as nice to him before. Most of their conversations centred around jobs in the house or this Hetty woman. He smiled. ‘What you going to do about the garden?’
Rachel looked about her. If anything, the neglected weeds had grown even higher since she’d moved in. She’d been concentrating on getting the house sorted. Thank goodness it had been dry; a damp spell would have made the garden even more rampant. The back of the house was better, it was shadier there, in the lee of the hill, but out here she had to concede that it really did look a mess.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve just been commissioned a job, quite a big one. That’s why I had to go to London.’
Gabe nodded. Ridiculously, he’d missed her. It had meant he got on with the guttering twice as fast, but he’d missed her presence. He gave himself a mental shake. He was getting in way too deep here. ‘What’s the job?’
‘A series of flower drawings for a nature magazine. They want some seasonal paintings, twelve in all, to go with an article about identifying wild flowers.’ Rachel bit her lip. ‘It’s a huge job, the biggest I’ve been offered in ages, but it’s not going to leave much time for gardening. Such a shame,’ she added, almost to herself, ‘I’d seen myself sitting out here enjoying the garden, a glass of wine in my hand. Oh well, maybe next year.’
Gabe could see her sitting there too, in a big hat and flowery dress. He’d like to sit beside her. He sat up, as a thought occurred. ‘I might know someone who could help!’
‘Oh Gabe, you are kind.’ Impulsively, Rachel put her hand on his arm. ‘But I can hardly afford to pay you and your dad, let alone hire a gardener.’
Gabe couldn’t tear his eyes away, dazzled by the warmth in her voice. He could feel his skin humming at her touch. ‘I don’t think there’d be any money involved,’ he began at last. ‘There’s a friend of mum’s. Stan Penry. I mentioned him before. He’s not long lost his wife and he’s looking for something to do. He likes his gardening. I could get him to come up and see you if you want.’
He coughed again, to cover his pleasure at being touched. If he reacted like this to one innocent touch on the arm, what the hell would it be like to kiss her? Or do more? He cleared his throat again and shifted away.
‘Well, maybe that would be an idea,’ Rachel said, not entirely enthusiastic to have yet more people disrupting her life. She looked at Gabe in concern. ‘Are you all right? You’re not getting a cold or anything?’
It was too much. Not only had she been nice to him, she was now worrying over his health. ‘Fine, I’m fine.’ He stood up quickly. ‘Better get on. Want an early finish today. I’ll get Stan to give you a ring.’
He began to walk away, but then changed his mind. ‘You know,’ he said, slowly, as he turned back to her. ‘You could write this up, couldn’t you? Hetty’s story, I mean.’
‘I’m an illustrator, not a writer.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘Never written a thing in my life. It’s not a skill I possess.’
‘But the writing’s been done, hasn’t it?’ Gabe added, thinking through the idea as he spoke. ‘All you’ve got to do is add the pictures. The illustrations.’ He spread a hand to the view. ‘And you’ve got most of the material here.’
Rachel stared at him, mouth open. ‘What you mean? Like a sort of –’ she wracked her brain to remember the name of the book that had taken the publishing world by storm, years before.
‘The Diary of an Edwardian Country Lady!’ Gabe supplied triumphantly, slapping his thigh and making brick dust fly. ‘It could be something like that. Mum loved that book. It’s still on the shelf in the kitchen somewhere. She’d buy another like it.’
Rachel felt excitement rising. Could she produce the drawings and paintings that would fit with the strange mix of writings Hetty had left? It might just be something she could do. And it would sell. She knew enough of the market to know that. It would be a charming book if she edited out some of the more personal stuff; she didn’t think she could allow Hetty’s intimate details to be known. Then her cautious nature kicked in. ‘It’s a bit early to be thinking of things like that, though, isn’t it? I’ve only read a few pages.’
He gave her a long, measuring look. ‘You underestimate yourself a lot, don’t you? Of course you could do it. Have confidence in what you do! From what I’ve seen of your work, you’d have no problems.’ The easy smile appeared and she realised how much she looked forward to seeing it every day. ‘I really think there’s mileage in it. Never say never, Rachel. I bet Hetty never did.’
