‘They don’t make me work… I choose to work because I can’t afford to let things slip.’
‘But you let your family slip. How much has Josh seen of you since you got home? And me… I feel as if I have a stranger in the house. It’s bad enough that you’re away for weeks at a time but when you’re home you might as well not be.’
Allie’s lip quivered, her throat tightening. But she wouldn’t cry. Not now, not when the tears she’d already shed over the previous months had done nothing to soften Greg towards her. If anything they’d had the opposite effect.
‘You like this house?’ he said. ‘You like your car? The dresses and the shoes and the horse riding? I have to work to pay for all that.’
‘I’d rather have you. I didn’t marry you for those things.’
‘Really? Because that’s not what people in this village say. They say those things are exactly why you married me; after all, why would beautiful Allie Wicklow have married a man ten years older than her with a face like a spade with a dent in it if it wasn’t for money?’
‘Why are you saying that?’ Allie was wide-eyed, the tears she was fighting so hard now squeezing her throat tighter still. ‘I was crazy about you; you were everything I’d ever wanted.’
‘I’m not saying that… It’s what others say. It’s what they’ve said since the start, and you can save your tears and your protestations because I know it’s all true.’ He turned at the doorway and fixed her with an icy stare. ‘And that’s not all they say about you, is it?’
Allie yanked off her other shoe and threw it at the doorway as he left. Collapsing to the floor, she gave in to her tears. Even if Josh woke now, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Nor would she be able to explain it. She’d made a stupid mistake, and she could have argued that it was Greg’s fault anyway – she always felt so desperately lonely when he was away, and he wasn’t much better company when he was home. But since the village gossipmongers had dropped her in it, and Greg had discovered her stupid one-night stand, he hadn’t let her forget it. More than a year, and even though he’d promised he’d forgive her, that it wouldn’t split them, he brought it up every time he came home. And as for intimacy? He barely looked at her now.
When they’d first married, everyone had told her the age gap would be an issue, but she hadn’t thought so, and more to the point she hadn’t cared. Perhaps she’d been too young and too immature to cope with the sort of marriage that being with Greg would bring – one where his career would always come first – but she hadn’t cared about that either. Her mother had told her as much, and even on the eve of the wedding had offered a get-out clause, an escape, a no-questions-asked invite to go back to her childhood home. But Allie had been in love and, more than that, she’d been cursed with the stubborn arrogance of youth. She’d been adamant that she knew what she was doing, that life without Greg for months at a time was no problem as long as she had him there sometimes.
It hadn’t been like that in the end. She’d moved to the village that he’d grown up in but a place where she herself knew nobody, and she’d felt more isolated every time he’d gone away to work. When Josh was born she’d struggled, mostly alone, the baby she’d hoped would temper the loneliness only exaggerating it. Greg had asked her to move to Germany permanently with him so they’d be close to his base for work but she’d been too scared and she’d pretended she was fine in Cerne Hay, but it had been a lie. The years had rolled by like this. And then there was that one fatal night when Josh had been staying with his grandparents and she’d gone out to the pub down the road. She’d drunk too much, the alcohol magnifying her loneliness, and the one friendly shoulder she’d found to cry on had been in her bed before she’d even realised it was happening.
But she wanted to forget all that now and leave it behind her – she wanted Greg’s forgiveness and for them to move on together as a couple. She had tried to make Greg understand why she’d done it, but he’d refused to acknowledge the issue aside from adopting a granite-hard resolve to make sure she was never forgiven, no matter what he said to the contrary.
It might have been easier had he yelled and threatened, but he had done none of those things. Instead, he had simply distanced himself even further from his wife and the rest of the village and he had shot down the gossip before it got out of hand. She hadn’t loved the guy who’d ended up in her bed – hell, she barely even liked him – yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was the feeling of closeness to a man – skin to skin – that a fleeting night with him had given her, and it was just that which filled her head. It was all she wanted, and it was much more than Greg was willing to give her these days. Why couldn’t she get her happy ending? What had she done so wrong that she didn’t deserve it?
Her head flicked up as her worst fears were realised; Josh was standing in the doorway in his pyjamas with a look of pure confusion and distress.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
Allie dragged a hand across her eyes and tried to swallow her sobs. ‘I’m OK… Go back to bed now, you’ll be tired in the morning.’
After a moment’s pause, he shuffled over and wrapped his arms around her.
‘Sorry…’
She pulled back to look at him. ‘My gorgeous boy, what do you have to be sorry about?’
He shrugged. ‘I was naughty?’
Allie’s eyes filled with fresh tears. ‘God, no… you would never do this to me no matter how naughty you are! I’m upset about a grownup thing, but now you’ve given me your lovely hug, I feel much better.’ She forced a smile. ‘Now, you go up to bed and don’t worry about me.’
They looked up to see Greg in the doorway. ‘Come on, Josh, I’ll tuck you in.’
As he led their son away, he threw an accusing look at Allie that implied this was all her fault. Perhaps it was.
