by Gloria Cook
‘Golly, she sounds the complete opposite to me.’
‘She was, poor soul. Every time I called on her after that, Jack or Cathy said she wasn’t available, invariably out in the gardens or resting. I really felt for Jack. I could feel his sorrow and concern for her, and his devotion. Yes, he loved her very much and he was distraught when she died, yet somehow . . . relieved for her, I felt.’
‘Poor Lucinda, sounds like she had run away from something haunting her. Poor Jack too, I can understand why he plays the field now. After being attached to such an ethereal being, it would be hard to settle down with a woman in the normal way.’
‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there, Verity. I know Lucinda sounds fascinating.’ Dorrie had raised her brows purposefully. ‘But I think it would be most inappropriate to pry into her past . . . don’t you?’
‘Absolutely, Aunt Dorrie,’ Verity had replied, but she had meant it rather tongue in cheek.
She had not mentioned Lucinda to Cathy or the Kellands, but she had looked in every downstairs room and the conservatory for Lucinda’s dolls. None were to be found, but there was a photograph of her and Jack, holding hands, among the framed Newton family parade on the piano in the drawing room. Dorrie’s description of Lucinda was spot on. Lucinda was shown in a long white lace dress and pumps with a white ribbon threaded through her black hair. Only as tall as Jack’s upper arm, against which she was leaning. Yes, she had been like a very beautiful child and her most outstanding feature had been her large guarded eyes.
Verity brought herself back to the present, chiding herself for once again using her employer’s time to mull over his private life. After all, contemplating his wife’s life and death and making mysteries out of them was snooping and it was sort of a betrayal to Jack, who had not really needed to give her a job here. She had even searched for Lucinda’s grave, hoping to discover more about her character from its design and inscription. It was ghoulish and downright nosy and Jack did not deserve it. He was a good man and he had been kind to Verity.
Picking up the ledger and pencil in her gloved hands, she added the details of the final book she had taken out of the fifth box she had unpacked, which by its labels had been freighted across the seas from Cyprus. The book was ancient and well worn, as was about a third of the stuff, and Verity assumed Randall Newton had procured these curios out of fascination, perhaps finding interest only in the buying or bartering process. Many of the items had covers she thought of as having come from various animal hides and smelled pungent and she was glad of the gloves – a clean pair were provided for her every day – so she did not have to touch them. The thick tome she was holding was badly scuffed and had practically fallen apart, as was its predecessors, and she wondered if they were a job lot. The book cover was bare of inscription but Verity recognized the content as Arabic fables, and this was how she logged it in, then she laid it down carefully on the appropriate pile and wrote out a ticket for it.
Verity had meant to ask Jack what he intended to do with the stuff. While taking her first morning break, which she had in the kitchen, welcomed by the small staff, Mrs Kelland was able to tell her. ‘Mr Jack is going to sell them. He’s talked about it now and then, meant to get some auction house round to value it all and take it away, but he never did. We’re all glad he’s brought you here instead, Miss Verity. It’s lovely having someone in the house. The three of us work just as hard when Mr Jack is away but it’s not the same. We feel more valuable when we have someone to serve.’
Verity, who before had thrived only on lots of company, enjoyed it here in the quietness of Meadows House and strolling through the gardens and talking to the servants. Away from her old life she had put Julius Urquart and the hurt he had caused her firmly in the past. She wished she could work here forever.
The day wore on and Jack did not come. She finished for the day and said goodbye to Cathy when the maid brought her hat. Directly across from them in the spacious hall was the staircase. Of dark oak and uncarpeted, the stairs went straight up, and the landing divided to right and left and above the closed banisters were the tops of various doors, a very tantalizing sight to Verity. But she must forget the pull of those forbidden doors and break off wondering what might – just might – be secreted behind them.
Seventeen
Finn was cycling to The Orchards on a special mission, one of his own making. He was on a rattling old heap of metal and rust put together from at least four different machines and which he had assembled himself from scraps procured dirt-cheap from Denny Vercoe’s yard. Guy had, inevitably, offered to buy him a new or a second-hand bicycle, but Finn had immediately refused.
