by Lorna Peel
“Your father and I both wanted children. And your father needed an heir and thanks to her he got one. You.”
With that, Lady Heaton got up from the chair and calmly walked out of the room. After a moment’s uncertainty, Heaton went to the door and let himself out.
Sophia stood in the middle of the floor and felt her cheeks with the palms of her hands. Her cheeks were burning. Her mother had hardly mentioned Danielle at all lately, even though they had been good friends at one time. Had she forgotten Danielle due to the dementia? Or was it because she had known and disapproved?
Sophia turned and fled from the library for a second time, only this time she didn’t stop until she had reached her flat, slamming and locking both doors behind her.
Chapter Two
At a quarter past two the following afternoon Sophia was standing nervously at the front door waiting for the first coach party to arrive. She felt rotten. It had been well after four in the morning before she eventually fell asleep and then she woke at seven and didn’t manage to get back to sleep again. With Michelle’s mum going around and around her head it was little wonder.
“Ms Nelson?” Lord Heaton joined her at the door and she jumped. “I really must apologise for yesterday. It must have been appalling for you.”
“No, I—”
“At the moment I seem to have all the tact of a rampaging elephant,” he continued. “I am sorry.”
“Well, it’s understandable.”
“I was very angry and I shouldn’t have involved you. We’ll say no more about it.”
She looked sharply up at him. They couldn’t just leave it like that. He was Michelle’s half-brother. “But—” she began.
“Good.” He gave her a bright smile. “Now, would you mind very much if I tagged along on your tour?”
She stared at him in horror, too tired to even try and disguise it. “Well, I…” She could hardly refuse. “No, not at all.”
“Thank you. And don’t forget, the offer of my tranquilliser guns still stands.”
She smiled weakly, hearing the coach approach. Bloody hell. Michelle was right. This was proving to be completely and utterly bizarre. Maybe she should ring her and ask if she could have the bed in the loft conversion back?
An hour and a half later she returned to the kitchen after seeing the group out to Jack in the gardens following quite definitely the worst guided tour she had ever given. First tours were always bad but this had been something spectacularly awful. The group were Americans on their first trip to England and a lively bunch, to put it mildly. It hadn’t helped matters that Heaton had stared intently at her all the way through, it seemed, except for a couple of alarmed glances at a woman who was intent on picking everything up. Sophia had to tell her politely that if she dropped something she would have to pay for it. By selling your house, she added silently.
Then, just when she thought that she was finally into her stride, Heaton’s smartphone rang, even though she had specifically asked that the visitors please turn them off. The ringtone was the infamous Crazy Frog from a few years ago and she stared at him in astonishment at his lack of taste. Everyone shuffled in annoyance and she blushed and cringed before asking him to put the phone on silent. He turned a vivid shade of scarlet, swore at the screen under his breath and nodded at her, but thankfully did as he was asked. But that wasn’t all. He then asked a question which she had to ponder for a moment before answering. What the real visitors had made of it all she could only begin to guess at but unfortunately, they took this as their cue to start questioning her.
“So, what’s Lord Heaton like?” was the first question, of course, and her heart sank like a stone.
Sophia met Heaton’s grey-blue eyes for a moment. “He’s very pleasant. Shall we continue on down to the kitchen for some refreshments?”
“Is he married?”
“Er, no, he isn’t.”
“You hear that, May?” one woman called. “He’s not married. He could be your fourth.”
May laughed. “Only if he’s rich and handsome. Is he?” she asked a startled Sophia, who glanced at Heaton again. He quickly turned to look at who he was being paired with.
Despite a trim figure, an obvious facelift and dyed blond hair, May was old enough to be Heaton’s grandmother. Heaton’s eyes bulged and his lips parted in horror. Sophia began to examine her hands and when she raised her head Heaton was gone and she politely but firmly ushered the group down to the kitchen for the refreshments.
Helen reached for a huge jug from a coffee machine and poured her another cup, as Sophia closed the kitchen door and sank down on a chair at the nearest table.
“So? Good? Bad? Indifferent?”
“Nerve-wracking. Lord Heaton came on the tour.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“I think he was testing me. Could you leave the coffee jug on the table, please? I’m probably going to drink it all.”
“On your very first tour?” Helen added, setting the jug down, and Sophia shrugged. “That’s very unfair. I thought Lady Heaton had already been on a tour with you?”
“Yes, she has. And me with her. Anyway, it’s over now and I can only hope he never does it again.”
“Here.” Helen passed her a plate. “Have a bun or two. You’ve earned them.”
“Thanks.” Taking one, she bit into it and sighed. God, she had earned that. Helen’s baking was delicious. “Lovely,” she added, with her mouth full.
“What happened yesterday?” Helen asked.
“Oh.” She swallowed and took a sip of coffee. “It was just a bit of a misunderstanding,” she said, hoping it sounded convincing. “I’m afraid Lord Heaton intimidates me like nobody’s business.”
“Don’t worry.” Helen gave her a kind smile. “You’ll get used to him.”
She saw Helen’s smile fade and followed her gaze. Lord Heaton himself was standing in the doorway, looking around the enormous room at the flagstone floor and the wooden tables and chairs as if for the first time.
