Midsummer Dreams at Mill Grange
Spring Blossoms at Mill Grange
First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Jenny Kane, 2020
The moral right of Jenny Kane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978183893812 3
Cover design © Cherie Chapman
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
To the Imagine@Northmoor retreaters, with love.
Rolling onto his side, Sam unfolded the letter he’d hidden inside his pillowcase. It was the third time he’d woken that night, and the third time he’d reached for the pale blue Basildon Bond envelope. He held it against his nose. The scent of his mother’s White Satin perfume was beginning to fade.
This was the fourth letter to arrive from Malvern House in the last month. One a week.
He had no idea how his mother had found out where he was living, nor why she wanted to see him after so long.
The letters, almost identical each time, said very little. Just that she and his father would love him to visit if he felt up to it. Sam groaned. ‘If he felt up to it’ was his mother’s way of asking if the debilitating claustrophobia he’d developed while serving in the forces had magically gone away.
As he slid the letter into its envelope, Sam’s gaze dropped from the tent’s canvas roof to Tina’s sleeping body.
The past was the past. He had a future now. He had no intention of looking back.
‘Take pity on an old man, lass.’
Bert fluttered his grey eyelashes as he helped Tina carry a large cardboard box full of tea, coffee, milk and biscuits from her car into Mill Grange’s kitchen. ‘I love Mabel to pieces, but she is driving me mad.’
Tina laughed. ‘But it’s only been two months since the restoration project came to an end. Doesn’t Mabel have heaps of committee work to do? She runs every social club this side of Exmoor.’
As he placed the box on the oak table that dominated the manor’s kitchen, Bert’s eyes lost their usual optimistic shine. ‘Since Mill Grange was sold Mabel’s been so aimless. She led the volunteer restorers here for over five years and now that’s over…’
‘Mabel doesn’t mind Sam owning this place, does she?’
‘Not for a minute. For a little while it was all she could talk about. She’s that proud of your young man for buying the very thing that frightens him. For taking his fear of being inside by the scruff of the neck and buying a house to be enjoyed by other people.’
Tina put her box of groceries on the side and laid a hand on Bert’s shoulder. ‘I’ll talk to Sam. There must be something Mabel could do around here.’ She played with her pigtails as she thought. ‘I’m not sure we can afford to pay her yet though.’
‘You wouldn’t have to. Making her feel part of the team again is all I’m asking for.’ Bert’s smile returned to his eyes. ‘How’s it going here anyway? Sam getting into the house at all, or is he still overseeing things from that screen thing outside?’
‘He hasn’t been inside the manor since he bought it.’ Tina focused her attention on emptying the boxes of biscuits ready for Mill Grange’s first visitors, hiding her face from Bert so he wouldn’t see her concern. ‘Sam’s first move as Mill Grange’s owner and manager was to get proper Wi-Fi hubs installed. The Skype video link on his tablet is a godsend, but…’
Bert nodded. ‘But his claustrophobia won’t quite let him get past the fact that, should he come inside the roof will collapse on his head, even though he knows the house has been standing since 1856 without anything more serious than a spot of damp.’
‘I thought we were getting somewhere.’ Tina waved the kettle in the pensioner’s direction.
Accepting the unspoken offer of a cup of tea, Bert headed to the fridge for milk. ‘He’s made a start, Tina love. He’s been inside. Sam’s even purchased a home.’
‘But he sleeps in a tent in the garden.’ Tina shivered. ‘We both do. And while we’re lucky to be enjoying a late burst of summer sunshine, it’s the 1st of September. We won’t be able to ignore the fact that autumn is around the corner for much longer. I’m not sure I can take camping in the winter, but if I sleep inside without Sam, I’ll be letting him down.’
Putting an arm around Tina’s shoulders, Bert gave her a gentle hug. ‘You are the last person who’d ever let Sam down. He knows that.’ Spooning far more sugar into his mug than he would have done if Mabel had been there, Bert asked, ‘Is he still managing to use the bathroom just inside the back door?’
‘Yes, and thank goodness the previous owners put that in. It’s freezing in there though. He leaves that massive window open the whole time.’
‘So he can dive outside if it gets too much.’
‘Exactly. He never has, but he could, if he needed to.’
Bert stared thoughtfully into his mug of milky liquid as he held it between his large palms. ‘Did Sam tell you about my time in the forces?’
Shaking her head, Tina resisted the urge to place a hand on the old man’s elbow as his eyes glazed over as if he was seeing sights that weren’t there; that hadn’t been there for over fifty years.
‘Claustrophobia, it’s often laughed about. People get mocked for not liking going in lifts or whatever, but when Mabel bought me a shed for our back garden as a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary present, it was a big day indeed. And not just because I’d survived a quarter of a century with Mabel!’
‘You had it too?’ Tina overcame her natural reticence and held her hand out to him anyway, feeling the cool thin skin of his palm as he wrapped his hand in hers.
‘Still have. It’s there, under the surface, but I’ve learnt to manage it. The doctors helped for a while, but there was no such thing as therapy back then; no acceptance of mental disorders or anxieties.’ His eyes dropped to his tea again, his expression making Tina wonder if he was seeing every nightmare he’d ever had.