‘There’s no need for you to keep up your grand gestures,’ Finn had replied moodily. Guy jumped in too quickly and too often with his generous offers and to Finn it smacked of interfering. ‘I keep giving you our gratitude for all you’ve done, but Mum and I can manage now, can’t you get that into your thick head?’
Having collared Finn outside on the patio where he was building the bicycle, Guy had coloured up as if drenched in crimson paint. ‘Sorry, old boy, sorry again, I know you hate me calling you that. I’m taking away the enjoyment of you doing things for yourself. I can see you’re very happy doing that.’
Wiping an oily hand across his already greasy brow, Finn had muttered, ‘Yes, I do know what I’m doing. Can I have a cigarette?’
‘Not without your mother’s permission,’ Guy had replied, standing back to avoid getting his smart flannel trousers filthy.
‘I’m not a bloody kid!’
‘So you keep trying to prove but talking to me like that, you rude, surly little sod, says that is exactly what you are. And where was the please?’ Guy stalked away.
Finn got up off his knees, taken aback for the moment. Guy had never shown him anger before. ‘Hey, wait, it’s my turn to say sorry, and that was a nice change from all your usual sickening ingratiating stuff.’
Guy swivelled his head round. ‘Did you mean that apology?’
‘Yes, guess so.’ Finn shrugged his broadening shoulders as if he did not really care that much about it. ‘So, can I have a smoke . . . please? I can afford to buy my own. My drawings have brought in a tidy sum and I’ll soon be starting at Petherton and doing a few jobs for Mrs M. I’ll pay you back.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Guy retorted, turning fully round. ‘Finn, I’d like it if you and I got along even if we’ll never be friends. But let me tell you this, I think the world of Fiona, and Eloise too, and as long as Fiona is happy to have me around I’m going to feature in the life here. So can we both try to rub along, at least?’
‘Of course,’ Finn had replied, nonchalant about it. Despite his resort to sarcasm and temperamental brusqueness with Guy he had done a lot of growing up since the move to Merrivale. ‘I’ve got used to having you around. It’s good that Mum knows she has you to rely on. Just lay off all the bloody fussing, eh? Give me some space. I like the independence I’ve gained.’
Guy had scratched the back of his neck, clearly stunned by Finn’s unexpected change of stance. ‘Oh, well, fair enough, we have a deal, Finn. Your mum is proud of how independent you are and, if I may so, I am too. From tomorrow I’ll be spending a few days at Bude. Now my grandmother is a lot better I’m going to take her on a little holiday at Torquay, a place she loves. I won’t spend any time worrying about you all here. Then I’ll be back in time for Eloise’s christening. Finn . . .?’ Guy was reddening rapidly again and nervously licking his bottom lip.
‘What?’ Finn said with mock impatience. ‘Go on, take another stab, but make it your last.’
‘It’s just . . . well, man to man, please don’t take this wrong and please think about it carefully . . . If you ever want to take up your studies I’d be very happy to sponsor you.’ Guy raised his hands to still any protests. ‘I mean that as a friend. I know you don’t intend to go off and leave Eloise and your mum any time soon but it might be something you’d want to do
in the course of time.’
Finn gave small thoughtful nods. ‘Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.’
Now he was freewheeling down Meadow Hill, whistling happily, his eyes shining as bright as the sun, his insides surging with delectable anticipation. He was off to The Orchards and at this time of day Sam and Charlie would be making deliveries to the wholesalers and shops, and Belle should be there alone. Last evening Finn had dropped over to show Sam some of his latest drawings and he had deliberately left his sketchbook there.
He shot across the crossroads with only a cautionary glance either side of him and was upon the entrance to Sunny Corner. Dorrie and Corky appeared on their morning constitutional and the flurry caused by Finn’s foolhardy fleetness swept off Dorrie’s favourite hat. ‘Oh!’
Finn skidded to a halt, leapt off his machine, picked the crochet hat off the top of the hedge and presented it to Dorrie. ‘Sorry, Mrs R, hope I didn’t scare you too much.’
‘You did rather,’ Dorrie scolded him. ‘More to the point, Finn, you nearly knocked poor Corky off his legs.’ She patted Corky to reassure him.
