by Clare Ashton
Poppy frowned. “Not a trio of Powis Castle by any chance?”
“That’s right.”
“The cheeky… He’s had those for months. They were meant to be for sale in the hotel.”
“Well,” said Dai. “I bet he hung them in his house straight away.”
That would explain Alan’s evasion about the paintings and Poppy fumed.
“Not sure you’ll ever get them back,” said Dai. “He’s a slippery bugger.”
Poppy peeped through the railings and down the stairs. “Don’t mention it to Mum please,” she whispered. “Hopefully they’ll slip her mind.”
“Right you are,” Dai said with a nod.
“What else did you find out?”
“Well, I was fuming and I wanted to know how come his restaurants were still trading if the hotel was bankrupt.”
“Yes, I‘d been wondering.”
“Turns out the sneaky bastard’s been running the hotel business under his father’s name, completely separate. Officially, Alan’s the manager at Bryn Mawr Hotel. So, because he was just an employee, he can carry on happy as Larry with his other interests.”
“He must have known it was in trouble though?”
“Well, someone said it’s been in decline ever since he took over as manager, what, ten years ago.”
“Just like Wells,” Poppy muttered.
“Yes,” Dai said in reluctant agreement. “See, Alwyn from rugby thinks Rosalyn was right on the money. He reckons Alan and his mates have been diverting funding, advertising and business away from Wells. It wouldn’t surprise me if they wrote those bad reviews for your café. But the trouble is, they diverted so much attention away from the village no-one bloody visited and his hotel suffered.”
Poppy covered her face and groaned. “I’m so sorry, Dai. I should have listened to Rosalyn and warned you. But I was mad at her.”
For leaving when she was sixteen, and walking straight back with a wiggle of that fantastic bottom, for disparaging everyone and everything Poppy loved, and neglecting to mention the small matter of her sexuality, then seducing Poppy so quickly it gave her whiplash. Poppy gasped, as she always did, at the thought of Rosalyn’s fingers inside her, breasts soft against hers, fingers slipping between her legs and the cry as they came.
“Anyway,” Poppy gulped and removed her hands. She’d broken into a sweat. “I had my reasons. Not all of them justified, in retrospect, I admit.”
And, there was Rosalyn’s oversight of never telling Poppy she’d been in love with her. The woman was infuriating. But the instant Poppy thought it, she softened, as she did more often of late. And she remembered the look on Rosalyn’s face as she held her hand at the fair, her expression keen but gentle, her manner almost shy. Then the glance back as if Poppy were the only woman in the world.
“Oh!” Poppy growled. “That woman!” One day she would fathom her. But that day seemed a long way off.
But perhaps Rosalyn would never speak to her again, if the expression on her face at the bankruptcy news was anything to go by. And that filled Poppy with an emptiness she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Dai looked sheepish. “Now, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”
Poppy raised her eyebrows in question.
“See,” Dai looked very timid indeed, “Rosalyn’s offered us the stables at Rhiw Hall as a venue.”
“Rosalyn?” Poppy breathed.
“Yes.” Dai looked intently at his coffee then flicked a guilty look towards Poppy. “She thinks the main room would hold a hundred and fifty. Of course it’ll be a rustic kind of venue and it needs cleaning and the like, and we’d need to help, but…”
“Rosalyn?” Poppy stared.
It was not uncommon for Poppy’s thoughts to fall into turmoil at the surprise actions of Rosalyn Thorn, but this was a twist further than she could comprehend and she simply went blank.
“Poppy? Poppy love? Are you all right?”
She turned to Dai and opened her mouth. “Rosalyn?”
Dai smiled. “Well I’m glad it’s not just me. Mary said she wasn’t in the least bit surprised. Apparently she’s only heard good things about Rosalyn. Mary’s clearly not been listening to me then. But nothing new there… Poppy?”