‘It was Mabel who helped me. She saved me.’
Tina let the hush that followed Bert’s words hang in the air before pushing a packet of biscuits in his direction. ‘Your wife is an incredible woman.’
‘You’d better believe it. If she’d been born thirty years later, she’d have gone to university and probably be running the country by now.’
‘What did Mabel do to help you? Could I do it too? Sam’s tried every therapist going. And while I’m sure that he’s right about work, fresh air and laughter being the best medicine, it takes more than that. He’s determined to be in the house long enough to be able to move around inside by the time the first official guests come on October 5th.’ Tina dunked a cookie in her tea. ‘The practice guests come next week. Just three to begin with.’
‘Are they the chaps Sam knew when he was in the forces?’
‘I’m not sure if he knew them from when he saw action, or if he met them in the recovery centre after he was hurt. He never talks about it.’ Tina brushed away the sense of exclusion she always experienced when her boyfriend mentioned his time in the forces.
After taking a gulp of tea, Bert smiled. ‘You help him every day, Tina. Small acts of encouragement. Supporting him through the frustration of not being able to join you inside. Those things are more important than you can imagine.’
Tina nodded as she stared out of the large window. The late summer sunshine was already high in the sky, illuminating the garden and bathing the woodland beyond in a glow of blue and green. ‘I wish I could work out how to get him to actually walk beyond the bathroom door though. Any ideas?’
‘I’ll need a minute or two on that.’ Bert patted her hand as he absentmindedly dipped another biscuit. ‘The test guests, how is that being arranged exactly?’
‘They’ll be paying for food only. They know it’s an experiment to see what activities work and which don’t. Two men and one woman.’
‘Sensible lad that Sam. I’d like to help him.’
Tina sat at the table. ‘Thanks, Bert.’
‘No thanks required. Sam reminds me of me a hundred years ago.’ He chuckled as he crunched into a third biscuit. ‘But never fear, lass, you only have one thing in common with my Mabel.’
Tina chuckled as she pictured the bossy, well-meaning, occasionally overbearing but always big-hearted woman who dominated everything in the village of Upwich, from the WI to the bridge club. ‘And what might that be?’
‘You’re kind.’
Tina blushed. ‘Thank you.’
‘I was wrong. I meant two things!’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Kind and beautiful.’
*
Thea leant over the fence and watched the chickens as they pecked around their run.
‘It’s alright for you, Gertrude – your man doesn’t have to disappear for weeks at a time for work. He’s right where you want him.’
As Thea watched, the rooster came out of the chicken coop and made a beeline for Betty, Gertrude’s chief rival for his affections.
‘Then again, maybe not. At least Shaun’s working away and not playing away.’
Gertrude cocked her head to one side as if to ask Thea, ‘How long is he away?’
‘I don’t know. As long as it takes to excavate and film a pre-Norman church I suppose. He said the deadline was a month, but keeping to deadlines rarely works in archaeology.’
The squeal of the gate to the walled garden distracted Thea from any wisdom Gertrude may have been about to share.
‘Morning, Sam.’ Thea raised a hand to the new owner of Mill Grange. ‘Come to seek a dose of chicken philosophy?’
‘Is there a better sort?’ Pulling a bag of apple and pepper slices from his bulging jacket pockets, Sam emptied them into the coop. ‘I’ve been thinking about giving the girls more space. Half the walled garden perhaps; what do you think?’
‘That’s a great idea.’ Thea turned her back on the increased pecking and surveyed the rows of vegetable beds before her. Half of them were flourishing, thanks to Sam’s green fingers, and promised crops of potatoes, cabbages and more. The rest were overgrown and in desperate need of tender loving care.
‘We’re going to need more eggs when we get regular guests, and although I want to cultivate as much of the garden as possible, there’s still enough land to allow the hens to roam more freely.’
‘You’re thinking of getting more friends for Gertrude and co?’
Sam looked lovingly at his chickens. ‘I’d like to, but I’m not sure if you can add new fowl into an existing flock. Tina’s going to do some research into it later.’
‘That reminds me—’ Thea flicked a windblown hair from her eyes ‘—Sybil asked if she can increase her egg order from two dozen to three dozen every other day for the tea room.’
‘Excellent.’ Sam rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. ‘That settles it then. We can’t expect these girls to up production. Nor can we afford to lose even the smallest chance of extra income. We’ll order more chickens, even if we need to build a second coop.’
Staring across the garden, Mill Grange’s Victorian splendour rising up behind them, Thea was reminded of how much had happened since she’d first laid eyes on this jewel of a house, hidden away on Exmoor.
It had been March when Thea had arrived in the village of Upwich, newly appointed as chief restorer of the manor, employed by the Exmoor Heritage Trust. Now, thanks to an accounting mix-up committed long before her arrival, the manor had been sold and was going to be a retreat for recovering military personnel – and she was helping to run it. Managing such an operation was a far cry from her former life as an archaeological historian based at the Roman Baths in Bath. And yet, at the same time it wasn’t.
Just prior to Mill Grange being sold, her boyfriend, television archaeologist Shaun Coulson, had found a Roman fortlet in the grounds. Sam was relying on Thea to run the excavation.
