She scrubbed away her tears, and hoping against hope, began to rifle through the stack of ledgers on the library table. But she was wasting her time. These records were about wealth and possessions. Sam wracked her brain. She'd seen enough historical dramas to know those who lived "below stairs" never mixed with the family. Not even on paper.
What was it George had said? About the Burton-Porter grooms being Irish? It wasn't about where they were from, Sam realized with a start, it was about what they did. They were grooms! They lived and breathed horses, with even their living quarters over the stables. She should be looking in the tack room, not the library!
There was no time to waste.
Shoving the ledgers to one side, Sam tore through the house and across the courtyard to the stables. Max and Damien were grazing in the paddock, the Weekes had driven into town, and Chas was still in London. She had the place to herself.
Taking a deep breath, Sam slipped through the stable doors. Her nose twitched as soon as she was inside, instinctively telling her she was on the right path. She might forever associate the smell of roses with her Gran, but the comforting scent of leather and saddle soap was all Grampa. With a touch of liniment, she added, smiling to herself as she reached the tack room.
In Chas’ grandfather’s day, the Burton-Porters would have kept a string of thoroughbreds. Which required grooms, trainers and stable boys by the dozen. Not to mention equipment.
And this room, with its orderly collection of bridles, bits and stirrup leathers was at the heart of it all.
As Sam ran her fingers along the sculptured surface of a nearby saddle, thoughts of Chas and the way he'd kissed her here, in the tack room, threatened her resolve. "Go away Chas Porter," she whispered, "at least for now. I have to know who I am."
And once and for all unravel the mystery of the candlestick that had intrigued her since she was a small child.
Sam quickly scanned the room. Tucked away from the everyday business of riding, was an old oak bookcase, wedged in the far corner. Normally, a bookcase like that, with its three glass-covered shelves to keep the dust off its contents, would have been used in a law office, making it perfect for a busy stable. Fingers crossed that the case wasn’t locked, Sam skirted the miscellaneous tack and disused feed pails for a closer look.
A puff of hay-scented dust rose in the air, as she rearranged the stacked boxes, making her sneeze and rub her hands over her face. How many years since any of this had been moved? After pushing aside a wooden box of odds and ends to reach the case, Sam spotted a trophy lying amid the tangle. Curious, she picked it up. It was tarnished and had a dent on its side. And an inscription: Chas Porter, British Horse Society Junior Champion, Show Jumping, 1988. It should be in pride of place, thought Sam, not tossed aside. She sighed for the little boy that was, and laid the trophy carefully back in the box.
Squatting down in front of the bookcase, Sam wiped the murky glass with her shirt tail and peered inside. The bookcase was full of ledgers! Hand shaking, she reached for the tiny brass knob and pulled the glass towards her. When it was level with the top of the shelf, she then slid it back, and like magic, it disappeared inside the cabinet. Quivering with anticipation, she plucked a brown leather ledger from the middle of the row and flicked it open. The spidery handwriting in fading brownish ink had to be over a hundred years old! Half the pages were blank, and the others were full of payments made to the local blacksmith and feed mill. The next six were the same. Sneezing, Sam quickly closed the lid and tried the next shelf down.
At least she was in the right century. The binding was less brittle and the ink less faded. These ledger entries were sporadic and written in several different hands, but the accounts were what she was after. Allowing for the swinging fortunes of the Burton-Porters and two world wars, it looked as though there was a high changeover in people as well as horses. Sam’s pulse raced; she was getting closer.
Running her finger down the column, she saw more Irish surnames than not. George was right about that, she thought, as she passed Doyle and O’Brien and Donnelly…and then Quinn, Patrick. Sam let out a muffled cry. Her grandfather! He’d been right here in this very room! Sam blinked back tears as she saw his weekly wages in the adjacent column. Even allowing for the passage of time, they were a pittance. Whoever had kept these records had had a system. If a man left during the year, a bold stroke was drawn through his name. Patrick Quinn’s name had been crossed and re-crossed in the year he and Gran had emigrated to Canada.