Chapter 6
It had been a long day, but Cesca was still buzzing from what, so far, amounted to the find of her career. Her hunch about the crucifix was looking increasingly right – it was almost certainly a unique example and one with finer workmanship she’d never seen up close. The rest of the stuff was perhaps worth less in archaeological terms, but they were no less impressive in their beauty and would undoubtedly have a hefty monetary value. Three long years of undergraduate study, two years of postgraduate and a one-year unpaid internship in the antiquities department of the Met in New York had all been leading to this moment.
And yet, though she’d always imagined feeling on top of the world when her Sutton Hoo or Staffordshire Hoard moment came, the truth was something altogether less satisfying. Something didn’t sit right with her, and she wondered whether that vague feeling of unease was more to do with the find, or with her own personal circumstances and questionable emotional stability. Her life was a mess, and that fact certainly felt as if it was casting a storm cloud across her moment in the sun.
Putting aside some microfiche copies of old parish records she’d managed to obtain to make a start on unravelling her new mystery, she rubbed the muscles of her shoulders and stretched. The dining table in front of her was littered with archaic-looking documents scrawled with unintelligible writing by hands that had long since crumbled to dust. The blinds were still open and the neighbour’s security light suddenly beamed into her dining room, set off by a cat or an urban fox.
God, she hated this house. Paolo had wanted to live here, and then he’d gone off to London and left her with it. She hated the way the houses around it were so close it felt as if they almost smothered hers, and the way she couldn’t open her windows in the summer without the fumes of the city seeping through her home, the noise from other families in the street with timetables very different from her own. Decorating hadn’t helped, nor had landscaping the garden. She knew she should move but the truth was, she wasn’t quite ready to let go of this final little piece of her life with Paolo. It hurt to be somewhere that reminded her so much of him, but it was her last connection and, in a strange way, a comfort. To m
ove from here would be to strike out on her own in a way that sent a clear message to the world and herself – she was a single woman, and she had nobody else to rely on.
She returned from the kitchen twenty minutes later with a tall gin and tonic. There was quite a measure of alcohol in there – or maybe there were two, or three. It was asking for trouble, of course, and tomorrow at work she would pay the price yet again for an evening of excess, but right now she couldn’t care less. She defiantly pulled a sheaf of Tudor banking records towards her just as her mobile phone burst into life.
Paolo – as crisp and clear as if he was in the room with her. Just the sound of his smouldering Latino accent set her nerve ends tingling in a way she knew they shouldn’t.
‘You need to stop contacting me,’ he said.
‘I know. I didn’t mean—’
‘You say that every time. Larissa keeps asking me who it is, and what am I supposed to tell her? I delete your text messages, but if she finds one, what do I say?’
Tell her what you like, Cesca thought. It’s not like I give a shit about your new girlfriend. ‘I’m sorry. I was drunk, and it was a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.’
‘For the sake of anything we once had together, I hope that this time it’s true. I loved you once, but we are no more. You agreed to the split – remember?’
‘I know. There’s no need to keep rubbing it in. I’m pathetic, a loser, a poor specimen of womanhood, I can’t manage without you… Is there anything else you want me to say? You want me to grovel?’
‘You are none of those things,’ he said, his tone kinder now. ‘And I don’t want you to grovel. You were a proud, intelligent, sexy woman when I first met you. Be that woman again and have a wonderful life. We were not meant to be, but you will find happiness with someone far more deserving than me.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Cesca replied, fighting back tears. It would have been so much easier if he could be a bastard and say horrible things to her. The fact that he was always so bloody kind and understanding made things a hundred times worse. ‘I’m broken, Paolo. It’s not just you… Ah, shit to it. What’s the point in trying to explain? I can’t even explain it to myself, let alone you.’
‘I am sorry – truly I am – for your troubles. But we are not together now and I’ve moved on. You need to accept that and move on too.’
‘I know… I—’
‘Goodbye, Francesca. Take care of yourself.’
Paolo ended the call, and that was that. Cesca wasn’t given the chance to explain anything and once again was left feeling like the bunny-boiling bad guy.
Letting out a long sigh, she turned her attention back to her studies. At least history didn’t make you feel like crap. You could say what you wanted to fossilised remains and bodies preserved in bogs and they didn’t offer a single disapproving word in return. It was at times like these when she liked dead people a lot more than the living.
* * *
Harper tossed the newspaper across the table at Shay as he bolted down a coffee and a bacon sandwich on his first break of the morning. Unable to work on the extension for a second day, and having no other jobs to do for the moment, he’d taken to venting his frustrations on their larder, clearing it out in such an aggressive way that Harper was certain he would split a sack and disappear under an avalanche of tea leaves, never to be seen again.
Right now, he was tucked in a little corner of their kitchen while Pip worked the tearoom and Harper divided her time between serving and fighting off questions from reporters and members of the public with more than a healthy interest in their find. Though he hadn’t admitted to it, she couldn’t help but feel vexed at the idea that Shay had probably brought all this to her door with loose lips at the pub on the night they’d found their box. It wouldn’t be the first time his drunken mouth had caused trouble.