‘Any word from Shaun?’ Sam produced another bag from his jacket pocket and sprinkled a handful of chicken food pellets into the coop.
‘I got an email early this morning. He sounded a bit fed up to be honest. It appears the woman who owns the land on which he’s digging, Lady Hammett, is less than thrilled about them being there. Shaun had been summoned to the manor, just before he messaged me.’
‘But the Landscape Treasure team were invited to her Cornish estate. She must have known what to expect.’
Thea sighed as Gertrude gave Betty a none-too-subtle nudge away from the freshly delivered food. ‘The aristocracy can be tricky devils.’
‘Tell me about it!’
‘I’m sorry, Lady Hammett, but if we hadn’t cut a trench in your lawn, we wouldn’t have been able to excavate.’
Shaun bit the inside of his cheek, hoping his exasperation wasn’t showing. ‘It’s how we operate.’ He pointed to the Landscape Treasures geophysics team. Ajay and Andy, or the AA as Shaun often called them, were huddled over a laptop while they spoke into the camera about what they’d found and how they’d found it. ‘First we survey the area, then the digger pulls back the turf and we begin to dig.’
‘But it’s our front lawn!’ Lady Hammett’s chin tilted sharply upwards, her angular nose resembling a ski slope. She was so close to a satirical cartoonist’s impression of an aristocrat that he half expected her to snap out of it and start laughing – but she didn’t.
Taking a deep breath, Shaun glanced across the empty excavation trench, and beyond to a group of local and Landscape Treasures archaeologists. They were looking anxious as they played trowels and brushes through their hands. Those who wore wristwatches were making pointed glances at them. Time was money on television, and the precious daylight they needed to work in was fading fast.
‘Your Ladyship, there seems to have been some confusion. We are excavating with permission. You signed the insurance forms and—’
‘I did no such thing! I agreed to that survey thing—’ she pointed towards Ajay and Andy ‘—but no more than that! Do you think I’m reacting like someone who has found a herd of elephants in her garden for fun?’ She broke off, stabbing a finger in the direction of the yellow JCB parked beside Guron House. ‘I have a damn good mind to sue. Which television company are you with?’
Shaun’s mouth opened and closed like a gulping goldfish. When the ability to speak finally arrived, he hated how feeble he sounded. ‘But we have the signed paperwork. It was posted to you, and returned signed. I even spoke with you over the phone to agree timings and—’
‘Oh, now this is just too much. You did no such thing. When you visited in the summer, I agreed to the survey to see if this blessed church thing was under the lawns. No more than that. I’ve been travelling Europe for the last month, so I haven’t been here to take any calls. The only person here beyond the staff has been…’ Lady Hammett stopped talking. Her lips clamped shut and her eyes closed. Shaun watched in increasing disbelief as his companion silently moved her lips, counting from one to ten.
Taking a step back in case Lady Hammett’s calming technique failed, Shaun looked helplessly at his producer, who was also looking fit to explode.
Abruptly turning on the balls of her impractically heeled feet, flicking her dark blonde hair over her shoulders as she went, the lady of the manor marched towards her front door shouting, ‘Sophie! Get out here. Now!’
‘Sophie?’ Shaun muttered, his forehead creasing in confusion. He was pretty sure Lady Hammett expected him to follow her, but instead he headed to his waiting team. Not spotting his quarry among the regular archaeologists, Shaun kept walking until a flash of yellow ducking behind the camera crew’s truck sent him jogging forward.
She was stood, her eyes shut, her hands over her ears, her long blonde hair acting like an additional curtain of protection across her bowed head. She clutched her trowel against her chest like a lucky talisman.
‘Sophie?’
The young woman opened her eyes, but said nothing.
Shaun tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘You wrote on the volunteers’ form that your name was Sophie Harriet, but it isn’t, is it?’
Brushing hair from her eyes, she spoke with false bravado. ‘It is Sophie Harriet.’
‘Sophie Harriet Hammett perhaps? Lady Sophie Harriet Hammett?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Did you sign the legal forms so we could dig here? The ones claiming to be signed by Lady Hammett?’
‘I am Lady Hammett. Well, sort of – ish.’ Flicking her hair over her shoulders, she flashed him a grin that reminded Shaun of the teenage girls at his old high school.
‘This isn’t funny! We could get thrown off the site, lose the TV show even. Permanently. Your mother has a perfect right to sue us. She could have you arrested if she took it into her head!’
‘And bring shame on the family? Hardly.’ Sophie sounded defiant, but the smile dropped from her face as fast.
‘Have you any idea how serious this is?’ Shaun felt like he was admonishing a child. ‘Why did you do it?’
Shrugging, Sophie held her trowel up as if it explained everything. ‘For this.’
‘A trowel?’
‘For archaeology. Don’t you want to know if that’s the lost church of St Guron under there?’
‘Of course I do, but—’
‘It was built in 1010 you know, in honour of St Guron himself. He is said to be the original founder of Bodmin itself in 510 AD, and—’
‘Sophie!’ Shaun reined in his fading patience. ‘It makes no difference how important this site is. If we are digging it with falsified documents, then we are liable for health and safety, insurance; not to mention the damage your mother could do to Landscape Treasures’ reputation if she reports us to the broadcasting authorities.’
