Appleby Farm

by Cathy Bramley

  Tom came back on the microphone. ‘And now before we pick up the pace, by special request, we’re going to do an acoustic version of a Take That number. This one’s called “Back For Good”.’

  I sighed heavily as Tom began to sing; I adored that song. But in the absence of someone to dance with I turned away to go and do something useful and bumped straight into Harry.

  My heart lifted at the sight of him and we smiled at each other.

  ‘Hello, drummer boy.’

  ‘You are the soppiest woman I know,’ he teased, wiping away the tears that had just started their descent down my cheeks with his thumb.

  ‘Says the boy who cried at Titanic,’ I scoffed. Technically so had I, but he was a boy and he had been mortified when I’d spotted his tears and told him he should be impervious to the fate of poor Leo. And anyway, Kate had been lying on a massive piece of driftwood, if she’d truly wanted to save him, surely she could have—

  ‘Freya?’ Harry’s voice was serious all of a sudden.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, startled out of my trip down memory lane.

  ‘I requested this song for you. Will you dance with me?’

  Words seemed to desert me so I nodded and then felt a hand in mine: warm and rough, a true farmer’s hand. And my heart began to race as the hand I knew so well squeezed mine. Not once but three times.

  I. Love. You.

  Uncle Arthur’s secret sign. The breath caught in my throat and I stared at him.

  ‘It’s true, Freya,’ he murmured close to my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

  ‘You remembered the secret hand squeeze?’ I asked shakily, as Harry wrapped his arm around my waist. He pulled me close and we began to sway in time to the music.

  The nearness of his body sent a surge of electricity through mine. I looked at our fingers still entwined. I must have been about fourteen when I told him that story. Round about the time I was obsessed with falling in love; I recalled sighing a lot and professing everything to be ‘so romantic’.

  ‘Of course I do.’ His eyes gazed at me with such warmth that it was impossible not to understand their meaning. ‘I remember everything you ever told me.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I murmured, laughing softly. ‘I’m not sure that’s necessarily a good thing. Like what?’

  He puffed out his cheeks, his eyes twinkling with mirth. ‘Like the time you said if you had a baby boy you’d call him Nick after the one in the Backstreet Boys unless you actually married Nick from the Backstreet Boys, in which case you’d call him Howie.’

  I clamped a hand to my mouth and giggled. I’d forgotten that. ‘What else?’

  His eyes locked onto mine as he pressed my hand to his chest. ‘Everything. Every memory of you is in here, etched on my heart.’

  My whole body melted with love. That was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.

  ‘Oh, Harry.’ I caught his other hand in mine. ‘Do you mean,’ I swallowed, hardly daring to believe I was saying the words, ‘do you mean that you love me?’

  His face softened. ‘I’ve loved you all my life,’ he said simply. ‘Freya, will you tell me something?’

  I nodded, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze.

  He inclined his head towards the stage and grinned. ‘Are you back for good?’

  I beamed at him. ‘Yes. I am.’

  He closed his eyes and kissed my forehead. ‘Thank God for that. Now stop talking and let me concentrate on the powerful lyrics of Gary Barlow.’

  I giggled as Harry pulled me in tightly and for another couple of minutes the two of us circled in time with the music, cheeks pressed together. As the song drew to a close he leaned away from me and nodded to the door.

  ‘Come on, let’s go outside. I’ve waited hours to have you to myself.’ His brown eyes twinkled mischievously and I laughed.

  ‘What about the band? Shouldn’t you be playing?’

  ‘They don’t need me for the next one.’

  And hand in hand, trying not to look too obvious, the two of us escaped into the wintry night, closing the big tea room doors behind us.

  ‘It’s freezing,’ I gasped, laughing as our breath billowed out in a cloud between us.

  Harry wrapped his arms round me and rubbed my back to keep me warm.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said, pulling me to the carriage. ‘Jump up.’

  I was almost breathless with nervous excitement as the two of us sank down next to each other under the woollen blankets. There was a gentle twanging of guitars coming from the tea rooms, where the tempo had increased a little, and a louder twanging of my heart vibrating against my ribcage.