‘We could really do with you in the café for the rest of the week if that article is going to bring another influx,’ she said.
Shay pulled the newspaper towards him and read the page where she’d helpfully opened it for him.
‘Ah…’
‘Ah indeed.’ Harper sighed. ‘I know it was inevitable, and in a strange way it’s a good thing for business, but I was hoping it would all just sort of dissolve from view.’
‘Lots of attention but not quite the right kind? People are bound to be curious. It’s not every day you dig up a hoard of gold.’
‘There wasn’t that much.’
‘More than enough.’
‘Maybe. Besides, it isn’t just about that, it’s…’
Shay frowned. ‘What?’
‘I know you’re going to say I’m stupid, but what if it brings attention from back home?’
‘We’re hardly on the News at Ten. Nobody beyond the borders of Dorset will see this, and even less of them will care.’
‘I know, but I can’t help worrying. If he ever found me…’
He stood and pulled her into his arms. ‘If he does, I’ll be ready for him. Nobody is going to hurt you again. But I honestly don’t see it being an issue.’
Harper pulled away and nodded uncertainly. ‘You’re right. I’m being silly about it. I’ll crack on in the café and I’m sure it’ll blow over in a couple of days.’
Shay planted a light kiss on her head. ‘Try not to worry. If it helps, think about the money that’s coming to us when the value is confirmed. I bet it will pay for the holiday lets and then some.’
‘You’re assuming a lot there.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘There are no guarantees we will get any money at all – Francesca told us as much.’
‘She said she was quite sure it would be declared treasure and we’d be entitled to a share for finding it. She said the cross alone—’
‘Quite sure isn’t completely sure. And how do we know there isn’t an owner out there? It’s just another reason why all this publicity is bad – you can bet someone out there is going to try to prove they’re the rightful owners, whether they are or not.’
‘They’d have their work cut out to do that. I don’t see how anyone alive today can prove ownership with stuff that old.’
‘If it’s as much money as Francesca seems to think it will be, then they’ll be doing their best to find a way. All I’m saying is, don’t get too attached to it, because it might never be ours.’
‘You worry too much.’
‘One of us has to.’
‘Look…’ Shay went back to his sandwich and picked it up. ‘There’s no point in worrying about what may or may not happen. When it comes, whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Until then, all we can do is carry on.’
Harper was about to answer when Pip dashed in.
‘Harper…’ she panted, ‘there’s some guy on the phone – a researcher or something. Says he’s from the News at Ten! I don’t know what the bloody hell to tell him…’
Harper turned to Shay with a helpless look. ‘You were saying?’
He shrugged, and instead of replying, filled his mouth with a wedge of bacon and bread.
* * *
‘Francesca Logan…’
Cesca moved aside the clutter on her desk to search for a notebook that wasn’t already covered in scribbles as she listened to the call.
‘You’re who?’ She suddenly stopped dead, all thoughts of jotting down notes forgotten as her frown deepened. She listened for a moment longer, her expression darkening.
‘Nothing has been confirmed as yet,’ she said finally. ‘If you think it belongs to you then we’ll have to address that at some point, but we don’t even know what we’re dealing with at the moment so I don’t see how you can have a claim—’
She was silent again as the caller interrupted.
‘We haven’t released any images of the items yet,’ she continued after a moment, ‘so I don’t know how you can be so sure… You can visit by all means, but I don’t see what that will achieve at this stage—’
Another interruption. She was beginning to wonder how much trouble she would get in for putting the phone down on this obnoxious man.
‘You want me to see what?’
A pause as he spoke again to clarify his request.
‘I suppose it might be easier for me to come to you in that case. I should be able to verify informally if it’s the same item, if the image is as clear as you say. But I must stress that this would be on an informal basis and the final decision on the matter would not be mine, whether I recognised anything or not.’
She let out a sigh. This was a complication she really didn’t need. Ending the call, she rummaged in the debris of paperwork on her desk.
‘Duncan?’
Her colleague looked up from his PC at the only other desk occupying the tiny office space. ‘Yep?’
‘Any idea where I might find Silver Hill House?’
* * *
Silver Hill House turned out to be a great deal easier to find than the farm that shared its name, mostly because of its imposing size. But the size was just about all that was imposing about it these days; once it would have been a beautiful colonnaded building that stretched across its grounds, apricot render gleaming in the sun and nestled within verdant gardens, earning the title of stately home in every conceivable way. Now, the render was cracked and grubby, slates missing from the roof, the paint on sash windows peeling and the gardens overgrown. As she drove through gates that had been left open for her arrival, it was hard to believe someone actually still lived here.
Before she climbed out of the car, Cesca checked the satnav again. Yep, this was definitely the right place. She almost wished she’d asked Duncan to come along with her – she was pretty sure she’d watched a horror movie once where a helpless woman was taken hostage and tortured in a sprawling, isolated house that looked very much like this one.
The Summer of Secrets Page 4