‘I told you, she won’t. Mother doesn’t do anything that reflects badly on the family name, and Father just does what he’s told.’
‘And how does that change the legal situation exactly?’ Shaun waved a hand towards the other diggers. ‘We have spent a fortune on JCB hire, geophysics, accommodation for everyone, and everything else that comes with a show like this. We have a schedule to keep.’ Shaun could hear the words coming out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure if what he was saying was true or not, but kept talking anyway. ‘This isn’t about one dig. It’s a series and we are committed to it. What you’ve done could ruin all of it. The previous episodes we’ve filmed will count for nothing if your mother sues for criminal damage, unauthorised excavation and so on. Landscape Treasures could be pulled from the schedule. That would be it for us.’
Fiddling the trowel between her fingers, Sophie mumbled, ‘Sorry.’
Shaun pushed his hands deep into his pockets as he regarded the spoilt child of the manor. ‘Why really, Sophie? I don’t believe you did this just to locate an ancient church. Help me understand how a grown woman could act like a selfish brat.’
Sophie’s head came up so fast, that her chin jutted out just like her mother’s. But for the tears that now dotted her cheeks, the likeness was inescapable.
‘Talk to me, Sophie. If you won’t tell me why you did this, you could at least tell us how you imagine we can stop this snowballing into a bigger disaster.’
‘Archaeology.’ She gestured to the stretch of moor around them. ‘It’s been a passion since I was little. Well – since I started watching Landscape Treasures, so I wasn’t that small. I’m not saying you’re ancient or anything; I was quite old when I started viewing.’
‘Stop digging yourself into the wrong sort of holes.’ A smile curled at the corner of Shaun’s lips despite himself. ‘I don’t see why your love of archaeology is an excuse to con your parents into allowing us to destroy their front lawn.’
‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do, but it’s not exactly “Lady of the Manor” behaviour is it.’
Having met many titled families during his television career, and knowing that nearly all of them were so delighted to have a site of interest on their lands that they’d got stuck in to the mud like everyone else, Shaun decided not to comment. What Sophie meant was that it wasn’t Lady Hammett’s idea of what a titled woman should do, and therefore it was off limits as a career for her daughter.
‘I’m sorry your parents don’t encourage your passion for the past, Sophie, but that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.’ Shaun patted her arm sympathetically. ‘All those people over there, they could lose their jobs over this. This isn’t their hobby, it’s their livelihood.’
Sophie’s eyes dipped to the ground. A light flush came to her cheeks. ‘I just wanted to prove I could do it. To show them it was a good thing to do. If we had an important historical site in the garden, I thought perhaps it would convince them how worthwhile archaeology is… and…’
Determined not to let his forgiving nature let Sophie off the hook yet, Shaun asked, ‘So, what are going to do about this?’
‘Me?’
‘You are clearly knowledgeable about this site and passionate about the subject, but being an archaeologist isn’t just digging trenches and finding things. It means being able to deal with difficult landowners and coping with paperwork. Then there’s sorting the things that go wrong. JCBs that break down, or don’t turn up on the right day. Archaeologists who hurt themselves, artefacts that can’t be taken out of the ground without specialist equipment, records to keep and reports to write. The list goes on and on.’
‘I know I’ve been…’
‘Been what, Sophie?’
‘Studying for an archaeology degree by distance learning. They—’ she tipped her head towards Guron House ‘—have no idea. All I need is practical experience, so I thought…
‘You’d use us to get it?’
‘Well, umm. Yes.’
*
Thea gripped the print-out of the geophysics survey Ajay and Andy had done of the Roman fortlet in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. The pockets of her combat trousers were stuffed with string, tent pegs, an industrial tape measure, small finds bags, pens, labels and her mobile phone.
When she’d left university to work at the Roman Baths, although she’d loved her job, it wasn’t the same as being a hands-on archaeologist, with the constant thrill of potential discovery. Stood now, examining the rough rectangle of ground before her, Thea was conscious of the race of her pulse. She’d forgotten how much she loved this.
Dismissing the voice at the back of her head telling her it would be more fun if Shaun were there, Thea hooked a ball of string and a tent peg out of a pocket. She had taken advice from the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists about how to correctly run a private dig, then waited weeks for clearance to dig from the Council for British Archaeology, and permission to excavate from the authorities running Exmoor National Park. Now the time had come to take the first tentative look at the site. Although Thea knew she couldn’t possibly excavate the fortlet alone, she could at least mark it out.
Double-checking the survey results, Thea pushed the first peg into the damp earth, unable to suppress the beam that crossed her face as she wound the string around the peg.
A Roman site on Exmoor.
She knew how important that was; how rare. While Exmoor was ringed by a few forts on its southern side, only two fortlets had ever been found across its vast space. Old Burrow had been there first, but had soon been replaced by Martinhoe on the coast, which overlooked the waterway to Bristol, Wales and beyond. There was also a Roman fort at Rainsbury, on the far south-eastern side of the moor, but little else. Although there was ongoing exploration into the idea that the Romans had exploited Exmoor for its iron deposits, the discovery of a fortlet so far inland was completely unexpected.