  Harry slid an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I reached out a hand and traced a finger along his handsome face.

  ‘I have to say, Harry Graythwaite, you’ve done a fantastic job of hiding your feelings for me.’

  He tilted my chin towards him and stared at me intently. ‘I thought you’d never see me as anything but a friend.’

  ‘Same.’ I smiled shyly. ‘Especially after that disastrous kiss at Willow Farm.’

  He groaned and ran a hand through his already messed-up hair. ‘In all my wildest dreams about you, Freya, I never imagined that when I finally got the chance to kiss you I’d push you away.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘The last summer you were here, when we were both eighteen, I felt like my whole life was planned out for me – uni and then back to the farm – and I felt trapped. You, on the other hand, were free to go wherever you wanted with whomever you wanted. And what I wanted more than anything was to be with you. You broke my heart when you left Lovedale that summer and being a bit of a coward, I didn’t want to risk that happening again.’

  I frowned at him. ‘Harry, I’m so sorry. I knew that something had changed between us, but I had no idea that you felt that way.’

  He shrugged. ‘I know. I was going to tell you how I felt but then you said you wouldn’t be back in Lovedale until you’d seen the world and I remember thinking: That’s that then, she’ll never be back.’

  I nodded slowly, as the memory from that day came trickling back. I’d barely seen him after that conversation, he’d always made an excuse for not meeting up and then I’d left the farm and not seen him again for years.

  ‘But I did come back,’ I said. ‘I came home. And I am so glad I did.’

  He slid his fingers across my face until his hand was cupping the back of my head. We were so close now that I could feel the heat from his body.

  ‘Me too. But even then I didn’t think for one moment that you’d stay,’ he said. ‘I assumed you’d be off again on another adventure. And who could blame you?’

  I shook my head firmly. ‘Not this time,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Harry.’

  He lowered his face to mine. ‘Really?’

  His breath was on my lips and suddenly my body didn’t feel cold any more.

  ‘Really.’

  Across the yard, lights glowed at every window of the old stone farmhouse. A canopy of stars twinkled high above us and we were surrounded by garlands of ivy, ribbon and mistletoe entwined around the carriage. It was the perfect place to fall in love and my heart swooped with happiness.

  I slipped my arms around Harry’s neck and he pulled me on to his lap, all the time holding my gaze.

  Slowly he brushed his lips against mine and the moment seemed to hang in the air between us, as if time was standing still in order for us to savour our first kiss.

  Harry kissed me and I kissed him back, gently at first and then deeper, as his arms tightened around me. I felt my body melt against his, no longer certain where I ended and he began.

  His kiss tasted of home and I knew there would never be anywhere else I would rather be than in this man’s arms. Harry was, I thought dreamily, my perfect match.

  Our first kiss lasted for ages, which was absolutely fine by me. When we finally came up for air, Harry looked so pleased with himself
that I laughed with sheer joy.

  ‘I guess that means we’re past the “friends” stage,’ I said, leaning back as far as I could until we both tumbled down on to the velvet cushions.

  ‘Freya Moorcroft,’ said Harry, his voice gruff with desire, ‘I’ve waited ten years for that kiss.’

  And so, I realized, as I pulled him down to kiss him again, had I.

  Paradise

  A long weekend away in March was all we could manage to squeeze in. We were so busy, what with Harry’s fledgling biofuels crops to look after and the start of the wedding season nearly upon us. Besides, neither of us wanted to leave Lizzie and Ross in charge of Willow Farm and Mum and Dad looking after Appleby Farm for much longer than that. But as Harry pointed out, a long weekend still constituted a holiday and as we had had an incredibly wet winter – even by Lake District standards – and he hadn’t left the country for five years, we were both revelling in the Moroccan sunshine and savouring every precious moment together.

