Chapter 18 It was one of those glorious hot summer days that get British people through the long, dark days of winter. The sky was a blinding blue and the garden had a sort of reverent hush about it that demanded you turn your own volume down and just sit and observe the beauty around you. It was too hot to paint. The bedroom had been stifling and Emilia and Jay had simply given up. Now they were lying on a rug under the shade of the cedar tree, one of its glorious branches acting like a massive green parasol above them. Emilia had taken the midnight-blue gown off and was now wearing a white cotton dress of her own. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to wear twentieth-century clothes. The fabric was so light and she almost felt naked wearing it, and she was slightly self-conscious at how pale her arms and legs looked. Jay had told her he loved her skin. He called her his ‘porcelain beauty’ and said that Rossetti would have forsaken all his other muses to paint her. Emilia wasn’t s
Chapter 19 Jay looked pensive. ‘What is it?’ Emilia asked, turning around from the window. ‘It’s done.’ ‘What is?’ ‘The painting.’ ‘Really?’ He looked at her and nodded, a sad smile on his face. ‘Can I see it?’ ‘Of course.’ She left the window where she had been standing for the last hour and a half and walked towards the easel. ‘It’s funny,’ she said with a small laugh, ‘but I’m actually nervous.’ ‘But you’ve seen it before.’ ‘Yes, but that was a while ago now.’ ‘Well, if you’d rather not see it . . .’ Jay said, blocking her way. ‘Silly!’ she said, batting his arm and then pushing him firmly aside before taking a look at the canvas. She tipped her head first one way and then the other. ‘Well?’ Jay said, seemingly impatient for her response. ‘You’ve made me look like . . . like . . .’ ‘An angel?’ ‘I don’t know about that. An angel in the house, perhaps.’ ‘What?’ ‘The angel in the house,’ she said again. ‘It was the Victorian notion of the ideal woman – one who was submissive to the men
Chapter 20 The shock of seeing Tobias standing in the middle of the maze hit Emilia like a physical blow. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I might ask you the same thing.’ They stood staring at each other as if weighing one another’s next move. ‘He’s gone, Emilia.’ ‘What?’ ‘You won’t be seeing him again.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘We had a talk, Jay and I, and let me tell you, he understood me perfectly.’ Emilia looked around in panic, swallowing hard as she wondered whether to call out his name. ‘I made it worth his while,’ Tobias added. ‘I can be very persuasive when I want to be. Or rather, money can be very persuasive.’ ‘You didn’t! I don’t believe you.’ ‘Oh, I did.’ ‘Jay wouldn’t have left. It wasn’t about money.’ ‘It’s always about money. You saw his face when I gave him the cheque for the portrait. He couldn’t believe his luck. Well, you should have seen it when I gave him the one tonight.’ Emilia shook her head. ‘You’re lying. I know you’re lying! We’re in love. Don’t you u
Chapter 21 ‘I think we should protest,’ Erin told Anne Marie one Saturday in May. ‘What about?’ ‘About being locked away in this dungeon all day!’ ‘It’s hardly a dungeon,’ Anne Marie pointed out, looking around the glorious study with its panelled walls and mullioned window. ‘Well, it feels like one to me.’ ‘Maybe you should rethink wanting to work in a museum, then,’ Anne Marie warned her. ‘You’re very likely to end up in some dusty office somewhere.’ ‘But at least I’d be doing something wonderful,’ Erin said. ‘We’re just filing here.’ She had a point, Anne Marie conceded. It didn’t bother her so much, but Erin was obviously raring to get stuck in to some really exciting work. ‘I guess I’d rather be outside today too,’ she went on. ‘It’s such a gorgeous day.’ Anne Marie looked out of the window. Suddenly, everything had taken on that wonderful green of spring. Mac had assured them that the last frost was over and that it would be safe to start planting out. The team were starting work
Chapter 22 Anne Marie sat in her car for a full five minutes before mustering the courage to get out and knock on her mother’s front door. Even after a restless night’s sleep, during which she could think of nothing but that cheque, she still didn’t know what she was going to say or how her mother would react. Would she know anything about it and, even if she did, would she enlighten Anne Marie? There was no way of knowing but there was only one way to find out. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she managed as Janet Lattimore opened the front door with a frown on her face. ‘Was I expecting you?’ she asked. ‘Not exactly.’ ‘Oh. Well, you’d better come in, I suppose.’ Anne Marie followed her through to the kitchen where her mother switched on the kettle and made them both a cup of tea. ‘I’d have got more milk in if I’d known you were coming. I’m running low, you know.’ ‘Sorry.’ Her mother gave a world-weary sigh. ‘What’s all this about anyway?’ Anne Marie swallowed hard. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ ‘What?