As she worked, Thea pictured the original occupants of the site. There’d only have been about seventy of them, living on a site made up of concentric circles, no bigger than fifty or sixty metres in diameter, with square structures – stores and outhouses – to the sides. Had they been lonely here? Were they Romano-British soldiers, or were they freshly picked from elsewhere in the Empire, finding the very particular cold of the wind as it crossed Exmoor’s open plains a nasty shock after Mediterranean sunshine?
While the purpose of Martinhoe’s fortlet had been to keep an eye on the fleet across the Bristol Channel, the reason for the placing of Upwich’s fortlet remained a mystery. A mystery Thea was determined to solve.
‘Is there a job we could give Mabel? Bert’s worried about her.’ Tugging a third pair of socks over her feet, Tina continued getting ready for bed – a process that involved putting on more clothing than she wore during the day.
Privately cursing his inability to conquer his phobia, knowing that if he did, Tina would be taking her clothes off, rather than piling them on, Sam passed her a hot water bottle. His guilt at making her sleep outside overtook his lust-fuelled regrets as he saw Tina try to hide a shiver.
‘I’ll have a think. There must be loads she can do. Mabel’s a dab hand at most things.’ Sam watched as Tina undid the pigtails she’d worn all the day. He loved how the plaits curled and kinked her hair as she let it loose. ‘We are a bit short on money for wages though. I hate asking people to work for nothing.’
‘Bert said that was okay. Anyway, we will have income soon. If Mabel is happy and takes a job she’s good at, maybe she could eventually go on the payroll?’
‘Definitely, although I’m not sure when. Everything I had went on the house, and…’ Sitting up in his sleeping bag, Sam suddenly changed the subject: ‘Tina, do you want to sleep inside tonight?’
‘What? But…’
Taking her hands, noting they were cold despite her gloves, Sam spoke fast, knowing Tina would assume she’d done something wrong if he didn’t explain. ‘It isn’t that I don’t want you here, but it’s getting colder at night, and although you’re far too nice to say so, I know you’re having trouble sleeping. I wouldn’t be offended if you used your room in the attic. I wish I could come with you. I want to. Very much.’ Sam stroked Tina’s chilled face.
Shuffling her sleeping bag closer, Tina kissed him slowly on the lips. ‘Bert was only saying earlier what a good man you are, and he’s right.’
‘Hardly. A good man would not expect his girlfriend to freeze every night.’
‘You don’t. I’m here because I want to be.’ Tina lifted her padded arms out to the sides and started to giggle. ‘I look like the Michelin Man – or Michelin Woman, rather.’
‘A very sexy one, though.’
Tina winked. ‘Don’t tell me, it’s the extra thick body warmer that sends your pulse racing.’
‘Almost as much as the three pairs of socks and the thermal trousers.’
Tucking herself under his arm, Tina kissed Sam’s cheek. ‘It is getting harder to settle at night, but it’s worth it. It won’t be forever. This is a stage you have to go through, and I want to be there to support you.’
‘I’d do anything for you – you know that don’t you, Tina?’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything.’ Sam kissed the end of her nose. ‘Except cut off my ponytail; so don’t waste your breath.’
Pulling him down on top of her Tina muttered, ‘As if I’d ask you to remove your one act of rebellion.’ She gave the offending article a playful tug. ‘Come on; prove to me how adept your services training made you at battling through hundreds of layers of clothing to reach your goal.’
Sam stood by the kitchen door watching Thea and Tina making coffee. His toes were level with the step that marked the divide between house and garden. He knew this was progress. A month ago he’d have been hyperventilating at the thought of the enclosed space ahead. Now, providing he could feel the air of the open countryside behind him, he could cope. He tried to be proud of himself, but couldn’t. It wasn’t nearly enough progress if was going to be able to manage this place properly.
Pushing aside his sense of failure for the moment, Sam called across the kitchen, ‘I’ve had an idea about Mabel.’
‘Go on.’ Tina smiled as she raised a cup as if to offer a drink.
‘She’s a good cook, isn’t she?’
‘Very.’ Thea nodded. ‘I remember that lasagne Mabel produced after the mill burnt down. It was heavenly; and not just because we were hungry and in shock.’
Tina agreed. ‘So was the cake she produced to go with it. Do you want her to cook for us? I assumed the guests would take it in turns to cook on a rota; part of the rehab process.’
Sam gave a thumbs up as Thea waved a packet of biscuits in his direction. ‘It’s a vital part of the program, to be able to cook for yourself and others. The social side as well as the actual cooking, but not everyone cooks well. What if we appointed Mabel to oversee the preparation of the meals?’
‘Would that work?’ Thea was thoughtful. ‘I’m sure she’d do a good job with the food, but she can have an unfortunate manner sometimes. Some of our guests might not cope with that.’
‘I don’t think she’d be like that with the guests. Mabel has hidden depths.’ Sam took his cup from Tina as he leant on the doorframe. ‘My worry was more that she wouldn’t like the hours. Seven o’clock for evening meals could be a bit late for her and Bert?’
‘And they’d have their own meal to cook as well,’ Tina said. ‘How about we ask her to design the menus and order in all the food? Mabel is good at catering for groups. All those committees she’s on have taught her how to get the most out of nothing.’
