by Sharon Booth
"Why did you say friends in that way?" I said, curious. "Don't you like them?"
"Not for me to say," she said, before saying exactly what she thought—namely that they were a bunch of hangers-on, only interested in having a good time and spending money. "Especially her," she finished. "You'll see what I mean when you see her."
"See who?"
"Not for me to say," she said again, leaving me exasperated beyond measure.
Adele was dying to see Mr Rochester. With a little help from me, she'd made him a lovely card, with a drawing of the two of them on the front, and a rather impressive attempt at her signature, plus several large kisses inside. She was very proud of her creation, and couldn't wait to give it to him.
Luckily, she didn't have to wait too long. She'd just finished breakfast when he entered the kitchen, and she practically dived off her chair and raced over to him, clutching the card in her hand.
He was suitably impressed, and seemed genuinely delighted with it, rewarding her with a loving cuddle. He then thanked me for my card, and when he leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek, my face must’ve flamed with colour. I gazed at the ground for a few moments, not knowing how to respond.
Vaguely hearing Mrs F telling him that she'd made Jennifer a cup of tea, if he wanted to take it up to her, I risked a glance up at him, only to find that he was still watching me, even though he was answering Mrs F. Our eyes met, and I swallowed hard, unable to deal with the emotions assaulting me. To my relief, he turned away, and I offered a silent prayer. Oh, thank you, God, that he was attached, completely unavailable, and not my type at all. How fortunate for me.
After a few moments of small talk with Mrs F, he took the cup from her hands and headed upstairs to take the tea to his mother. Once he’d gone, I finally took a deep breath and sank into the chair. It was going to be a long and difficult day. I really did have to get a grip.
The guests would be arriving from lunchtime onwards, so Mrs F was going to be kept busy, finishing up the food preparations. "I'm going to be rushed off my feet today," she said with a sigh. "It'll be nonstop."
"Why didn't Mr Rochester bring in professional caterers?" I said, thinking it was a bit unfair to land everything on her.
She gave me a look that would have slain a dragon. "And what do you think I am? Am I not a professional? Bad enough that that wretched Paolo ordered a cake from outside. As if I couldn't make a perfectly good one myself."
"Sorry, Mrs F," I said hastily. "I just meant, professional party caterers, that's all. It seems like a huge task for someone on their own, like you."
"He offered," she assured me, somewhat mollified. "Of course he did. I told him I wouldn't hear of it. This is my house, my kitchen, and I'm not having a bunch of college graduates come in here and start messing about with my appliances."
I grinned. "Of course not. What was I thinking?" I gave her a sly look. "Will Michael be helping you out, at all?"
Her face flushed. "He may pop in and give me a hand," she said, not looking at me. "Quite good in the kitchen, is Michael. Comes of all those years living alone, I suppose."
"He's not married, then? Not got a girlfriend?"
She tutted. "Divorced. Over ten years ago, now. She was a flighty bit, too. Do you know, in all the years they were married she never ironed his shirts? Not once! Imagine that. I mean, what was the point of getting married if she didn't want to look after him?"
I decided that a discussion on equal rights and the emancipation of women would be lost on her.
Luckily, she changed the subject. "Been thinking about what you said last night, about wishing you'd bought a new dress. Why don't you get yourself into Helmston today? There's some nice little clothes shops down Castle Street."
"Maybe so," I said, "but I doubt Adele would appreciate being dragged around them, while I try to find something that fits."
She shook her head. "No need to take Adele. I've got Susie coming in to take care of her. Rang her this morning. She's glad of the extra money, so it's no bother. You get yourself ready, and Michael will drop you off in town."
"Really?" I smiled at her, feeling a wave of gratitude. I'd been sure I'd left it too late, so it was a lovely surprise. "Won't Michael mind?"
She gave me a knowing look. "He won't mind, at all," she assured me.
Michael was duly summoned and instructed. Luckily, he seemed quite eager to take orders from Mrs F and agreed readily to her plan.
I headed into the hallway, intending to dash up to my room to get my bag, but I stopped dead when I saw Mr Rochester on the landing. He'd obviously just left his mother's room and was starting to head downstairs, his mobile phone clutched to his ear, not even looking where he was going.
"I don't give a fuck," he snapped at some poor unfortunate person on the other end of the line. "Do what it takes. We can't lose York. It's our flagship store, for fuck's sake. If it comes to it, the Chapel Street branch is expendable."