‘Sorry, old chap.’ Finn hunkered down to Corky but the dog snorted in umbrage and tilted his head away. ‘I’ll be more careful in future,’ Finn promised Dorrie.
‘I should think so.’ She smiled. Finn easily brought a smile to cheer her gentle heart; she had seen great strides in his character. ‘Where are you off to as if there’s a fire raging?’
‘Oh, just popping along to The Orchards. I left my sketchbook there. Are you off to write some more poetry? Thank you for the lovely rabbit poem you copied out for Eloise. I’ve illustrated it – I didn’t think you’d mind. I got a frame from the Thrift Niche, and I’ve hung it in her room. She’s now sleeping very well in there by herself,’ he ended, like a proud father. ‘You must take a look at the framed poem.’
‘I will, and of course I don’t mind. I’ve seen for myself that you’re a very accomplished artist. Everyone is impressed by your depictions of the village to put up in the new hall.’
‘Everyone except for the vicar,’ Finn said, then he put on the Reverend Lytton’s breathy voice, apt to be interspersed with watery coughs. ‘He approached me while I was set up with my easel across from the church and said, “Is that the best you can do, boy? Hope you’re not going to portray the tower like that. It isn’t bent, you know.” Miserable old so-and-so, I had the tower as straight as a die.’ It wasn’t what Finn had uttered under his breath at the time. ‘I’ve never seen such an ugly man as him before. He looks like something crossed between a bullfrog and a bulldog. I’m not happy that he’s going to christen Eloise. He might scare her badly.’
‘Don’t worry. He won’t really look at her and he certainly won’t be holding her. He says he has very bad rheumatism in his shoulders; they do creak a lot. I think he’s rather terrified of babies. It’s not surprising, I suppose, as he’s an old bachelor. Well, we’d better get on our way. Corky is getting restless. Now, Finn, more haste, less speed. I don’t want to see you ending up flying over those handlebars and getting a cracked head, or putting some unfortunate in a ditch.’
Dorrie walked off, thinking Finn a most handsome young man and how nice it was to see him smiling so much nowadays.
Finn shot off on his bike wishing he had a grandmother just like Mrs R. Well, he more or less did; he and Eloise had her as a worthy substitute. Dear ladies like her made the world a much better place.
Making short work of the last mile to his quarry, Finn veered off for a roadside thatched-roof, chocolate-box, rustic dwelling, its gleaming white front perfectly graced by criss-cross log fencing covered with rambling roses. This was a wholly enchanting place to Finn, for a queen among women lived here. If Mrs R saw Belle the way Finn did she would dash off a poem that would set the world alight with awe and wonder on love, the romantic and the intimate.
Ringing his tinny sounding bell to announce his arrival, and to bring Belle out from the hot houses if she was in one of them, he walked his bike round to the back and leaned it carefully against the wall. It would be a crime to make a scratch or leave a dirty mark on this paradisiacal home. His heart did joyful somersaults when Belle popped her gorgeous dark head through one of the open windows.
‘Finn! Good morning. You’re a surprise this time of the day. Come along in. Is everything all right?’
Each of her words reached his ears as if drifting on golden threads of welcome and care, and her surprise at seeing him was obviously a welcome one. ‘Everything is fine. I’ve just slipped over because I think I left my sketchbook here and I’ll need it later.’
‘Oh, of course, it’s in a safe place in the sitting room.’
He joined her inside. The room smelled deliciously of hot toast, waiting to be eaten at the end of the table nearest to the range, which was laid with breakfast things for one. ‘I like to get on first thing then take a late breakfast alone when I’ve got time to get my thoughts together. Sit down, Finn.’ Belle took a brightly painted mug off a hook under a shelf and put it on the table. ‘I’ll freshen up the pot and get you a plate and knife. Help yourself to toast and marmalade. I’ve made more than enough for myself.’
‘Wow, thanks a lot, Mrs Belle, it’s very kind of you.’ He always looked for a way to compliment her, then hoping to impress her, said, ‘I rode here on the bike I made myself from bits and pieces. It goes like the wind, so fast in fact I gave dear Mrs R a bit of a fright.’