Sam sat back on her heels. His name had been struck from the roster with vehemence. Sam’s stomach clenched a little at the possibilities.
“Keep it calm,” Sam told herself. “A fifty-year-old entry can’t determine your life.” Or could it?
In the distance, Sam heard a car door slam and then John Weekes called to the horses. Sam held her breath. She may have carte blanche around the house, but rooting through the records would be difficult to explain. Steadying herself, Sam set the open ledger on top of the bookcase and whipped out her mobile. With a swish of a finger, she was in camera mode, snapping a series of pictures. Then, after a last lingering look at her grandfather’s name, Sam slipped the phone back inside her pocket and closed the ledger. At least, she thought, reluctantly putting the bookcase to rights, she would always have a record of his history.
As she threaded her way through the tack room, Sam could feel her earlier euphoria rapidly fading as she weighed the pros and cons of sharing what she’d discovered with Chas before she knew the whole story. Her grandfather had been employed here once, and he had left, possibly with some bad feelings based on his heavily crossed-out name in the ledger. Why would any of this matter to hers and Chas’ relationship? Sam paused to let the scents of the stables and Porter Hall envelope her. It mattered because she loved Chas. She couldn’t hide it from herself any longer. She had been taught to always face the truth, and this was a truth she had been so reluctant to acknowledge. Chas was her boss; he had his pick of eligible women; yet he had grown from a neglected boy to the warm and passionate man who set her pulse throbbing and her cheeks glowing just at the sound of his voice. He was domineering, autocratic, infuriatingly cool at times, but so kind and protective when he thought she had been hurt. He trusted her and sought her professional expertise for the emotional morass of cataloguing his inheritance.
She still felt a twinge of anger at the way he had blackmailed her into coming to his home, but there was gratitude as well. His actions had brought her to the source of her own shrouded heritage. Here she was, treading the same paving stones her grandfather had, breathing the same air, and even riding in the same meadows.
Pausing to grab a handful of carrots, Sam thought about her own journey as she walked, from a Toronto childhood filled with joy, to the hustle of the New York auction world and then on to the country her grandparents had left behind. It felt natural to be here, even if she was part interloper, possibly an outcome of Porter Hall’s troubled past.
By the time she’d reached the courtyard, John Weekes was on the far side of the drive heading towards the back of the house, his arms laden with groceries.
Sam glanced towards the paddock.
Max and Damien were lazily nibbling at the grass, but at the sound of her approach, they were at the fence in a shot. “Okay, okay,” she laughed holding a carrot in each hand. The carrots disappeared in a blur of twitching lips and chomping teeth. Sam repeated the process three times. Talk about unconditional love, she thought, as the two chestnuts nuzzled her in appreciation.
“Later,” she cooed to Max. “We’ll take a little ride, shall we?” She rubbed Damien’s strong neck. “No sulking,” she scolded, “you’re too much for me to handle…besides you're already spoken for,” she added squirming under the animal’s baleful reproach. “Don’t worry your big brown eyes, Damien. Chas will be home tonight.”
As if on cue, the two chestnuts perked up their ears. Damien swung his massive head to where the gr
avel driveway wound its way up from the main road. A flash of metal through the trees caught Sam’s attention and set her heart racing. A vehicle was coming up the drive. It was way too early for Chas to be coming home! She wasn’t ready. She needed to absorb what she’d just learned and ride down to see George. Her forehead creasing, Sam peered into the distance. Then relaxed. The engine was wrong and just to prove it, a delivery van emerged from the shadows and continued towards the house.
“Who could that be?” she said aloud.
“That be the courier from Buxton,” said a deep voice at her elbow. Sam yelped and spun around, hand over her heart, to see John Weekes. “Sorry, lass,” he said, “didn’t mean to startle you.”
Sam gave out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t hear you. I was too busy watching the van and spoiling these unruly beasts.”
Damien tossed his head as if to say he deserved her attention.