And with that, he strode away, leaving Rachel staring, unseeing at the view.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_a062ca73-1458-5d5b-94d4-129cf7588f45)
On the following Thursday, Rachel went into nearby Fordham. It was a little market town, full of traditional half-timbered, black-and-white houses, with a library and a reasonable range of shops. Most importantly, for Rachel, it had a main branch post office manned by the inquisitive and bad-tempered Rita. The place was heaving with what seemed the entire county’s over-sixties. She assumed it was pension day. Joining the queue and enjoying ear-wigging the cheerful conversations they were all having, she finally managed to send off some examples of her work to a prospective client.
It was a soft sort of a day and Rachel was reluctant to return home immediately. Strolling along the town’s main street, she found herself outside the windows of Grant, Foster and Fitch, the estate agents. Out of habit, she glanced at the houses for sale. There was a chocolate-box thatched cottage not far from Stoke St Mary on offer. In the usual estate agents’ parlance, it claimed it was immaculately presented and deceptively spacious. ’No work required, move in condition,’ Rachel read. She couldn’t help a sigh escape and then gave a twisted grin as she saw the asking price. Far more than she’d paid for Clematis Cottage and far more than she could ever hope to afford. It looked as though Clematis Cottage and she were destined to have a scruffy and dusty relationship for a bit longer.
She was just turning away, intent on investigating the irresistible smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the baker’s next door, when she saw Mr Foster smiling and waving at her through the window.
He came out into the sunshine. ‘Miss Makepeace. How lovely to see you! Come on in, have a coffee with us. Do.’
Rachel hesitated.
‘I’ve got raisin croissants, they’re my weakness, I’m afraid.’ Mr Foster patted his impressive stomach ruefully. ‘Shouldn’t eat them at all and if Mrs F finds out, she’ll have my considerable guts for garters. Come and eat the third one I shouldn’t have bought.’ He made a face. ‘Save me!’
Rachel grinned and nodded. She followed him into the office, familiar from her weekend property-hunting trips, and which now seemed to belong to another lifetime and lifestyle. As her eyes adjusted to the comparative gloom she saw another man rise from behind a desk.
‘How nice to meet you at last,’ he said and held out a hand.
He was startlingly good-looking. So much so that Rachel took his hand in silence and only mustered up a smile as a first response.
‘Miss Makepeace,’ said Mr Foster, ‘allow me to introduce you to my partner, Neil Fitch.’
‘Hello.’ She took in the man’s height, blue-black hair and vivid, blue eyes. ‘It’s Rachel,’ she said, a little shy, and then pulled herself together. ‘If I’m about to share your food, perhaps we ought to be on first names at least.’
‘Delighted to be so,’ said Neil Fitch formally and gave a dazzling smile.
‘Splendid, how simply splendid,’ said Mr Foster. ‘And I’d better be Roger, then. I’ll just see to the coffee. How do you like it, Rachel?’
‘Just milk, please.’ She tried to say his name, but just couldn’t call him Roger, somehow. It didn’t seem right. She looked to where he had disappeared through a door at the back of the office. To the kitchen, she presumed.
‘Where are my manners? Neil leaped into action. ‘Please take a seat.’ He dragged out an office chair and gestured for her to sit down. Resuming his position at his desk, he leaned back, idly twirling a fountain pen between long fingers. ‘And, how are you getting on with Clematis Cottage? Such a beautiful location but a lot of work I imagine?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I do love it, but you’re right, it is a lot of work.’ She’d never met such a stunning-looking man. He quite took her breath away.
‘You’ve got the Llewellyns working on it, I believe?’
Rachel forced herself to concentrate. ‘Yes, although they haven’t done all that much yet. The roof is in need of serious repair and I’m having them install central heating, too.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think the wiring may need re-doing, as well.’
Neil nodded. ‘Only to be expected, with an old house like that. But Mike Llewellyn’s a hard worker and reliable. He’ll do a good job.’ He treated Rachel to another attractive smile. ‘And some heating is an excellent idea. It can only add value to the property, should you wish to sell, that is. Yes, Mike’s a good worker. It’s just such a shame about his wife.’
He was interrupted by Roger bringing through a tray loaded with a cafetière, cups and saucers and a plate piled high with pastries.
‘It really is a scandal having an office so close to Mervyn’s bakery,’ he said, as he put down his load on Neil’s desk and began to arrange cups, saucers and plates.
Rachel smiled. ‘I was just on my way to it. I simply couldn’t resist the smell.’