  On our second evening we were sitting on our little mosaic-tiled terrace enjoying the soft breeze and the hazy sun, sipping at cold beers. My skin was tingling from so much unaccustomed sun. Somehow, despite using factor-fifty sunblock, I’d managed to burn both my knees and, attractively, one side of my face. Harry, of course, had turned a delicious shade of brown. He was sitting on the other side of the table, head tilted back, snoozing away, his beer resting on his bare chest.

  I clunked my beer bottle on to the patio table decisively, stood up and moved behind his chair, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  ‘Are you tired?’ I asked.

  He opened one eye, raised an eyebrow seductively and sat up straight. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ My lips twitched at the disappointment on his face as I popped a pen and postcard on his lap.

  ‘That was sneaky,’ he tutted.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ I laughed. ‘We need to send them today or they won’t reach England until after we’re back.’

  For a few minutes we sat in silence while we penned our postcards home. Correction – I was silent, Harry alternated between whistling under his breath, umming and ahhing, and complaining that he hadn’t sent a postcard to his parents since he left school.

  As soon as mine was finished, I laid it on the table triumphantly and picked up my beer.

  ‘I’m done.’

  Harry was still deep in concentration, pen poised.

  ‘Come on, Graythwaite, what are you writing – War and Peace?’ I teased.

  Not that I minded; he looked completely gorgeous in his swimming shorts and I was more than happy to sit and look at him unobserved.

  He tossed his postcard on to the table, took a long swig of his beer, shielding his eyes from the sun as he grinned at me. ‘Done.’

  ‘Can I read it?’ I asked, interested to see what he’d said about me to my prospective in-laws.

  He lifted a shoulder lazily, which I took as a yes, so I reached out and pulled it close enough to read and laughed as he murmured ‘nosy’ under his breath.

  ‘Oh,’ I said inadequately, brushing a stray tear from my face.

  Harry stood up and leaned over me. He planted a soft kiss on my lips.

  ‘Will that do?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Harry Graythwaite,’ I smiled, as he scooped me up and carried me into our room, ‘that’s absolutely perfect.’

  The Thank Yous

  As always, thanks and much love to my family, Tony, Phoebe and Isabel, for all your cheering and flag-waving during 2014.

  Appleby Farm covers topics that I really had no clue about and so I owe a huge debt of thanks to hordes of people for their kindness and generosity of time. You know how at the end of The Archers, they always mention an Agricultural Consultant? Well, I had lots of them in this book! My sincere thanks to David Prince of Wood Farm, John Hardy of Jericho Farm and Geoff Brown of Bluebell Dairy. And an extra special thanks must go to Charlotte Sharphouse and Joe White from the wonderful Old Hall Farm, a working Victorian farm in the Lake District which inspired the setting for Appleby Farm. Any farming inaccuracies are completely down to me!

  To Gina McLachlan, thank you very much for planning out poor Uncle Arthur’s health issues!

  Thanks to Chris Hanbury for your musical knowledge of cheesy wedding first dances and for coming up with the name for Harry’s band.

  Many thanks to Julie Gregory, who let me cuddle one of her chickens (Mrs Fluffybum to be exact) and who showed me where her hens like to lay eggs. And a second thank you to farmer David Prince, whose egg-eating dog gave me an idea for a storyline!

  Thank you to my agent Hannah Ferguson for your wise words of encouragement throughout the year and for keeping me writing when times were tricky. And editor extraordinaire Harriet Bourton, you clever clogs, you! Without your initial spark of an idea, this book wouldn’t have happened at all!

  As a marketing bod myself, I know how much hard work goes on behind the scenes to make things look effortlessly successful and so I consider myself truly fortunate to work with such an enthusiastic, supportive and passionate team of people at Transworld. Yes, I’m looking at you, Bella Bosworth, Sarah Harwood, September Withers, Laura Swainbank and Helen Gregory. Thank you, lovelies!

