The Perfectly Imperfect Woman

by Milly Johnson

  Hilary’s phone rang and she excused herself whilst she answered it.

  From the smile on her face, Marnie didn’t need to ask who was on the other end of it.

  ‘My chauffeur has arrived in the car park,’ she said, replacing the phone in her bag. ‘Thank you for your friendship, Marnie. I always had my sister to talk to and I’ve missed her so much. The day you pulled up beside me in the rain was one of those awful low times when I really needed her. I was so grateful for your company. You’re a good soul, I sensed that from the beginning.’ Hilary picked up her handbag. Even that small action showed off her innate elegance.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ said Marnie. ‘I hope you’re so happy.’

  ‘And I shall miss you too, Marnie. Come down to London and see me. I’ll send you books. We will stay in touch.’

  ‘That’d be lovely.’

  At the door Hilary embraced Marnie. Tightly.

  ‘Break the curse, Marnie. Be the first person to live out a long and happy life in the manor. Are you Lilian’s daughter?’

  ‘No,’ sighed Marnie. ‘Sadly.’

  ‘I’m glad, though,’ said Hilary. ‘Too much bad blood. I think a family curse might be the theme of my next Country Manors.’

  And with that, Hilary walked out of Marnie’s cottage to the car park where an Aston Martin was waiting to zoom her away to her own new life.

  *

  The cottage felt like a hug after Hilary had gone. Something small and snug and tight around her that would keep her safe with its firm walls, low ceilings and uneven floors. Today there had been too much information, too many words, too many secrets blown open. But one stayed closed in her heart, folded like a bud that could never blossom for even Little Raspberries couldn’t protect her from the long, cold shadow of the past. Nor could Emelie’s fortune buy her a passage back in time to change the biggest mistake she ever made.

  Chapter 48

  It was three days before she saw Herv Gunnarsen again. Or anyone. She shut herself away in the cottage, not even bothering to get dressed, because she didn’t know what else to do. The manor was hers to live in, but the notion was unreal. She felt stupidly fragile and lost. As if she were standing at a signpost not knowing which way to go because the lettering had faded too much to guide her.

  It was Fiona Abercrombie who put her back on the road to reason.

  Marnie’s mobile rang and she pressed accept rather than decline by mistake. And then was too polite to hang up.

  ‘Marnieee.’ Fiona Abercrombie’s voice was at the top of the pleasant scale.

  ‘Mrs Abercrombie,’ Marnie replied, with flat politeness.

  ‘I’d like to offer you my congratulations. I hear you’re the new owner of Wychwell.’

  Mrs Abercrombie’s voice had sugar overload. Marnie wasn’t taken in.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m ringing.’

  Marnie could make a stab at a guess if pushed.

  ‘I think I acted rather hastily,’ Mrs Abercrombie went on. ‘I was understandably cross when we last spoke but we can’t find a cheesecake maker in your league. How about we strike a new deal?’

  Marnie could imagine her sitting at her desk, fixed grin on her face, pen hovering over her diary to make a date for negotiations. Well, she could work for it.

  ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘Oh, one to your advantage, of course.’

  ‘Really?’ Interest crept into Marnie’s voice and Mrs Abercrombie leapt on it.

  ‘I can guarantee double the quantity I was taking from you before. And shall we say a pound more per cheesecake? I can stretch to one pound fifty if you are going to insist on driving me to a hard bargain.’ Tinkly laugh.

  ‘Hmm, let me think about that for a moment,’ replied Marnie. She fell silent for a three-second count. ‘No.’

  More glockenspiely-type laughter from Mrs Abercrombie then, as though she thought Marnie must be joking.

  ‘I really mean no,’ said Marnie. ‘I know my cheesecakes are good enough to be marketed as mine, not masquerading as yours so no, I’m not dealing with you. Not after you cut me off like you did. I think Wychwell is the perfect place for a teashop and one that can sell my cheesecakes exclusively.’