He stopped and gripped the bannister, seemingly unaware that I was standing at the bottom of the stairs. "Listen to me, it's non-negotiable. What's Greg Carter doing? Right, and did he draft in Sarah-Jane? I don't give a shit about his pride. She's the best, and we need her on board. Tell him to get his head out of his arse and do as I say. I want results." He took a deep breath. "I don't need your approval! We have to move with the times, and you'll have to move, too, or move on. Simple as that."
He jammed his phone in his pocket and growled, but started as his gaze landed on me. "Er, business," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Obviously," I replied.
He glared at me, as if I'd done something awful, then muttered, "I apologise for the bad language. I didn't realise you were there."
"I reckon you owe Adele at least another one-pound-fifty," I informed him, keeping my voice light as I passed him. "Maybe you should just set up a direct debit."
I sailed past him, forcing myself not to deliberately brush against him as I did so, because the urge to touch him was overwhelming. I felt a pang of sympathy for him on noticing the tired look in his eyes. Wasn’t like I blamed him for swearing. Clearly running a multi-million-pound empire was exhausting, and stressful. I couldn't have done it, that was for sure, and he hadn't even had a choice.
When Susie arrived to look after Adele, I was ready and waiting, and Michael grabbed his car keys and waved a cheery goodbye to Mrs F.
Helmston was a lovely market town, and as it was Saturday, the market was in full swing when we arrived. Unable to park in the centre of town, due to the stalls, Michael decided to drop me off in Castle Street and come back for me later on. "Just give me a call when you're ready," he said. "It doesn't take long to get here, so no worries."
The town was packed, due to the combination of decent weather and market day. I glanced at the entrance to Helmston Castle, half-tempted to pay my fee and have a wander round its elegant ruins, but I had a job to do, and I was a bit worried that I'd put all my eggs in one basket and my mission would be a dismal failure. If there was nothing in Helmston, there'd be no time to go elsewhere. I really needed to concentrate. Determined, I headed into the first clothes shop of many.
An hour later, I was in despair. I had money put aside for clothes, but that didn't just mean for a dress. I needed new shoes to go with any party dress, work shoes, a jacket. The prices in the clothes shops down Castle Street were too high. They were classy, expensive, not at all like the shops I usually bought my clothes from. I left each one empty-handed and red-faced. Maybe Helmston hadn't been such a good idea, after all.
I had a cup of tea and a toasted teacake in a little teashop near the castle, called, with a startling lack of imagination, Castle Teashop, and thought nostalgically of Newarth and The Singing Kettle and Rhoda, and wondered how she was getting on. I thought that I must write to her and thank her for all her help.
As my mind strayed to the party, my stomach churned over with nerves. I needed to find something to wear. I couldn't think why I'd ima
gined my dress would be okay. It was floor-length, lightweight jersey, with large pale pink roses on a black background, thin straps and a scoop neckline. Tamsin was right. It was hardly suitable.
I thought about the market, then dismissed the idea. A posh party called for a posh dress. I was hardly likely to find any such thing in a local market, was I? On the other hand, beggars couldn't be choosers.
Ten minutes later, I was in the middle of the market place, swamped by shoppers, and almost deafened by the loud and cheerful calls from the stallholders, as they tried to persuade people that their goods were exactly what was needed to improve their lives.
Almost immediately, I spotted a jacket that would be perfect for me, but I didn't dare buy it until I knew how much I would have to pay for a dress. It was stupid, I knew, to worry so much about an outfit for one little event when I'd needed a jacket and shoes for ages, but I couldn't help it. I wanted to feel, if not special, at least adequate for the party. I cast a despairing look around and then, just when I thought it was hopeless, I spotted it.
It hung from a rail just opposite me, and I knew, without even trying it on, that it was too big for me, but it was so lovely, I couldn't stop myself from wandering over to take a closer look. It was a simple sleeveless shift dress, with a high neck and a plain cream back, but the front was embellished with pale blue-green and silver sequins in a seashell design. It was eye-catching without being flashy, and I stared at it, wishing I could grow six inches or so.
"Lovely, isn't it?" The lady manning the stall smiled at me, her hands tucked into her money belt as she jingled coins between her fingers. "Suit you that would, with your shade of hair."
"I think it would," I said, smiling wryly. "Shame I'm not five foot eight instead of five foot two."
"You need the petite version," she said calmly, and rummaged on another rail while I stood there, heart in mouth. There was a petite version? Really?
"Here you go." She handed me a coat-hanger, from which hung the dress, wrapped in a polythene cover. I stared at it, then held it against myself to see how long it was. It came to well above my knee. The stallholder came to stand behind me, holding it in place against my shoulders so I could judge it better. "Reckon you're around a twelve. Am I right?"
"Well, yes," I said, blushing. "Or thereabouts." Thank God I'd resisted Mrs F's attempts to fatten me up. "What size is this?"