Roger tutted and raised his eyes to the ceiling in comic fashion. ‘It’s death to the diet, I’m afraid.’ He pouted. ‘On a daily basis. Not that my young friend here has to worry about these things.’
Neil laughed and reached for the plate of cakes. ‘I’m one of those insufferable people who never puts on any weight, I’m afraid.’ He offered Rachel first choice and, after deliberating, she took the smallest.
‘It’s all the running he does,’ Roger’s tone was gloomy. ‘Can’t join him, not at my age and with my knees.’ He began to pour coffee. ‘Neil has run three marathons,’ he added, with pride.
‘Roger!’ Neil began to protest.
‘Nonsense, my boy, if you’ve got the energy to run twenty-six-odd miles you should make more of it. I’d have a job to walk that far!’
Rachel took the cup of coffee Roger offered, sipped and relaxed. It was pleasant to witness the men’s banter. They were obviously great friends as well as work colleagues. Working from home as she did, she’d never had the chance to develop office friendships.
Roger, after fussing with the crockery and making sure everyone had everything, sank down onto a chair. He took an enormous bite of croissant and closed his eyes in bliss. ‘Perfection. But the last one I’ll ever have,’ he said, still with his eyes shut.
‘He says that every Thursday,’ Neil said and winked at Rachel. ‘Thursday is a croissant day. On Mondays he has a doughnut, Tuesdays a Danish, Wednesday’s a Belgian bun day and on Friday Roger treats himself to a fresh fruit tart. You must try one of those, they are really delicious.’
She laughed and, at the sound, Roger opened his eyes. ‘It’s the tiny pleasures in life that makes it more bearable, I’ve often found.’ He sat up. ‘Now Rachel, tell me how you are getting on with old Mrs Lewis’s cottage.’
Rachel hesitated. She thought of the Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit tin still containing the secrets of Hetty’s life. That the memoir had been so candid had surprised and shocked her. She had expected something duller; a dry account of an Edwardian miss, perhaps.
After the initial excitement, she’d avoided reading any of it recently, having become uneasy at delving so deeply into the woman’s life. When she was on her own in the evenings and it was quiet, it was all too easy to imagine the tangible presence of Henrietta Trenchard-Lewis in her home. Sometimes there was an echo of the woman so strong that Rachel could almost conjure up her image. She thought of Friday night when she’d suddenly become very aware of the dense blackness of the country night beyond her sitting-room window and how she’d jumped when a plump moth had beaten against the glass. Although she didn’t feel scared exactly, she still didn’t know how she felt about sharing her new home with what might possibly be Hetty’s ghost. She shuddered slightly. ‘Mr Foster, I mean Roger, she didn’t die there, did she?’
‘Oh no, my dear. She became very frail at the end. She was extremely old, you know, when she died. She had to be taken into a care home, when it became obvious she wasn’t coping on her own any more. That’s why the cottage was sold, to pay the fees. It’s why it got into a bit of a state too.’ He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. ‘Poor woman, after all those years on the planet and she died all alone. No relatives at all, as far as we know. Now, why should you ask about where the dear lady died?’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘Not worried about the place being haunted, are you?’
‘No,’ Rachel answered, taken aback at his casual assumption. She repeated it a little more firmly. ‘No. I don’t feel it’s haunted exactly, but there’s a very strong…’ she stopped, too embarrassed to continue.
‘Well, she was a very characterful woman, in many senses of the word. So I believe, I never had the pleasure of meeting her, to my regret. Those who did say she grasped any opportunity that came her way, even when she was very old. Such a vibrant woman, by all accounts. So eager to taste all that life offered. Such a positive attitude. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a little something of her lingered, shall we say? An essence, perhaps?’
‘You don't think I’m completely mad, then?’
Roger patted her hand in avuncular fashion and then rose to pour more coffee. ‘Not at all, dear girl. And I’m sure, if it is her, she means you no harm. I don’t think she was like that in life, so there’s no reason to assume she would be vindictive in death.’ He turned to Neil. ‘We’ve heard of much stranger things happening in houses, haven’t we?’
‘Indeed we have.’ Neil smiled at Rachel. ‘I hear you found something in the house? Some papers or letters? No wonder you have the lady on your mind.’ He held out his cup for a refill.
Rachel looked at the two men. They were being so kind, so understanding.