  Mrs Abercrombie tried to argue but Marnie disconnected the call mid-plea: ‘Oh, let’s not be too hasty, Marnie, I—’ No – for once, someone needed her more than she needed them. Actually, it had happened quite a bit in recent times. Caitlin, Justin and now Fiona fatarse. All it needed was for Gabrielle to turn up at her doorstep imploring that she needed a sister’s advice.

  Mrs Abercrombie’s call made her think. Marnie had only said it to put the wind up the woman but there was no reason why she shouldn’t sell her own home-made fare in the teashop she had planned for the village. It could turn out to be the cheesecake capital of the North, the world, the universe. If Fiona Abercrombie and her sub-standard offerings could make it in the marketplace, why the hell shouldn’t she have a go?

  And the matter of teashops brought her neatly round to the mystery of Margaret Kytson’s well. With an injection of much-needed energy, Marnie got showered and dressed and set off with a spring in her step towards the vicarage.

  Lionel greeted her warmly and Marnie was a little sad that it had transpired that this wonderful man wasn’t her father after all.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ushering her into his lovely bright kitchen. ‘Can I get you a cup of something?’ There was a newspaper spread over the table.

  ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ Marnie asked.

  ‘Absolutely not. I would rather have your company than read about doom and gloom any day. Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘When are you moving into the manor then?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Marnie, puffing out her cheeks. ‘It all seems too . . . dreamlike.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it very quickly, I’m sure. Lilian used to say that the house liked you,’ and Lionel smiled fondly. ‘She said that it wanted to be loved. And if it were, then it would give it all back.’

  Lilian was bonkers though, she could have said, but she knew exactly what Lionel meant. She’d always felt welcomed there. Possibly by the ghost of the Pink Lady, who she now knew didn’t exist.

  ‘Didn’t Emelie want to live there at all?’

  ‘Not without Lilian. She told me that she went back a couple of times, in the night, hoping to feel Lilian’s presence there . . . but sadly, no.’

  Marnie had known it was a real live person she’d seen that one time when she had run up to the manor hoping to catch the ghost before it walked through a wall. It was Emelie, retracing her familiar steps.

  ‘Lionel, I’ve come to ask you about Margaret Kytson and the well.’

  The vicar sat down next to her and Marnie couldn’t work out if the resulting creak came from him or the chair.

  ‘Well, you can ask, my dear, but I have no new information.’

  ‘You may have, but not know it,’ said Marnie and Lionel’s head moved forward by interested degrees.

  ‘Oh? Do go on.’

  ‘Emelie said words to the effect that Lilian had been looking through the manor ledgers and had found something which made her think she was on to where the well might be, but she didn’t write it down and so she forgot it.’

  ‘As we all do,’ said Lionel. ‘Most annoying.’

  ‘Well, Lilian tried to refresh her memory by going back over them again but she couldn’t find it . . .’ she left an enticing pause ‘. . . I think that might have been because she found something that wasn’t there.’

  Lionel waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, his brows dipped quizzically. ‘I’m not sure I’m with you.’

  ‘Lionel, where is Spring Cottage, Spring House, Spring whatever?’

  Lionel tapped his lip in thought. ‘I . . . I don’t know that there ever was one. I’ve never come across mention of it. Why?’


  ‘There are two derelict houses named after Winter and Summer, and Derek’s house – Autumn Leaves, but no Spring one. I find that a bit odd.’

  The vicar processed this and nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But there isn’t.’

  ‘There must be. Lilian told Emelie that whatever she had found was more or less hiding in plain sight.’

  Lionel considered this for a moment.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said and walked out of the room, reappearing soon after with a blue cardboard folder. He pulled the contents out onto the table.

  ‘This is all the stuff that wasn’t of any use but I didn’t throw it away, just in case. You never know. Here’s the child’s picture we found in one of the cottages.’

  It was a drawing, of no interest so she put it back into the folder. Along with everything else because Lionel was right, it was rubbish.

  ‘We have a complete list of all the cottages – past and present names – but there is definitely no Spring amongst them,’ Lionel reiterated.