A tumble of thoughts swirled through Poppy’s head. Why was Rosalyn offering the stables? What made her think of that? Would she stay for the wedding? So, she must be home for several weeks. Would Poppy see her? Had she forgiven Poppy for being so wrong? If not, why her generosity to Dai – they shared no affection. And another thing, Lillian would need to give her permission to use the stables, and that was another prickly relationship right there. Yes, this surely meant Poppy would see Rosalyn, because Poppy was catering the event. And Rosalyn was bright enough to have realised that in a second flat.
So what on earth was she doing?
“Oh,” said Poppy.
“Well that’s what I thought.” And they stared at the same indistinct point in the middle of the café. “She also says we can use the field opposite for guests who want to camp, as long as we give them warning so they can harvest the hay.”
“Right,” said Poppy.
“Good thing too. With your café and the success of the fair, Wells is becoming a bit of a destination and all the bed and breakfasts are booked up.”
“Hmm.”
Dai smiled. “I see you’re having trouble, love.”
“Sorry,” Poppy said, coming out of her trance. “Yes. It’s very generous of her.”
“Tell me about it,” Dai sighed. “Short notice. Lots of work for her. Guests all over her parents’ estate. I bet she had to sweet talk them over that. Yes, it’s very generous.” He turned and grimaced at Poppy. “This doesn’t mean I have to like her, does it?”
Poppy punched him on the arm and Dai rewarded her with a bellow of laughter.
Chapter 37.
Poppy pinched and flipped her locket between her fingers as she approached the Hall. The necklace had been discarded then draped around her neck what seemed a thousand times this morning. With that and the endless prevarication about dress and hairstyle, it had taken Poppy from sunrise to mid-morning to prepare.
In the end, she looked remarkably similar to how she did most days: light summer dress embellished with blue flowers, her wavy hair escaping its knot, and the beloved pendant nestled between her breasts.
Poppy peeked inside the stables, but Rosalyn wasn’t there yet. She approached the Hall’s front door beneath the rambling rose veranda and knocked lightly, as if she didn’t want to be heard. She placed her hand on her stomach, hoping to quell her fluttering nerves and, although she would face Rosalyn, she hoped David would greet her first to ease the encounter.
The door was wrenched open.
“Lillian.” Poppy stepped back as she came face to stony face with Rosalyn’s mother. They hadn’t exchanged a word since the Christmas when Poppy was sixteen.
Lillian’s features pinched with her habitual contempt, but softened as her eyes met Poppy’s.
“Poppy Jenkins.” She smiled. “You haven’t changed a bit. Of course, you are a grown woman now, but I’d recognise you anywhere.”
Poppy nodded and tried to smile in return.
“You look very well indeed.”
“Thank you,” Poppy replied, startled by the warm welcome.
“Of course, you must be here for Rosalyn.”
“Yes. Sorry, I’m a little early. We were meeting to clear the stables. For the wedding. I should thank you also. For Dai. If he were here, he’d be grateful too. And Mary.” She clamped her lips together in an attempt to stifle the burbles.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll come back later, if she’s not ready.”
“Rosalyn’s at the lodge. She’s clearing that too. I’m sure she’d love for you to join her. Do you need me to show you the way?” Lillian spoke with nothing but cordiality.
“No.” Poppy still wasn’t at ease with the altered Lillian
. “I can remember. Thank you.”
“Of course you can,” Lillian said generously.
Poppy backed away, not sure how to end this surprise encounter.
“Poppy?” Lillian stepped forward. “I’m sorry, I haven’t always been the kindest. David reminded me the other day of my last words to you.” She frowned. “I’m rather ashamed of them now. Do you remember?”
Poppy nodded.
“Yes, I imagined you’d recall.” Her eyes creased with genuine regret. “Please accept my apologies. I’m also very grateful because you’ve brought Rosalyn back to Wells, back to us. You’ve brought our daughter home, Poppy.”
Lillian offered a hand. And although it seemed a cool and business-like way to end their exchange, Poppy knew how intimate a gesture it was for Lillian Thorn. She squeezed the woman’s hand and pursed her lips in acknowledgement.
“I’m glad she’s come home for you.”
“I hope we see more of you, Poppy.” Lillian waved and disappeared inside the hall.