Chapter 23 It was Saturday lunchtime, the week after Anne Marie had found the cheque written by her father, when another discovery was made. ‘Anne Marie – come and see what I’ve found,’ Erin cried, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Anne Marie joined her, watching as she removed a white sheet from a painting which had been leaning against the wall of one of the bedrooms. ‘It’s the Victorian portrait.’ ‘You recognise it?’ Erin asked. ‘Cape and I saw this once before.’ Anne Marie bit her lip as Erin gave her a puzzled look. ‘We sneaked into the house when Mrs Beatty was out.’ ‘And you didn’t tell me?’ ‘It was before the group began work here. We were desperate to see inside so came in when we were sure the coast was clear. We didn’t get long before Mrs Beatty returned, but I’ll never forget seeing this.’ ‘So it was hanging up when you last saw it?’ Anne Marie nodded. ‘I noticed it was missing when Mrs Beatty brought us upstairs, but I couldn’t say anything.’ ‘Why do you think she moved
Chapter 24 Anne Marie recognised the car immediately as she pulled up outside her mother’s house. It was Grant’s. She sat there, mystified as to why he’d be there. As if I don’t have enough to deal with, she couldn’t help thinking. She got out of the car, walked up the path and knocked on the door. Her mother answered a moment later. ‘Ah, Anne Marie! How funny you should turn up like this.’ ‘Mum, what’s going on? Why’s Grant here?’ Her mother looked perplexed by this question. ‘He’s your husband. Why shouldn’t he be here talking to his mother-in-law?’ ‘Because we’re getting divorced, Mum. I told you.’ ‘Oh, what nonsense,’ her mother said, swatting a hand in her direction. ‘You just need to sit down and talk things through.’ Anne Marie followed her into the living room in disbelief. ‘Anne Marie!’ Grant said, leaping out of the armchair he’d been sitting in. ‘What are you doing here, Grant?’ ‘Grant’s been explaining it all to me,’ her mother said, ‘and you’ve been letting yourself get wo
Chapter 25 The July sun shone down on the garden at Morton Hall from dawn till dusk, browning the limbs of the gardeners and making everything bloom. The greenhouse and the raised beds were brimming with produce. Everything was pushing, growing and surging towards the sun. The sweet peas, which Matthew and Elliot had planted and nurtured, were scenting the garden, twisting colourfully around their obelisk and providing the group with delicious handfuls to take home each week. And Cape had dug up the first potatoes for them all to share. Mac had made a picnic bench out of some old planks of wood he’d found around the garden and they were all sitting at it having lunch one Saturday when Erin came running across the lawn from the house. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Kathleen asked. Erin could barely contain her excitement. ‘Mrs Beatty’s offered me a job,’ she told them. ‘Full-time curator of the collection here.’ ‘Oh, Erin!’ Dorothy said, getting up to hug her. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’ ‘
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Huge thanks to Nicki Mattey for suggesting the fabulous name ‘Capability’ for my hero. I love it! Thanks also to Mark Starte and Judith Thompson at Saffron Walden’s Tourist Information Centre, and to John Bosworth – writer of Bridge End Garden Creation and Restoration. Thank you to Andrew Sankey who gave a talk to the Nayland Horticultural Society and menti
oned mazes, which gave me the light bulb moment for this novel. And thanks to Sammia, Sophie, Bekah and the team at Lake Union for their enthusiasm and encouragement.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2017 Roy Connelly Victoria Connelly studied English Literature at Worcester University, got married in a medieval castle in the Yorkshire Dales and now lives in rural Suffolk with her artist husband, a young Springer Spaniel and a flock of ex-battery hens. She is the author of two bestselling series, Austen Addicts and The Book Lovers, as well as many other novels and novellas. Her first published novel, Flights of Angels, was made into a film in 2008 by Ziegler Films in Germany. The Runaway Actress was shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Associations Romantic Comedy Novel award. Ms Connelly loves books, films, walking, historic buildings and animals. If she isn’t at her keyboard writing, she can usually be found in her garden either with a trowel in her hand or a hen on her lap. Her website is www.victoriaconnelly.com and readers can follow her on Twitter @VictoriaDarcy and on Instagram @VictoriaConnellyAuthor.
ALSO BY VICTORIA CONNELLY
Love in an English Garden
The Rose Girls
The Book Lovers
Rules for a Successful Book Club
The Secret of You
A Summer to Remember
Wish You Were Here
The Runaway Actress
A Weekend with Mr Darcy
The Perfect Hero
Mr Darcy Forever
Molly’s Millions
Flights of Angels
Irresistible You
Three Graces
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Victoria Connelly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781612187044
ISBN-10: 1612187048
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
To my dear friend, Brent, with love.
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘The past is not dead, it is living in us, and will be alive in the future which we are now helping to make.’
—William Morris
Prologue
She liked to walk around the maze alone – once the housekeeper and the gardener had left for the day. That was when Morton Hall became hers again and she would walk through the panelled corridors, her feet soft and silent on the patterned rugs, passing the rich tapestries depicting Arthurian legends and doomed lovers, and the enormous paintings in jewel-bright colours.