  ‘There has to be,’ replied Marnie. She had looked at the layout of the village so many times it had become tattooed on her brain. She went back to the blue folder and took out the drawing again.

  ‘Do you have a present map of the village here, Lionel?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I only have this collection of research rejects.’

  ‘Can I borrow it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lionel and gave a chuckle. ‘It’s yours now anyway.’

  Marnie, a woman on a mission, said a quick goodbye and headed over to Little Raspberries to pick up the key for the manor house.

  She was near to finding Margaret now, she absolutely knew it.

  Chapter 49

  Marnie opened the heavy door and walked into the manor.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in the quiet. ‘Nice to see you again. I’ll be living here soon, if you want me.’

  There was no reply, simply a feeling that she would be welcome when she did. She was getting as batty as the Dearmans. She clapped her hands together.

  ‘Okay, house, you and me are going to find Margaret Kytson. And I won’t take no for an answer, all right? Good.’

  She strode into the library where the ledgers had been stored to make way for Emelie’s funeral tea, and she carried them back through to the dining table. She pulled out all the maps and plans of the village that she had found and unfolded them. Oh, where to start?

  She turned her head upwards and implored, ‘Come on, Margaret, give me a hand here.’ And her heart nearly bounced out of her chest when someone rapped loudly on the window behind her.

  It was Herv. Beautiful, lion-maned Herv with his large blue eyes that seemed to hold the sunshine in them. He pointed to the left and mimed unlocking the door. She was aware of how quickly she moved to do it.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ he said.

  ‘I’m good, how are you?’ she replied. He seemed bigger, wider, his accent sounded stronger, his lips looked even more kissable and the sensation of them upon hers drifted across her mind.

  She saw him smile, cross his arms, shake his head. ‘It’s so strange that you’re here. As Lady of the Manor.’

  ‘Yep, well . . . it’s odd for me too,’ said Marnie, jiggling her head nervously.

  ‘Are you . . . are you moving in? Do you need any help?’

  ‘No, I’m not moving in, but I could do with your help. If you aren’t too busy?’ She asked hopefully.

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  Whatever Emelie might have said about Lady Chatterley and the gardener, somehow being Herv’s boss was a further wedge between them. Marnie picked that up in his only half-jokey tone.

  She told him her theory and waited for his reaction and his eyes narrowed as his brain spun behind them.

  ‘It would make good sense, but there is no Spring House or Spring Hill or Little Springs . . .’

  Hill. Little . . .

  ‘Herv look at this.’ She opened up the file and pulled out the drawing found under the floorboards in Winter House.

  ‘I have seen this before,’ he said. ‘It’s just a child’s picture.’

  ‘Or is it?’ Marnie positioned the three formal maps they had of Wychwell so they were in date order. She put the drawing in first position. ‘Let’s call this Map A, those B, C, D, okay,’ then she tapped the top right-hand corner of A with a heavy finger.

  ‘Here, look how it compares to the other ones. Can you see what I’m seeing?’

  Herv’s eyes journeyed across the four maps. All he could see was that on the proper ones Emelie’s cottage was in the right place and on the drawing, it was much further into the woods.

  ‘Obviously not,’ he answered her, flummoxed.

  ‘Look at the manor and the church and the vicarage and the Wych Arms. The oldest still-standing buildings.’

  Herv did as she asked. ‘They are the same on the maps and the drawing.’

  ‘Yep. These are the only buildings in the village which are in the same position on all four. Exactly the same position. And in the right place. So what if A isn’t a child’s drawing, what if it’s a very accurate map and the earliest one we have of the area.’

  Herv looked again, studied the proper maps, compared them all to the drawing. She was right.