Poppy ambled around the edge of the gardens, up the woodland path she’d walked with David and to the brow that overlooked the neighbouring valley. She peered across the landscape, green and golden in late summer. The meadows swept down to a babbling tributary, with feathery long grasses and splashes of scarlet and ochre late flowers swirling in the breeze. The Victorian wooden hunting lodge sat snug in a copse of Scots pine and faced down the valley, its veranda hidden from view.
Poppy wandered closer, ducking beneath dust sheets which were airing on the lower boughs. The doors through the veranda to the main room were wide open, as were the windows of the single-storey wings. The steps then floorboards creaked beneath her feet with reassuring familiarity.
She peeped inside the sitting room. Two old Chesterfield sofas sat around the wood stove, their leather cracked and soft from decades of guests and years of Rosalyn and Poppy’s play. She stepped onto the red Afghan rug in front of the stove and smiled. She knew every pattern, every motif, including the hand-made imperfections where the geometrical shapes lost their regularity. How many hours she must have spent, lying on her belly staring at the patterns, stroking the short piles of wool, while she and Rosalyn talked about everything and nothing.
“Is it the same?”
Rosalyn was leaning against the doorway into the wing.
“Has it faded or has your memory?”
“No, it’s the same.” Poppy grinned. “It’s a bit dusty and perhaps a bit older. It’s like it’s groggy after a winter’s sleep. But the same. It smells the same,” she said elated. “It must be the wood you burn in the stove.”
Rosalyn smiled. “I’m glad.” She wandered closer and leaned on the back of a Chesterfield. “I can’t believe these things have survived.” And she stroked along the back with fondness. “Is it still your idea of a perfect home?”
“Yes, it is.” Poppy looked around the room. “Give it a lick of white paint and fill those book cases again.” She pointed to the generous wall space devoted to shelves. “And I love the map of old Montgomeryshire and the botanical flower prints.”
She turned then laughed. Two old log baskets sat either side of the stove, one empty but for splinters of wood, the other stocked to the brim with Monopoly, cards, snakes and ladders and Connect Four.
“Perfect,” Poppy said.
“What about your plans for the bedrooms?” Rosalyn said with her head to the side.
“For my four kids?”
“Yes.”
“I’d still get Dad to convert one into a pirate ship with bunks. Perhaps one for me too.”
Rosalyn laughed. “You had it all planned, didn’t you.”
She did. The children would be born one year apart: boy, girl then boy, girl. There would be sledging in winter, paddling in summer, endless sunny days running through the meadow with evening lemonade on the veranda and Madeira cake.
“I was adamant I’d have that family,” Poppy said. “Poor Mum, she was always searching for second-hand dolls to expand my play version.”
“I remember your bed full of creepy dolls.”
“They freaked you out?”
“The one with the missing arm so you jammed in a knife as a prosthesis? And the droopy eyelid doll with an eyeball someone had blackened with biro? Which was actually less unsettling than the psycho-stare new ones. Yes, they creeped me out.”
Poppy giggled. “I loved them.”
“I know.” Rosalyn smiled indulgently.
Poppy gazed at Rosalyn. She had an altogether gentler manner than Poppy had seen before. Her face, beautiful and beguiling when she delivered her barbed insights, was just as attractive with this kindly look.
Poppy realised she was staring. “Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi,” Rosalyn murmured, and her gaze warmed Poppy through. “Would you like to see the rest?”
Poppy nodded and followed her through to the wing. She beamed with delight at the view of the wood-panelled corridor and windows onto the pine copse.
“Oh, this is new.” Poppy peered up a steep set of wooden stairs.
Rosalyn stood beside her and followed her gaze. “Yes, my parents had the attic converted a few years ago with a view to selling, but the sale fell through and nothing came of it. It’s a lovely bedroom. Needs more light, but I think it’s wonderful.” She looked at Poppy, with almost a questioning expression. “Do you like it?”