Sam raised his cup. ‘Excellent idea. I had plain cooking in mind. Casseroles, pasta dishes. Easy but filling. And loads of vegetable dishes using the stuff we grow here; once it’s grown of course.’
‘Jacket potatoes.’ Thea pointed towards the Aga. ‘They’ll do brilliantly in there, and so easy!’
‘But not as good as on one of Sam’s bonfires.’ Tina recalled the first alfresco meal Sam had cooked for them shortly after his arrival at Mill Grange.
‘Potatoes are something we aren’t going to be short of at least.’ Sam smiled. ‘The crop of earlys is well established. I want to put some lates in soon too. I wondered about asking our test guests to plant them this week.’
‘Good idea.’ Thea glanced at the clipboard she was holding. ‘Ann, Woody and Dave; right?’
‘Yes. Good people. Lots of fun and always up for a challenge, although letting Ann near the kitchen might be interesting.’
‘A good cook?’
‘A dreadful cook. I’ve never known anyone so adept at cremating everything she touches food wise.’
Thea laughed. ‘That’ll be jacket potato night then, followed by one of your heavenly lemon cakes, Tina.’
‘Sounds good to me. As does asking Mabel to do the menu.’ Tina grinned. ‘I know! We’ll ask her to consider being our cuisine consultant. She’ll love that.’ Unable to stifle a yawn, Tina picked up the pile of pillows she’d brought into the kitchen with her.
‘What are they inside for?’ Sam was surprised to see their pillows indoors.
‘Stop them getting damp.’ Tina looked sheepish. ‘I thought we’d sleep better if we could lie on warm pillows tonight.’
‘Umm, yeah, good idea.’ Sam reached out his hands. ‘Why not give them to me, I’ll put them in your car, that way they’ll stay dry.’
‘But not warm.’ Tina cradled them closer, recalling the action they’d witnessed the night before. ‘I’ll pop them in the laundry room on the way to the office.’
‘No, honestly, I’ll take them.’ An anxious Sam longed to be able to dash inside and pull them out of Tina’s grasp.
Puzzled, Thea asked, ‘Should I take them? I could put them in my room if you’re worried about them getting mixed up with the linen for the house guests.’
Sam’s smile failed to meet his eyes. ‘I suppose that would be alright, if you were careful and…’
He was too late.
As a confused Tina passed the pillows to Thea, four small blue envelopes, scented with perfume, slipped out of their pillowcase prison, and hit the flagged-stone kitchen floor.
Crouching to pick them up, Tina’s face fell as she took in the feminine script of the handwritten envelopes. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She wanted an explanation, but whichever way her imagination pictured it, the reasons why her partner was hiding scented letters in his pillowcase, couldn’t be good.
Glancing from one friend to the other, Thea took her clipboard and cup of coffee and made a tactical departure.
‘It’s not what you think.’ Sam panicked, seeing how the situation appeared through Tina’s eyes. Taking a step forward, he moved to rush into her arms, but after two steps inside, he was backing away, gasping for air.
‘Sam!’ Forgetting the letters for a second, Tina ran outside as her partner took slow steadying breaths. As soon as he’d got hold of himself, she steered Sam to the nearest bench and dropped the letters into his lap as if they were toxic. ‘Talk to me before I leap to conclusions. Who are the letters from?’
Wiping the back of his arm over his mouth, Sam stared across the garden and beyond to the woods connecting Mill Grange with the body of Exmoor, which in turn led on to the prehistoric clapper bridge at Tarr Steps. Angry with himself at his failed attempt to go inside, and angrier still at not having been able to enter the manor like a normal person so he could hide his mother’s letters properly in the first place, Sam cleared his throat.
‘I was going to tell you, but I wanted to think about how to deal with these first.’ He held the letters out to Tina, but she shuffled away from the offending articles.
‘I haven’t been cheating on you, Tina.’ Sam gave a bitter laugh. ‘As you may have noticed, I’m unable to sneak off into hidden places. So exactly where and when do you think I could have been unfaithful to you?’
‘Sam!’ Tina felt guilty. She’d been trying hard not to think about him doing just that. ‘I didn’t, I just wondered… someone from before perhaps? Someone you left behind prior to all this.’
Resting his head in his hands, Sam’s eyes focused on his boots. ‘No, Tina. You’re the first one who’s ever made me want to stay in one place. Ever.’
Feeling bad for doubting him, Tina rested a hand in his. ‘So then, tell me, who wrote the letters?’
‘You can read them if you like. I wanted to show you, but I was afraid you’d think I was silly or weak. Like him.’
‘Him?’ Tina was confused – she’d been sure the writing was feminine.
‘They’re from my mother.’
Tina’s eyes brightened. ‘But that’s lovely. I’d love to have a mum I could write to.’
Sam picked the letters off his lap, holding them in mid-air, not sure if he really did want Tina to see them or not. ‘I know I’m lucky to still have my parents but, my father…’
‘You’ve said before that he can be difficult.’
‘Difficult!?’ The shouted word rebounded around the garden, making Tina jump. ‘Sorry. Father thinks me worthless. I told you. He hasn’t said a word to me since I left the—’
‘Sam.’ Gently lifting his chin, Tina held his gaze with her own. ‘I know you can’t tell me where you were, when you got trapped in that fire. And I know you can’t tell me who you were with, or even which section of the services you were in, but I’m not a fool.’