‘Oh yes,’ Roger rubbed his hands together in glee and sat back down. ‘Do tell. I was so sorry I couldn’t give you more time when you rang up the other day. We had a rush on. Most unlike us.’ With this he gestured to the empty office. ‘Have you managed to read much of the contents?’
Rachel gave a brief version of what she’d read so far. They were a good audience and hung on every word with apparent fascination. She warmed to her theme. ‘So it’s the story of her life, as far as I can tell. There are bits of her diary, letters and postcards and, most exciting of all, what looks to be an attempt at a memoir.’
Neil leaned forward, his blue eyes aglow. ‘What a thing to find. If it was me, I wouldn’t be able to resist reading the whole thing through in one fell swoop!’
Rachel gave him a rueful look. ‘If I had the time, I don’t suppose I’d be able to either, but there have been other things for me to do at Clematis Cottage. And I have to work too.’
‘Well, of course. Silly of me to suggest otherwise. But it’s a discovery and a half, isn’t it? That’s for sure. What are you going to do with it?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ Roger echoed. ‘What are planning on doing with it? It must have some wonderful stuff in it. Think of what she lived through. She was over a hundred when she died, you know. She lived through two world wars, the invention of the motor car and the aeroplane, the atom bomb and the computer.’
‘Oh no, you’ve got him started now,’ Neil said but fondly.
Roger chuckled. He seemed a chuckling sort of a man. ‘Be a shame to let it go unrecorded somehow. Now, what could you do with it, I wonder?’
‘Aren’t you some sort of writer?’ Neil interrupted the older man.
‘No, illustrator.’ Rachel shook her head.
‘Shame.’
‘There is an idea…’ she began, as if to voice it aloud would make her do it. ‘Someone suggested I try to put something together of Hetty’s writing and illustrate it.’ There, it was out in the open now. She might well have to give it serious thought. And Gabe was right, Hetty would have jumped at the chance.
‘Oh, I say!’ Roger said. ‘Sounds marvellous.’
‘Sounds eminently workable.’ Neil said. ‘Might well be mileage in it.’
She looked at them in gratitude and gave up a little prayer for Gabe’s suggestion.
‘And, if you want any help putting it together, then I’d be only too happy to oblige,’ Neil added.
‘That’s really kind of you.’ Rachel said, unwilling to be rushed. ‘I’ll need to think it through a bit first, though. Oh, look at the time!’ She glanced at the office clock and drained her cup. ‘I must go, I’ve someone coming to see me at two.’
Thanking them for their hospitality, she promised she’d visit again soon. She half ran to where she’d parked her car, her mind on fire with possibilities. The idea of the book could work … it just could.
‘You never know, Hetty,’ she said, as she turned the key in the ignition, ‘we could be on to something with this. Here’s to a long, and hopefully, fruitful relationship!’
Chapter 10 (#ulink_89a6fef9-7ee5-5aff-be91-83940067953b)
Rachel willed her groaning car up the steep track to the cottage and parked it in a swirl of dust. Her visitor was already there, waiting.
Stan Penry was leaning against the horse chestnut tree, which dominated the parking space in front of Clematis Cottage. He was enjoying some shade and a cigarette.
Rachel stared at him for a moment, preparing what she wanted to say to him. She’d found it surprisingly easy having Gabe around, which was just as well as he often was. To have yet another stranger invading her privacy might be a step too far. She wanted to be alone, so she could be the person she really wanted to be, not beholden to whatever others forced her into being.
On the other hand, she thought, ruefully, looking at the overgrown front garden, she could really do with the help.
She pondered on what Gabe had told her about the old man. Stan was seventy-three and recently widowed. He lived with his son and daughter-in-law in one of the new ‘executive’ houses, which flanked the church, in the village proper. Ripped away from his beloved ramshackle cottage and smallholding by well-meaning relatives, who worried he wouldn’t cope on his own, he’d been given a home in their magnolia-painted modern house. Stan hated it, according to Gabe, and was keen to find somewhere he could grow his fruit and vegetables while he waited for an allotment to become available. In return, Gabe had assured Rachel, Stan would be happy to do some general gardening for her.
Rachel looked at the man, drawing him with her eye. He had on a pair of those trousers of indeterminate colour and shiny fabric that elderly men adopt and a short-sleeved white shirt. He was very thin with a slight stoop and a sour expression on his face, made more so as he sucked on a roll-up.