  ‘This isn’t supposed to represent Emelie’s house then?’ He tapped the top corner of map A. ‘This was another house built before Little Apples, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yes, I think it was.’ She excitedly flipped over to a clean page in her A4 notepad and started scribbling. ‘Here’s a timeline. I’m guessing but I feel I’m onto something. One: Margaret Kytson’s house gets burned down and the well is closed up in the mid-sixteenth century. Next, trees grow, time passes. People remember the witch but it’s a long time ago. They have a vague recollection of where she lived and the well she was drowned in but by now she’s probably become more of a myth than a real person. Maybe something to scare naughty kids with. Then maybe later . . . yes . . . I know, so that kids aren’t scared, they make up a story that the witch lived at the other end of the village, and in time that’s what leads people to believe that her house was near Little Raspberries.’ The excitement was adding pace to her speech; she was so close to solving this, she could almost smell the hubble and bubble in Margaret’s cauldron. ‘Anyway, the Lord of the Manor decides that he wants a cottage built near to him. Maybe for a worker or his mother or his bit on the side. It’s close, but still tucked away. So he has the trees cleared and up the building goes.’

  Herv tapped on the drawing, at the misplaced house they’d presumed was Emelie’s on map A. ‘This one?’

  ‘Yep. For the sake of argument, let’s call it Spring Cottage. Named after the fabled natural spring that is in the area somewhere nearby, though no one can remember quite where it is. Next, more cottages are built in the village and whoever names them presumes that ‘Spring Cottage’ is named after the season, so it makes sense to call three buildings after the other seasons.’

  Herv clicked his fingers. ‘I have it,’ he said. ‘I know. Yes, but the water from the spring has been pushed underground and over the years it makes the land unstable.’

  ‘Precisely. Here on B – the second oldest map – this is not Spring Cottage because it has collapsed or been pulled down. The house has been rebuilt nearer to the village sometime after map A was drawn.’ She tapped the top right of maps B, C and D where the small square sat on the lip of the wood. ‘This is Emelie’s Cottage. And it’s been put there because it links to the manor house via a tunnel. It’s no longer needed to smuggle priests out into the woods, but it is rather handy if the Lord wanted to secretly visit a mistress that he’s ensconced there.’

  ‘There’s a tunnel?’ Herv asked.

  ‘I’ll show you where it is later,’ replied Marnie, resolute on keeping her thoughts on track. ‘Emelie presumed the water was running down the hillside and collecting there, and it does, but that’s not what caused all t
he damp she’s been getting. The water was coming up from underneath. It’s the spring. It hasn’t been able to drain into the well so over the years it’s got closer and closer to the village and then it found Emelie’s cellar.’

  ‘She said she didn’t have a cellar.’

  Marnie gave a little laugh. Emelie hadn’t wanted anyone snooping down the stairs, that’s why she had lied.

  ‘We’ve all been thrown off the scent because of that story that Margaret was at the other end of Wychwell. For hundreds of years, we’ve been looking in the wrong place,’ said Marnie, all too aware she’d said we. As if she was as much part of the village as the green, Blackett Stream and the wood.

  Marnie pressed her fingertip into map A again, right on the house that was no longer there and felt a tremor of excitement ripple through her like an electric eel. ‘Margaret Kytson is somewhere here, I know it. Have you got a spare shovel, Herv?’

  Herv rang Johnny Oldroyd for an extra pair of hands and some tools. Johnny turned up with those and Lionel, the Mumfords, the Rootwoods, Derek, David and Pammy Parselow with theirs. Marnie was ankle-deep in mud when they arrived. Another pair of her trainers were absolutely ruined, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Where are you, Margaret?’ she said to the claggy ground. ‘We know you’re here somewhere.’

  Zoe and Cilla turned up carrying two wide planks of wood so that Griff could ride over some of the mud in his wheelchair.

  ‘Watch out,’ David grinned, ‘foreman’s here.’

  ‘Just shut up and get your back into it, you,’ Griff returned.

  ‘We can’t dig up the whole wood,’ said Roger, surveying the expanse with dismay.

  ‘We won’t have to, Roger. She’s here,’ said Marnie, hoping she was right otherwise the estate was going to have to cough up for some chiropractor sessions.