‘Sam said you were working on a bike,’ Belle said when they were seated. Finn was as close as he could get to her. He took a long secret sniff of her perfume, a gentle whisper of lemony jasmine, which he now loved so much. He had asked her recently what it was called, adding that his mother might like it as a present sometime.
‘It’s called Wings of Love,’ she had replied. ‘Charlie bought it for me on our fifth anniversary and I’ve worn it ever since. I don’t really think the title is right for a son to give his mother. I’ll always be glad to advise you any time on suitable gifts for Fiona.’
‘That would be brilliant,’ he had replied enthusiastically. He lay in his bed that night picturing a shopping trip into town with Belle, having her all to himself. Standing close to her looking in shop windows, taking coffee with her in a quiet side-street cafe. Then he had taken them to a desert island, with him in just a pair of shorts and Belle in a soft floral sleeveless dress. The sand was warm and golden-white, the sky pale and calm and the sea impossibly blue with balmy cresting surf. In his daydream, he did not waste time in running towards Belle on the shore. They took each other in eager arms and whispering words of love had gently fallen down on a soft blanket on the sand, amid lush green tropical leaves, where they kissed and made love again and again. And there they would stay forever, with Eloise, and watch her grow up. No one else existed.
When he got the chance he would cycle to Wadebridge and find out how much Wings of Love cost then he would save up and buy some to secretly sniff and pretend Belle was with him.
Slowly, he spread marmalade on a slice of toast. ‘This is a treat.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Belle smiled.
Her smile melted his entire insides and he felt light and insubstantial. He smiled back, kept smiling. Today she was in a home-made pale blue blouse with a cardigan casually thrown on top. To Finn, she looked blissfully feminine, sexy and steamy. His eyes trawled down to her decently covered breasts, for a moment only, so the ravenous glint he knew must be there in his eyes would not betray him. In his imagination he had touched and kissed those breasts. He had kissed her lips, her eyes, and the tip of her nose, her neck and shoulders. He had trailed his mouth all over her, even to her forbidden places. He could almost taste her now.
He panicked. He should not be doing this. Another moment and it would be more than his eyes that would betray him. If he offended or disgusted Belle she would never allow him near her again. If she told Charlie, the blasted nuisance who was always winking at her and was far too tactile with
her, even as her husband, Charlie would thump his lights out. And Finn wanted to stay with Belle and just enjoy the experience of being alone with her – he got little chance to be. Trying not to let his hand shake in his ardour he took a gulp of tea. He had to think of something conversational.
‘So the verdict on the two women from the Stores was accidental death?’
‘Yes, a tragedy for both women. Mrs Mitchelmore was most put out, says it quite spoiled the Summer Fair, but that’s an uncharitable way to look at it. I wish you the best of British, Finn, having to poke about in her cellars. Shouldn’t think she’s got much in the way of fine wines or concealed treasures she can send to auction to help her keep up that ugly old place. To get back to the deaths, it’s assumed Delia struggled out of bed for the bathroom. Lorna arrived home, Delia’s footing failed her and she plunged down the stairs, then in a terrible trick of fate her hand or something sent the umbrella stand to crash down on poor Lorna’s head. I feel sorry for Soames Newton. It must have been a dreadful shock to have discovered the bodies of his wife and her cousin slumped at the foot of the stairs.’
‘I shouldn’t think he’ll be too long getting over it,’ Finn said, recalling Delia Newton’s obnoxious manner.
‘Well, he’s certainly got the women flocking round to help him, cleaning and cooking meals. I held the fort in the shop for him on the day of the inquest. I quite enjoyed it. Anyway, you came for your sketchbook. Hope you don’t mind, Finn, but Charlie and I took a peek through it last night. We were very impressed by everything you’ve done, the delightful ones of Eloise surrounded by fairies and cuddly animals, the fairy-tale buildings and scenery. We loved your drawings of scenes from famous books. The Dickensian characters from Great Expectations were easily recognizable. You got bitter old Miss Havisham in her tattered wedding dress exactly how I’ve always pictured her. Have you ever thought of becoming an illustrator for books? I should think you’d do very well in children’s books. Charlie said to suggest to you that you send off a collection of your work and see what happens. There are a few children’s books in Thrift Niche. You could take down the addresses of the publishers from them.’