Reaching out, Sam twirled Tina’s nearest pigtail around his fingers. ‘I can see why you play with these when you’re anxious. Very therapeutic.’
‘You’re sidestepping the issue, Sam.’ Tina pointedly freed her hair from his hand. ‘Can we at least allocate a name to your former life? Even if it’s only roughly true, so army or marines? I’m sure it’s not usual for the RAF or navy to send personnel inland in a manner that would have led you to where the accident happened.’
‘Accident?’
‘It was not your fault. Therefore, it was an accident; even if I’m interpreting accident in the broadest term of the word.’
Taking back the plait, Sam said, ‘I love you, Tina Martin.’
‘And I love you, Sam Philips, but you’re avoiding the point. I’m tired of saying “in the forces”. It’s like being cut out of part of your life.’
An exhalation of breath escaped from Sam’s lips. ‘I can’t say. Official secrets and stuff, but I will eventually.’
‘When?’
‘My agreement runs out in thirty years.’
‘And you’ll tell me then, when we’re in our sixties?’
‘Promise.’
Tina laughed. ‘And you’ll still be putting up with me then will you?’
Putting an arm around his girlfriend, Sam gestured towards the garden and woodland before them. ‘That’s ours, can you believe it? And if you think for one second that I consider it mine and not ours, then you’re wrong. If you can stand it, I’d like you to stay here with me until we’re old and grey.’
Tina turned to Sam; her heart was suddenly beating very fast. ‘Ours? Forever?’
‘If you’ll put up with me.’
‘Always.’ Tina kissed him hard, unsure if he was proposing or reinforcing the fact that he loved her.
The letters slipped to the ground, the light slap they made as they hit the gravel reminding them of how they’d come to be sat on the bench in the first place.
‘Aren’t you pleased to hear from your mum?’ Tina picked the envelopes up and handed them back to Sam.
‘I don’t know.’ Sam ran a finger over the handwriting. ‘She was a good mum to me. None of this ferrying me off to a nanny or governess, even though that’s what Father wanted.’
‘You were sent to boarding school though.’
‘And it broke her heart. I’ll never forget her waving me off, her lips clamped together so she didn’t cry. I admired her self-control and her bravery. I still do.’
‘So why not reply to her, or have you?’
He shrugged. ‘The letters all say the same thing. They’re invites to go home for a visit.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘My father will be there. If I’m on their land, he’ll insist I follow their rules; including going inside to eat and sleep.’
‘But if you went soon, before the weather changed, you could have a family picnic, and if you just stayed the day then…’
Sam was shaking his head, a sad sheen to his eyes. ‘You don’t know him, Tina. Lord Malvern is not someone you say no to. Ever.’
‘Your mother must love him.’
‘Yes.’ Sam sighed. ‘I’ve never understood that.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Another thing I don’t understand is how these got here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tina shifted uncomfortably.
‘I have never told my parents where I am. So how did Mum know to send these here?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Father must have sent his spies out to check up on me.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He’s done it before. Trying to control my life, making sure the Old Boys’ Network keeps watch; checking I haven’t done anything else to bring shame on the family name.’
‘Sam, it wasn’t like that, I’m sure that—’
Sam’s head snapped up. ‘What do you mean, it wasn’t like that?’
Tina felt the temperature between them drop. ‘When you told me about your parents before you bought the house; how your mum was okay, but your dad was difficult, I thought…’
‘You told them?’ Sam’s voice was so quiet it came out in a series of hushed breaths. ‘You told my parents where I live?’
Tina stuttered, ‘It’s n-not like you think, it was more that I…’
Sam was no longer listening. He stood up, incomprehension etched across his face. ‘How could you do that, when you knew…? My father, if it wasn’t for him…?’
‘If it wasn’t for him what?’ Tina sighed. ‘Please, Sam. Tell me. I need to know!’
But Sam didn’t answer. Instead he turned towards the woods; breaking into a run as he disappeared between the trees.
Sophie poked at her plate of scrambled egg and bacon. The smoky aroma would normally have her gobbling down her breakfast as if she was starving, her unladylike manners causing her father to hide a smile behind his newspaper and her mother to tut.
This morning, after a sleepless night torn between remembering how Shaun had patted her bare skin while telling her off, and wondering how to redeem herself with the Landscape Treasures crew, her usually voracious appetite had deserted her.
Aware that her mother was watching her, she concentrated on not making eye contact. If she did that, then Sophie knew the floodgates of disappointment would open, and all hope that she could somehow save the situation would be lost. Cursing the change to her parents’ travelling plans, which had brought them home a month early, she poured herself a coffee she felt too sick to drink.
Cradling the bone china cup, Sophie closed her eyes. An image of Shaun Coulson flashed up beneath her eyelids. She couldn’t believe she’d messed this up. It had taken so much work to get him here, so much planning; from tempting her parents with the old-fashioned Grand Tour of Europe, so they’d be away during the Landscape Treasures filming season, to practising her mother’s signature until it was perfect. Not to mention the year of painstaking research she’d done to make sure there was something on their land worth excavating.
