Secrets of the Mist
Page 28
It hasn’t been easy for us, but dealing with Sarah and Becky has only served to confirm our feelings for each other. As Nick begins to recall past times more clearly and embrace our history together, the pieces of our lives are falling into place.
Last month – on the 8th May – we were married at St Martin’s Church. We chose the date especially. We only had to buy a wedding ring for Nick, as we already had mine. The ruby gimmel ring is back in its rightful place and I will never take it off. It was supposed to be a small celebration for family and close friends but with most of my extended family coming over from Ireland it soon turned into a party, which Brian and Vera were only too happy to host at the Blacksmith’s Arms. It seemed a befitting venue. However, before leaving the church, Nick and I took a few private moments to lay the wedding bouquet on Mary and Elisabeth’s grave. I turn over, trying not to disturb my husband. Even though it’s early, I can’t get back to sleep. I slip out of bed, grab a dressing gown and make my way quietly downstairs. As I descend the spiral staircase, Baron and Casper look up expectantly from the couch. Storm, sandwiched between the two large dogs, continues to snooze, and I grin. From day one that cat has made himself at home at Ashton Chase Barn… as have I. Nick’s barn always felt like home to me. I no longer live at The Old Smithy, but it will never be sold. The cottage belongs as much to Nick as me; it is an important part of our history. Now that Nat’s spirit is laid to rest, there are no longer any unusual ‘happenings’ at the cottage and a particularly tranquil and calming atmosphere pervades. After some consideration, we rented it to a young, local family. I’ve also left my job at the Blacksmith’s Arms and my freelance writing has taken off.
As I enter the porch, the dogs rouse themselves and climb off the couch to follow me. I fill their food bowls and then make my way to the kitchen. Taking two clean mugs from the draining board, I throw a teabag into each and, while waiting for the kettle to boil, I pick up my mobile phone from the countertop and scroll through the latest photos Caro has sent me. Dan and I have not been in touch since our last meeting at Caro and John’s London house, but his sister keeps me informed of the latest developments in her brother’s life. And what a turnaround there too! I pause at a photo of a smiling Dan, smug-looking Lucy and sleeping baby Archie. Since embracing fatherhood, the troubled Dan has vanished and he looks well and content with his lot. I still can’t warm to Lucy, but at least she has given him an important focus and purpose in life other than herself. I suppose I should thank her for that.
I hear Nick get out of bed and walk across the galleried bedroom to the shower room. As I carry the mugs over to the coffee table, Storm eyes me from his supine position on the couch. Now that the dogs have vacated, he stretches out along its length in an ungentlemanly manner. I stroke his belly and he starts to purr.
‘’Morning gorgeous.’
I turn at the sound of Nick’s voice. His hair is tousled and he is casually dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Like mine, his feet are bare.
‘Hello sleepyhead. I’ve made tea,’ I say, indicating the mugs on the coffee table.
‘Thanks. Have the dogs been fed?’ He steps off the spiral staircase.
I nod.
‘I’ll let them out.’ Approaching, he plants a kiss on my mouth and, picking up a mug, takes a large swallow of tea. ‘I see Storm’s as comfortable as usual,’ he remarks with a grin.
I laugh.
As Nick enters the porch, I cross over to the enormous steel-framed glass doors and gaze out over the terraces and the low-lying valley to the sea. The rain has abated but, whatever the weather, I will never tire of this view; it is magnificent. A fine sea mist rises up the valley, making a theatre of the landscape, tantalisingly picking out a bank of trees or a field gate for a few seconds before letting the curtain fall. Increasingly large patches of blue appear in the dense grey canopy and, as the sun peeps out from behind a bank of clouds, dramatic shafts of light break through the dark skies, plummeting to the ocean and turning it liquid silver. As though Nature wants to show off the scenery in all its glory, a double rainbow arcs over the valley.
Suddenly, loving arms encircle me and Nick draws my body to him. Willingly, I lean against him and we stand silently – reverently – savouring the view.
‘Look, Maddie,’ he says, pointing at the sky. ‘Our Guardian Angels watch over us.’
High above, two dark specks fly in a circular formation, their plumage becoming more defined and detailed as the birds of prey glide earthwards. All at once, a third buzzard with slimmer wings and a relatively longer tail comes into view, and we watch as it joins in the dance.
‘Looks like a juvenile,’ Nick comments. ‘It could be last year’s offspring, judging by the way the adults are tolerating it.’
‘How wonderful,’ I sigh.
Nick’s hold on me tightens. Softly, he says, ‘What do you say, Maddie, to us making babies of our own?’
I glance sideways at him.
‘We can give life once more to Elisabeth and Francis,’ he continues, the deep emotion obvious in his voice.
I turn in his arms and gaze up into blue-grey eyes filled with love. ‘I’d like that very much,’ I whisper, and then correct myself. ‘We’d like that.’
He kisses me tenderly. Then, patting me playfully on the bottom, he walks away.
‘I’ll start breakfast then. After all, we’ll need to build up our strength if we’re to handle those two rascals again.’
I watch as he moves around the kitchen, at ease in his skin, and I can’t stop the wide smile spreading across my face.
At last, I have truly found my way home.
Acknowledgements
In the beginning, when considering where to base this book my only stipulation was there must be a village green. Memories of childhood holidays spent fossil hunting along the bay at Charmouth guided me to Dorset where serendipity played its part. Due to roadworks, I took a detour and came upon Walditch, and whilst researching the village and its surrounding areas historic events came to light that supplied me with the framework on which to pin my story. Most of the historical elements recorded here are a true account, although I have exercised the writer’s ‘right’ to fictionalise with a slight tweak of location to fit the story.
Many people played a part in helping this book reach publication. My husband, who discovered a time capsule during extensive renovations to our cottage, which set me thinking about past dramas it may have been witness to; the country trader who fired my imagination with a story of her Dartmoor cottage with its internal stained-glass window and unaccountable cold corners; and tutor, Karen Hayes, and the South Dornaford Farm Writers’ Group who witnessed my tentative first steps on this particular journey when the novel, yet to be written, was a simple short story.
Big thanks must go to Team Aria for their ongoing dedication in producing and marketing our books; to my editor, Laura Palmer, for her guidance in teasing out the best of this novel; to Helena Newton for her thorough and intelligent copy editing; and to Charlotte Abrams-Simpson for doing a wonderful job in creating the most perfect, softly haunting front cover.
I would, however, especially like to thank Helena Ancil whose continuing support, encouragement and belief in this book kept firm my resolve to see it in print. Thank you, dear friend.
About the Author
Originally from the Home Counties, Kate now resides in the diverse and inspirational county of Cornwall, which provides a glorious backdrop for much of her writing. Her career has encompassed travel, property and publishing and she currently divides her time between selling fabulous country piles that she can’t afford and writing romantic suspense. Together with her ever-supportive husband, a gorgeous Arab horse and a newly acquired ‘rescue’ cat called Ollie, Kate lives in the beautiful Tamar Valley in a 200-year-old cottage that she (and said husband) painstakingly restored and which proved the inspiration for her third book with Aria.
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