But Sam swung back to the driveway, holding her hand over her eyes to shield it from the sun. John began to retrace his steps. “Are you expecting anything?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No,” said Sam jogging to catch up. You?”
John shook his head as the van roared to a stop. The uniformed driver jumped out, clipboard in hand. “Afternoon,” he called. He slid back the panel door and removed three large boxes, stacking one atop the other. “Miss Redfern?” he asked approaching Sam.
“Yes?”
He held out his clipboard. “Sign here, please.”
Puzzled, Sam scanned the paperwork. The delivery was definitely for her. She scrawled her signature across the bottom and exchanged the clipboard for the boxes. “Here, let me,” said John Weekes, holding out his arms.
Then his wife appeared and the three of them stood stock still watching the delivery truck zoom back down the driveway. “Oh, look,” said Evelyn breaking the spell as she pointed to the label on the parcels. “They’re from the saddlery near Buxton. Very posh, that is.” She nodded for emphasis.
Sam blinked. Then gaped, then reached for the boxes. They were large, rectangular and identical in size. And suddenly, she knew what they were and who they were from. So must Evelyn, Sam thought as she looked up and saw the housekeeper’s eyes shining with smug pleasure.
Flushing from the attention, Sam headed for the terrace, the Weekes following her like ducklings before Evelyn took charge and shooed her husband along, leaving Sam alone.
Heart thumping, Sam set the boxes on the garden table and slowly lifted the first lid. Inside, beneath the tissue paper was a beautiful pair of tall riding boots made of the most supple brown leather imaginable. She gasped with delight, and then eased the lids off the other two boxes. One held a pair of Wellington boots for mucking out the stalls, and the other contained leather paddock boots. Sam choked back a sob as she pulled them from their tissue and tried each one on in turn. She marveled at their elegance, prancing around the terrace like a modern-day Cinderella. How on earth had the man done it? Not only were the boots incredibly beautiful, they were a perfect fit.
Sam tugged her mobile from her pocket.
She called Chas’ direct line, but no answer. He must have already left.
Which meant, depending on the traffic, he could be back at Porter Hall in less than four hours! Her body burned with longing at the thought of being in Chas’ arms before the afternoon was out. And later, that evening…she glanced at her watch and almost freaked when she saw the time. Half the day was gone. Quickly, Sam gathered her new boots and repacked the boxes.
Thirty minutes later, she was astride Max flying across the meadow. Once Chas was home, it would be impossible for her to slip away to the home farm. And if George couldn't tell her what she needed to know, Sam wasn't sure what she'd do that evening.
She yearned for Chas more than she could say, but she wanted to meet him on equal footing without his childhood angst, her grandparents' hasty departure, or the whereabouts of the last candlestick hanging over their love like a black cloud.
The threads of the past had the power to either bind them together or tear them apart. She knew she had to tell him the truth. Otherwise, whatever was ahead of them in the future wouldn’t be strong and true.
But what exactly was he hiding?
Obviously, debts had had to be paid; the Burton-Porters weren't the first family to sell off their heirlooms when estate taxes were introduced, and they wouldn’t be the last. She’d seen more than enough evidence of that in the last few years.
But what was most peculiar, was that the candlestick collection had been dispersed piecemeal. If it had remained intact, it would have been worth a fortune. Obviously, Chas knew that, but why would the Burton-Porters have allowed it in the first place? Sam was more puzzled than ever.
Maybe after she spoke with George, she’d know what to do.
She saw his dog first. Robbie came racing across the farmyard, barking to announce their visit and intent on inspecting the newcomers, but a loud whistle from the house drew him up short. George appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse. Sam raised her arm and waved, as did he. It was a warm welcome. She quickly dismounted, gave Robbie her hand to sniff, and led Max through the gate, careful to secure it behind them.
“Afternoon.” George greeted her, pulling out his hankie to wipe his hands as he walked towards her. "I was just making me tea. Will you have some?" His weathered eyes fixed on hers hopefully.