Sophie hadn’t been able to believe her luck when she stumbled over the document in the Truro archive, suggesting that somewhere on Bodmin Moor, buried, but not forgotten, was the site of the original St Guron’s church.
Sophie recalled the tingle of excitement as further research suggested that, not only was the church on the moor upon which she lived, but it was within the Guron Estate. Her hands had shaken as she kept hunting for information. Each day she’d returned to the archive office, studying map after map, document after document. Then, by pure fluke, she’d found what she’d been searching for.
A photograph had fallen from a stack of maps. Shot from the air, it showed Guron House and its immediate gardens. Taken in the summer of 1976, one of the driest years on record, it formed part of a comprehensive aerial archaeological survey which, due to the weather, revealed parch-marks in the soil, made by buildings long buried beneath the ground. There was no getting away from the fact that there, beneath her parents’ immaculate front lawn, was the outline of a church.
She’d only cursed how close it was to the house for a few seconds. The inconvenience of the location had been overridden by the idea that maybe, just maybe, she’d stumbled across the lost church of St Guron. And, even if she hadn’t, it was enough of a mystery to pique the interest of the Landscape Treasures team. She could meet her hero, and learn how to dig at the same time. The estate was her home, so surely she’d be allowed to help uncover the site she’d found.
He looked at you as if you were a child.
The memory of Shaun’s face, his incomprehension at her actions as she’d hidden behind the van to avoid her mother, sent a prickle of shame crossing Sophie’s face.
It had been a supreme act of rebellion when she’d signed up, in secret, for the distance learning degree in archaeology. Sophie loved it, and had excelled at her work so far. But to pass, she needed to have some practical experience, and that would mean telling her parents what she’d done. Far better, she’d reasoned, to get her experience while they were away; and if that experience happened on the doorstep, then she wouldn’t have to make up lies about going on holiday.
But what’s the point in lying? Even if you get the degree, you can’t use it without them noticing you disappearing off every day, and coming home muddy.
Sophie sighed as the Shaun of her imagination shouted, ‘You’re twenty-five!’
A knock on the door was followed by the arrival of the gardener. He looked suitably apologetic for daring to breathe indoors.
‘What is it, Jenkins?’ Lady Hammett lowered the spoon upon which a segment of grapefruit was precariously balanced.
‘Excuse me your Ladyship, your Lordship, but that archaeologist bloke wishes to speak to you.’
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning!’
‘They have been working since six-thirty, my Lady.’
Sophie was shocked out of her self-pity. ‘They have?’
‘They are carrying out—’ Jenkins grimaced, as if trying to remember exactly what was said ‘—non-invasive exploration of the site prior to leaving.’
‘Leaving!’ Sophie’s cup clattered into its saucer.
Lord Hammett lowered his paper, giving his wife a sideways glance as she picked her spoon back up with an air of victory. ‘It seems Mr Coulson has more sense than I credited him with. Tell them we expect the turf to be replaced as if it was never touched.’
Jenkins’ eyes widened, but his thoughts on how that might be achieved remained unspoken. ‘I will inform them.’
Chewing her grapefruit with satisfaction, Lady Hammett levelled her gaze on her daughter. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Sophie wondered how much it had cost her not to add ‘young lady’ to the question.
Unsure if she was going to get her words out before her mother interrupted, Sophie was heartened when her father folded his paper and turned to his wife.
‘I’m also interested in Sophie’s explanation. I trust you’ll let her give it properly, Stephanie.’ His wife glared at him as Lord Hammett smiled. ‘Sophie, I’m prepared to overlook the fact you faked your mother’s signature and, if I can, I will stop the television company suing you…’
‘Them suing us! I have every intention of suing them for—’ Lady Hammett’s explosion was cut short by the quiet, firm shake of her husband’s head.
‘As I was saying, I will endeavour to stop them from suing us for providing false documentation, but I need to know why, Sophie. It would not have been difficult to ask us… me… if this excavation could go ahead.’
Guilt at deceiving her father hit Sophie. He was normally such a background figure in their lives that she often forgot how much she loved him, and vice versa.
‘I’m sorry, Father, but you’d have said no, and this was too important not to happen.’
Holding up a hand to silence the outpouring of words he instinctively knew to be lining up on his wife’s lips, Lord Hammett nodded encouragingly. ‘And why is it important?’
‘The church, the one I’m sure is hidden beneath the lawn, there’s a high chance it is the church of St Guron.’
‘The chap who founded Bodmin?’
Sophie was surprised. ‘You’ve heard of him, Father?’
‘My family has lived on Bodmin Moor forever, Sophie – of course I have. People have searched for it before. What makes you think that it’s here?’
Sophie took a sip of her cold coffee before explaining about the archives and finding the photograph, and how everything felt like it fitted together. Then she told him about how the researchers she’d contacted at Landscape Treasures had done more work, and they were in agreement that it was worth exploring. It really could be the church built in 1010.
Unable to hold her peace any longer, Lady Hammett dripped disbelief. ‘You said that the photograph you found dates from 1976?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Well that proves this church, if it is a church, is not that special.’
‘Why?’
‘What archaeologist would leave such an important site un-dug for over thirty years? It was dismissed as unworthy then, and so should be now. The sooner they leave us in peace the better.’