  Finally, to some very special people. I am writing this after completing the Appleby Farm cover reveal promotion. Thank you to the wonderful bloggers and reviewers for your constant support and excitement for my books, it is a pleasure to know you: Jill Stratton, Dawn Crooks, Janet Emson, Louise Wykes, Ananda and Marina from @ThisChickReads, Erin McEwan, Jody Hoekstra, JB Johnston, Kim Nash, Sharon Goodwin, Kirsty Maclennon, Catriona Merryweather and Sonya Alford. You ladies are the best!

  Enjoy an extract from another charming modern love story from Cathy Bramley

  A takeaway, TV and tea with two sugars is about as exciting as it gets for thirty-something Sophie Stone. Sophie’s life is safe and predictable, which is just the way she likes it, thank you very much.

  But when a mysterious benefactor leaves her an inheritance, Sophie has to accept that change is afoot. There is one big catch: in order to inherit, Sophie must agree to meet the father she has never seen.

  Saying ‘yes’ means the chance to build her own dream home, but she’ll also have to face the past and hear some uncomfortable truths …

  With interference from an evil boss, warring parents, an unreliable boyfriend and an architect who puts his foot in it every time he opens his mouth, will Sophie be able to build a future on her own terms – and maybe even find love along the way?

  Read on for a sneak peek at the opening chapter!

  Chapter 1

  I woke up on the floor, wedged between the bed and bedside table. My hip bone was bruised, my skin was mottled with cold and I had pins and needles in my arm. Painted across my face was the smug smile of a woman who hadn’t got much sleep the night before. Getting up was a priority; I was freezing and I really didn’t want Marc to wake up and find me down here.

  It took a full thirty seconds of grunting, shuffling, inelegant flailing of limbs and a carpet burn to my right buttock to wriggle free. Not a pretty sight.

  I sighed with pleasure at the slumbering, golden-haired Adonis taking up the entire width of the mattress. He looked so peaceful. He was certainly a deep sleeper; he hadn’t even woken up when he’d pushed me out of the bed.

  Silently, I opened the drawer, took out the card I’d lovingly made for him with my own fair hands and slid it under the pillow. Then I slipped back under the duvet and perched on the edge, savouring the heat from his perfectly honed body. I propped myself up on my elbow and gazed at him.

  It was Valentine’s Day and I had a boyfriend.

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  Last year – and the year before that, come to think of it – I had been single and I’d had to hibernate for a full twenty-four hours until the dreaded day was history and I could stop feeling marginalized by society. In fact, since Jeremy a few years ago – I shuddered at the memor
y of my controlling ex-boyfriend – I hadn’t let anyone get close. But Marc was different.

  He and I had been together for nine months and last night was the first time that he had stayed over. I’d invited him to before now but he had a stall on Sneinton market and usually had to get up for work really early and said he didn’t want to wake me. But last night he’d said he didn’t have to be there until nine, so he might as well stay. How romantic – to choose Valentine’s Day as the first time to wake up next to me!

  Right, let’s get the party started.

  I coughed lightly but there was no response, not a flicker of his golden eyelashes.

  I coughed more sharply and this time he stirred and stretched, threatening my precarious position on the edge of the bed, and I grabbed hold of his arm.

  Oh, those biceps!

  ‘Morning, princess.’ He yawned and gave me an almighty slap on the bottom.

  I knew this was his idea of being affectionate but it was hardly the most romantic wake-up call. I replied with my own delicate yawn, and smiled in what I hoped was a ‘Sleeping Beauty awakened by a True Love’s Kiss’ type manner.

  He picked up his watch, swore under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  I flopped onto my back and pulled the duvet up, enjoying the extra room in the bed. Also enjoying the view of muscles rippling across chest as he pulled his jeans up over firm thighs. What a man!

  Oh no, I was a bit slow on the uptake there, he was getting dressed! That wasn’t first on my agenda of love.

  Marc looked down at me, his face suddenly serious. Oh my giddy aunt! He was working up to something.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Sophie, we need to talk.’

  He sat back down on the bed and reached for my hand. Darting eyes, heavy breathing, serious face … If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was going to propose. Hold on a mo – it was Valentine’s Day, what if …?