“It all went very well, didn’t it?” he asked her.
No, it was bloody awful. “Yes, very well.”
“Mrs Fields?” he added.
“Yes, sir, very well.”
“Good,” he replied, glancing at Sophia’s cup of coffee.
“Would you like a cup?” she asked, seeing that Helen wasn’t going to offer.
“Thank you, yes.” Pulling out a chair, he sat down and watched her pour.
“Is her Ladyship in the gift shop?” Helen asked him.
“Yes, as far as I’m aware.”
“Then, I’ll go and see if she would like some tea. Excuse me.”
“You didn’t need a tranquilliser gun, after all,” he said, stirring milk and sugar into the coffee, as Helen left the room.
“No, apart from the lady who couldn’t leave anything alone, they were quite…interesting. Although, after you left, that lady did ask whether she could meet Lord Heaton. She had no idea that she’d just been standing next to you.”
He frowned. “What on earth for?”
“So she could get her picture taken with you. I think she rather assumed you walked around in a suit of armour.” He rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee. “Then she asked where in the old abbey did the monkeys sleep?”
Curiously, she watched his reaction. He almost spat the coffee out. “The monkeys?” he repeated. “How did you keep a straight face?”
“Not very easily,” she admitted. “Have a bun?”
“I think I will, thank you.” He selected one and rolled his eyes again. “Monkeys?”
“Monkeys,” she confirmed as he bit into the bun, chewed, and swallowed.
“I’m sorry about my phone. I thought I had it on silent but my sister has a habit of adding the worst ringtones she can find to it.”
“Not from hospital, surely?” she asked as he took another bite and quickly finished the bun off.
“Knowing Stephanie, she’s probably tunnelled out. So, how are you
settling in?”
“Very well, thank you.” Considering. She watched him take another bun. “Did you not have any lunch?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He shook his head before swallowing. “I completely forgot. I think Mrs Fields is rather annoyed with me. So, do you think you’ll stay?”
She stared at him in surprise. “Yes. Why? Was I expected not to?”
“Well, the salary is ridiculously small.”
“No, I mean about…?”
“Apart from that,” he said, his eyes telling her not to continue with that subject.
“Well, I have a lovely flat,” she said, fighting an urge to tell him not to tell her what she could and couldn’t talk about.
“Good.” He sighed and peered down at his half-eaten bun. “It’s no use.”
“What isn’t?”
“These buns won’t keep me going until seven o’clock,” he explained. “I’m starving. I’m going to have to raid the fridge. Would you mind keeping watch?”
“Watch?” she echoed. He was a grown man in his late thirties, not a ten-year-old schoolboy.
He got to his feet before sitting down again. “The fridge is gone. It used to be over there by the sink before the room was done up to look antiquated.”
“Is there a pantry or a scullery?”
“Yes, there is. I’ll go and check.” He got up again and left the room.
Ten minutes passed before she decided to go and find him, meeting him coming up the stone steps from the cellars with a furious expression.
“Did you find it?” she asked, despite knowing the answer.
“No. Where the hell can she have gone with a fridge? I mean, all I want is a bloody sandwich.”
“Come to the flat, I’ll make you a sandwich.”
He frowned at her and she almost regretted asking him. “There’s really no need, I’ll find the fridge eventually.”
“By the time you’ve searched the entire house you might have died of starvation. I don’t particularly want to find your corpse on tomorrow’s tour. Imagine the kind of questions I could get about that?” She smiled. “I bought mature Cheddar cheese and a jar of pickle yesterday.”
He pursed his lips. “I haven’t had a decent pickle in years. Mrs Fields makes tomato chutney and to be honest, I don’t particularly like it. Thank you, a cheese and pickle sandwich would be very nice.”
He’s shy, she realised, as they crossed the stable yard to the flat. While she made the sandwich he went to her boxes of books, which she had left on the floor.
“You need some shelves,” he commented, crouching down. “I’ll mention it to Des.”
“Thank you.” She watched as he held a book away from him to read the title, showing her that he was quite long-sighted. “I’ve got too many books but I didn’t get a chance to get rid of some before I moved. Your sandwich.” She put the plate on the dining table.
“Thank you.” He sat down and demolished it. “Delicious,” he proclaimed, pushing the empty plate away.
“Would you like another?” she asked.
“No, that really was delicious. Thank you.”
“Well, I hope you find the fridge.”
He smiled and she marvelled at just how much it transformed his face.
“I might just ask Mrs Fields, even though I could really do with the exercise. I spend far too much time in front of the PC.”
“Well, Lady Heaton has decided that Tuesdays are going to be my day off and she will do the tours on those days, so I’m going for a walk up on the moors tomorrow and blow the cobwebs away. You’re welcome to come?”
He looked startled and she definitely regretted suggesting it. Was she overstepping the mark? She was ‘staff’ after all.
“Tomorrow? I don’t know…”
“It will be the afternoon,” she explained. “I’ll be visiting Mum in the morning. Mornings are her best time.”
“Do you not have any friends you could ask?”