Poppy climbed up a couple of steps and peeped inside, not wanting to intrude on the unfamiliar space. It was a tasteful and cosy attic room: simple white for decoration in between the wooden beams, a splash of colour from meadow flowers in a vase, an oak bedframe with soft cream duvet, all waiting for a couple to snuggle up inside.
“Yes, I do. A perfect snug for a perfect house.”
Rosalyn smiled, coy.
“And the rest?” Poppy said. “Has it changed?”
“Come and see.” Rosalyn slipped her fingers between Poppy’s and led her along the hall.
Poppy peered into the next room. “Now that’s exactly the same.”
The kitchen overlooked a herb garden between the wings and retained its deep farmhouse sink and heavy wooden table and cupboards. Poppy chuckled when she spotted the old Aga, its cream enamel chipped around the hob.
“Do you remember those green lollipops we made?”
“How could I forget? I think my mother’s words are forever branded into my memory. ‘What kind of moron uses a chisel to clean boiled-sweet mixture off a bloody Aga?’”
Poppy’s fingers tightened around Rosalyn’s, remembering how fearsome those words sounded at the age of eight.
“She hasn’t allowed me cook here since,” Rosalyn laughed. “And this,” she said, leading Poppy to the last rooms.
“I remember how freezing this bathroom was,” Poppy said. “I’m surprised I didn’t get frostbite off the loo seat.”
“I’ll drag it into the twenty-first century with a radiator.” Rosalyn smiled.
They turned into the large bedroom at the end of the wing. Two single beds touched side by side, just as Rosalyn and Poppy used to have them.
“Do they use the lodge much?” Poppy asked.
“The odd guest over the years. But not really. Not since we played here.”
Poppy remembered their sleepovers – rolling between the two single beds, snuggling behind her friend one minute then shuffling away onto her own mattress, always a hand out to feel Rosalyn’s reassuring presence.
Poppy was suddenly filled with sadness. All those years that had passed without Rosalyn in her life. They made her feel desolate and she held on tight to Rosalyn’s hand.
It wasn’t until Rosalyn gently squeezed her in return that Poppy realised how tightly she gripped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she dropped her hand away.
“No need.” Rosalyn said. “No need at all.” She slipped her arm through Poppy’s and led her back along the corridor. “Come and have some tea.” And Poppy wished the warmth of R
osalyn by her side would never leave.
Chapter 38.
They sat on the veranda steps, Poppy embracing her knees and balancing a china teacup on a saucer. Rosalyn reclined against the pillar, her long legs crossed with effortless elegance. She gazed down the valley, her head rested to the side — a most advantageous pose for Poppy’s admiration.
Poppy never tired of studying Rosalyn. Her blonde hair was tousled in wind-swept ribbons today, her face tanned so her ice-blue eyes sparkled more brightly. Her sculpted face and slim neck were perfection and Poppy followed their lines curving over her collar, down the sensuous crease of her chest into the inviting depths.
Poppy looked away and cleared her throat. “So how long are you staying?”
Rosalyn sat up and smiled. “A few months.”
“A few months?” Poppy said surprised.
“Perhaps longer.” Rosalyn regarded her. “It depends.”
Poppy’s insides fluttered and she tried to calm her feelings so she could think. “But your work?”
“I’ve agreed a work share position with Alex, Sam’s old assistant. So I’ll work from home one day a week and in London for two. The rest of the time, I’ll be getting the estate into shape.” She shuffled along the step and sat close to Poppy. “Dad’s not going back to work.”
Poppy frowned. “I thought he was doing well.”
“He is, but his progress has plateaued and he’ll never operate again. He’s taking early retirement, and he’ll be comfortable on that, but this place,” she gestured up the hill to the Hall and estate grounds, “this needs to start paying for itself.”
The feeling of alarm and hope stirred inside Poppy. She stuttered, “What do you intend doing? Are you going to split up the land?”
“Perhaps,” Rosalyn said. “Not our preferred option, but the old workers cottages would make good small homes – a nice project for a local builder. But Mum and I are also planning some holiday flats above the stables, and depending on how it goes we may retain a couple of the cottages for holiday lets too.”
“But that will take months, years.”