It was her great-great-grandfather who had built Morton Hall in the 1860s with proceeds made from the Industrial Revolution. She’d never thought of it as a particularly attractive house; she’d never been a fan of the Victorian Gothic style. Its interiors were too dark for her liking and, many a time, she’d joked that she was going to whitewash the whole place with a nice cheap emulsion. She wouldn’t, of course, because she knew that she was living in a little piece of history and that it wasn’t hers to change. She was merely a custodian who was passing through, so she endured the dark corners and the oppressively patterned curtains and wallpaper.
But what would become of the house and garden after she died? This problem weighed heavily upon her as her health was deteriorating, but she also realised that she could do pretty much whatever she wanted, couldn’t she? She could hand the whole place over to the local cat rescue if she wished. Just imagine the fun those darling animals would have scratching their claws on the priceless tapestries. Or maybe she could bequeath it to one of those heritage trusts, although she had to admit that the idea didn’t really appeal to her. The house would simply be one of many open to the public. It wouldn’t change anybody’s life or make any real difference, would it? It would simply be yet another national treasure.
She’d had many approaches over the years from people wanting to buy the house or its collection. A Russian had once offered her an eye-wateringly large seven-figure sum and was affronted when it had been turned down. When she’d asked him what he’d do with the collection, he’d said most of the pieces would be kept in a vault. All that beauty and colour shut away where nobody could gaze upon it. She could never agree to such a thing.
Art dealers galore had forged a way to her door too, begging to rehome her Rossettis and Holman Hunts. Each one of them had been sent away empty-handed. She wasn’t selling, it was as simple as that.
She’d had one idea about what to do with the place. She’d been in the maze when she’d had it; she had all her best ideas in the maze. At first, she’d shrugged it off. It would be too complicated, too idealistic. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work.
Or could it?
She took a settling breath, putting all thoughts of wills and other worries to the back of her mind as she walked down the wide staircase with its deep-crimson carpet and ornate balustrades carved from oak. She crossed the hallway towards the enormous front door and let herself out into the garden. It was in the garden she could breathe properly, come alive again, be herself. She never tired of it. In all the long years she’d lived at Morton Hall, she had never been bored by the garden. Or, at least, one small corner of it.
Crossing the herringbone path, her slippered feet sunk into the cool grass and she took a deep breath of evening air. It was late September, and she could smell woodsmoke from the cottages in the village. The nights were drawing in, the year was winding down and everything had that melancholic feel about it. One could no longer pretend it was summer. The warm days were over and there was a chill to the air now that meant long sleeves were necessary.
She entered the maze at the west side. There were two entrances and this was the one she favoured. She could navigate her way through the maze blindfolded if she wanted to. She knew each curve, each false path and how long it would take to get to the centre.
It hadn’t always been that way. As a young girl, she’d been frightened of the long leafy walls, thinking them monstrous. The dead ends had confused her. But, as she’d grown, the maze had become a great refuge. She would often steal into the kitchen and pinch a few biscuits from the tin, sneak a cushion out of the east drawing room, which she knew wouldn’t be missed, and choose a book. Then she would pick one of the sequestered dead ends of the maze in which to hide herself. She would sit there for hours, wondering blithely how she’d ever managed to be scared of the maze for it was her very best friend now.
Hiding there infuriated her family, who would shout her name from every corner of the garden.
‘She’s in that maze again!’ she’d hear them call.
‘Well, I’m not going in after her!’
She’d smile then, knowing she was safe and that she’d be
left undisturbed to read her book.
She didn’t read in the maze any longer. She simply walked in there. It was the only place she felt any love for. It was her green sanctuary, her place to think or to empty her mind.
It was also the place she’d been going to meet her lover all those years ago. Only, he’d never shown.
Chapter 1
There were five bedrooms, a dining room, a sitting room and a study at Garrard House, but Anne Marie didn’t feel comfortable in any of them. The house – modern faux Georgian with large, symmetrical windows and high-ceilinged rooms – was owned by her husband, Grant Keely, and, no matter how hard she tried, she knew it would never feel like home.
There was just one place she’d managed to carve out for herself in their four years of marriage: the tiny bedroom at the far end of the landing. It was the room nobody else wanted and was used for all the bits and bobs of family life like unused exercise equipment, an empty fish tank, a broken record player from the 1980s and bin bags full of old clothes that nobody hated enough to part with. But, in this room, Anne Marie had set up a little workstation – somewhere she could edit in peace and quiet.
She was just about to finish making notes on a chapter from a novel by a favourite client of hers when the alarm on her mobile sounded and her fingers instantly stopped typing even though she’d been mid-sentence. She would continue tomorrow because she mustn’t be late now.
The Heart of the Garden Page 2