“Yes,” she replied and he stared at her, clearly realising who she meant. “But she works part-time and she has a six-year-old daughter to collect from school. My other friends are in London and told me I was daft to come back up here.”
“But your mother?”
“Most of the time, my mum doesn’t know who I am,” she told him sadly.
He grimaced. “I’ve put my foot in it again, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head and went to her bedroom, returning with a photograph. “Some days, she’s as lucid as you and me but this is how I want to remember her after she’s gone.”
He took the photograph which showed her mother standing proudly beside her father who was in full mining garb, smiling at the camera on the day he retired, and held it away from him. “Yes, I remember your father now.”
“He wasn’t rude to you, I hope?”
“No, why?” he asked.
“He has certain…views on the…”
“Idle rich?”
She flushed. “Something like that.”
“Well, I’m neither idle nor rich.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. He was livid when I told him that I tended to vote for the Green Party.”
“Why, is he a Labour Party supporter?”
“Socialist Labour,” she told him. “He’s not a big fan of the Labour Party and don’t even mention the Conservative Party to him.”
He smiled. “We all have our views on the Tories.”
“Did you get to sit in the House of Lords?”
“Yes, I did. Once. Just before hereditary peers were kicked out back in 1999. I just wish I’d had the chance to go more often,” he added, passing the photograph back to her. “So you’ll be visiting your mother tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ll be back here around one to have lunch and to change my clothes.”
He nodded and got up from the table. “Thank you for the sandwich.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled, reaching for the plate. “Oh, before I forget, that friend of mine works in the tourist office in the town.”
“Tourist office?”
“Well, since the mining museum and gift shop went up in smoke there was nowhere for any tourists to get information on the area so a tourist office was opened recently. It’ll be seasonal until they see how things go. They’re setting up a town website, too, I just thought if you sent them some leaflets and the abbey’s website address…?”
“I will. Thank you. What do you think of the abbey website, by the way?”
“Very interesting,” she replied diplomatically.
“Good.”
She saw him out then went to the window to watch him walk to his office. Usually, when she met a new work colleague or even a new boss, she quickly moved on to first name terms, unless they held an extremely senior position or, seemingly, if they had a title. Everyone, she noticed, called him ‘sir’ or ‘his Lordship’, or ‘your Lordship’, but never Thomas, Tommy, Tom, or, heaven forbid, Tommo.
How on earth could she change the rules? Should she even bother to try? How long could she stay here knowing what she did but forbidden to even mention it? In any case, she couldn’t reply to his ‘Ms Nelson’ with a ‘Thomas’ without being invited to, could she? Apart from that, he was very shy, so teasing him wasn’t a very good idea. With a temper like his, it wasn’t a very good idea at all. And as to names, well, she had called him ‘your Lordship’ at their meeting in the library but since then she hadn’t really called him anything at all. Her dad would be proud but how long could it go on for?
She went to the boxes of books to stack them neatly out of the way until she got some shelves and stared in horror. Heaton had left the book he’d been looking at on top of its box. It and the others in the box were steamy romance novels belonging to her mother. Mrs Nelson was incapable of reading them now, and Sophia had been reluctant to get rid of them, despite their – how could she put it – interesting content. She picked up the book and stared at its clichéd bare-chested hero on the cover
. Shackled by Love! Oh, bloody hell. Putting it back in the box, she closed it, covered her face with her hands and shook with embarrassment.
Popping into the bank in the morning before going to the nursing home, she spotted Lady Heaton two ahead of her in the queue. When the older woman walked to the counter, Sophia saw her taking an envelope from her handbag and passing it across the counter. The clerk pulled an enormous bundle of banknotes out and begin to count them. Sophia tried not to stare but couldn’t help it, there must have been a couple of thousand pounds there, and she had to be nudged from behind when her own turn came.
Sophia found her mother in her room with her father sitting beside the bed, the Daily Mirror on his lap. She watched for a few minutes from the corridor as her father turned the page before realising he and her mother weren’t alone.
“Sally,” her mother cried. It was clearly a day when her mother was thinking Sophia was her mother’s sister and her dad was her brother, even though he was at least forty years dead.
“Hi.” She went in and gave her father a kiss then did likewise to her mother. “Hello. I brought you some toiletries – deodorant, shampoo, soap and a few other bits and pieces. I found some fig rolls, too. You can have them with your tea later on. You look well today.”
“You do, too. Have you started at Heaton Abbey yet, Sally?” her mother asked, assuming it was Aunt Sally starting work at the abbey and not Sophia. “I’m so glad you decided to come back up here to work. Cornwall always seemed like a million miles away.”
“Yes, so am I,” Sophia replied, deciding not to correct her mother and cause even more confusion. “I have my own small flat in what used to be the stable block.”
“A flat?”
“Converted hayloft,” Sophia clarified. “But it is lovely.”
“While Lord and Lady Muck live in that huge house.”
“I’m in that huge house nearly as much as them now, and the flats really are lovely. There’s even wireless internet.”
“What?” Her mother frowned.
“The internet without the need for a phone line,” Sophia explained.
“They don’t have any phones?”
“Yes, they do, but business people…” Sophia tailed off, seeing her mother shrug.