"Of course," said Sam. "It would be my pleasure. Besides," she added with a mischievous grin, "I have fresh scones." She reached into the saddlebag and pulled out her parcel, “Evelyn Weekes sent them for you.”
“She looks after me, does Evelyn.”
Leaving Max to nose about the yard with his reins dangling behind him, Sam followed George to the house, ducking her head as she crossed the threshold. It was like stepping back in time. The kitchen was snug and inviting, dominated by the cast-iron stove, the kettle on the boil, and the supper vegetables washed and ready. The stone floor had been swept so clean, it shone.
While George brewed the tea, Sam soaked up her surroundings. The farmhouse was really little more than a cottage, but every nook and cranny oozed history. The great divide from the Hall to this cozy hearth hadn’t changed much, thought Sam. Her Gran would likely have grown up in a home like this. "George..." she began tentatively, "remember I told you my grandfather was Irish..."
"Aye." The old man plucked a plate from the shelf and began to arrange the scones on it. "A groom, weren't he?" He turned to face her.
"He was here,” she blurted. “At Porter Hall." Her eyes searched his frantically, looking for confirmation that she hadn’t dreamt it all.
George set the scones down on the table and drew out a chair opposite. He reached over and cupped Sam’s hand in his. "When I said you had the look of the Irish about you, I had a particular fellow in mind."
"Really?" squeaked Sam.
"You’re real natural like he was with the horses, and your hair’s the right colour,” smiled George, “temper, too, on occasion, I’d imagine.”
“You knew my grandfather?”
“Aye…” said George, “…and your grandmother,” he added softly.
A huge sob burst from the depths of Sam’s very being. At long last, she’d found what she was looking for. She’d been rootless after her grandmother had died. And now here she was sitting in a cottage in Derbyshire across from someone who had known her grandparents when they were young. She mustn’t be afraid of the past or she could lose her future with Chas. She must ask the questions that had plagued her these last few years, before the opportunity was lost.
Silently, George passed her a clean handkerchief, and waited while Sam blew her nose and wiped her wet cheeks. “What was she like?” Sam asked.
“She were lovely,” George said, “kind and gentle, but feisty, too.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “We were at school together until we were old enough to work. Your grandmother, she was a keen one. Found a
place at a neighbouring estate. She were a housemaid at first...”
Sam nodded encouragingly. She mustn’t let George think she was anything but proud of what her grandparents had accomplished, and where they had come from.
“There were a young lady there,” George began, “took a shine to your grandmother from the beginning. Grace eventually became her maid. And went with her mistress when she married.”
“That sounds like something out of a storybook…” faltered Sam.
George harrumphed. “Might have been if Chas’ grandfather hadn’t been the bridegroom.”
“My grandmother was Eugenie Porter’s maid!” Sam half-rose from her chair and then sat back down with a thump. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. “But that means…”
George eyed her shrewdly. “That means,” he repeated carefully, “that she had to be careful.” He wasn’t going to be any more specific, Sam knew. Chas’ grandparents’ marriage hadn’t been a love match; it had been the continuation of the Burton-Porter brand.
“Your grandmother and Eugenie became fast friends in their own way,” said George continuing his tale, “but even Eugenie couldn’t help her when she got in the family way.”
“My grandmother was…” she breathed.
“Aye,” said George. “When Chas’ grandfather found out, there were a terrible row. Paddy had poached on ‘his rights’ by taking up with Grace. The arrogant fool was all set to horsewhip your grandfather, but Paddy weren’t having none of it. He stood up for himself. Knocked Chas’ grandfather out cold.”
Sam’s heart was pounding wildly. “Does Chas know?” she asked.
“Maybe he does, and maybe he don’t.”
“And my grandmother?” Sam asked in a shaky breath.
“It was Eugenie, Chas’ grandmother, who sorted it. Bundled Grace up before the old man came to,” his eyes narrowed, “That candlestick you’re itching to ask me about, that were a wedding gift. Eugenie swore Grace not to ever say where she got it, but it weren’t stolen, if that’s what you been thinking.”
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