"A twelve," she said, giving me a withering look. "Wouldn't have passed you it otherwise, would I?"
"How much?" I asked, thinking it was bound to be out of my range.
"Forty-five quid," the stallholder told me. "And you won't find a better bargain here today, I can promise you that."
I thought she was probably right, and I nodded eagerly. "Done."
Taking hold of the carrier bag containing my precious purchase, I rushed back to the other stall to purchase the jacket I'd seen earlier, then looked around for a shoe stall. I found some low black courts for work, and finally decided on a pair of high-heeled strappy silver sandals, which would match the silver sequins on the fabric of my new dress.
Weak with relief, I took out my phone, about to call Michael, when I had a change of heart. Instead, I jumped on the Moors bus and paid the fare to Hasedale. I would walk from there. It was a lovely day, and the fresh air and sunshine would do me good.
I got off the bus not far from the sweet shop where I'd first met Mr Rochester. I glanced in the window as I passed, thinking of that moment when he'd stood there in that tiny doorway, all dark and brooding, with the bruised skies just visible behind him and the rain pouring down on him, while I'd gaped like a moron. I grinned to myself. No wonder he'd got a bit narked with me and had been so eager to believe that I'd wandered aimlessly in the middle of the road. He must have thought I was completely gormless.
He was a strange man, I thought, as I left the main road and climbed Hase Fell, cutting across the moors towards Moreland Hall. His moods were as changeable as the weather, and he could be grumpy and aloof. Yet, somehow, I suspected that, beneath that harsh exterior, there was kindness, and a gentleness within. I'd seen evidence of his sense of humour, and he'd certainly shown an interest in my life. For some reason, though, he seemed determined to hide that side of himself from me. It was almost as if he was battling against his own good nature. Very odd.
Above me, the skies were blue and cloudless, but the wind blew off the moors, ensuring that I kept cool as I trudged up the hill. In high summer, those same moors would be clothed in rich purple, as the heather burst into flower, but there was no purple in sight at that moment. Instead, a patchwork in muted shades of brown and green spread as far as the eye could see.
As I neared the top of the fell, I stopped and turned, taking in the view of Hasedale, its huddle of stone cottages with their cheerful red roofs, and the little beck that cut through the village, snaking its way to freedom on the moors. I stood there, letting the wind ruffle my hair and cool my skin, blowing away the stresses and anxieties of the day, and closed my eyes against the sunlight for a moment, taking deep breaths of fresh, clean air.
Eventually, I turned and continued my climb, reaching the summit of the fell and striding across the moorland, where sheep grazed all around me. They took no notice of me, no doubt used to seeing walkers at all times of the day. I smiled fondly at the lambs, skipping around and revelling in the sunshine, but never straying too far from their mothers.
In the distance, I spotted a figure, sitting huddled on the ground, and as I grew closer, my heart began to beat faster. I recognised that man. Mr Rochester. What on earth was he doing out there on the moors? Shouldn't he be preparing to greet his guests?
He was hunched over what looked like a writing pad, and seemed to be scribbling something down. As I approached, something must’ve alerted him to my presence, because he hastily shoved the pad in the backpack nestling on the ground beside him, and then sat there, completely still, as I walked towards him.
"I didn't expect to find you here," I said, trying to sound casual. "Are you hiding?" I smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.
"Just refreshing my batteries before the party," he said.
"Oh. Right." I hesitated, then sat down beside him, determined that he wasn't going to fob me off again. "Do they need refreshing?"
He gave me a curious look. "What do you think?"
"I have no idea," I said. "I would have thought you'd be all excited, since your friends are arriving any time now."
"Huh." He shook his head, but didn't elaborate.
I felt that pang of sympathy again. He may have been loaded, but there was a sadness about Ethan Rochester that drew me to him. "Going by that phone conversation this morning, I'd guess you have more important things on your mind than a party," I ventured hesitantly.
"I'm sorry you heard that," he said. "I shouldn't swear so much. Adele's quite right. I am trying, though."
"I know you are. To be honest, by the sound of that phone call, you had every reason to swear."
He shrugged. "We may have to close a store. We have three in London, but realistically, the smallest one should go. It doesn't have the footfall that the others have. Then there's York …" He shook his head. "It was the first Rochester's store. Some members of the board want to close it. I don't. I won't. I think we should renovate it, improve it. It has huge potential. Then," he added with a big sigh, "there's the online thing."
"Online?"
"Times have changed. We need to keep up with them. People like to shop from home these days, and we need to have a strong online presence. Some of the older board members don't approve. They worked for my father, and they think they know best. Want things done the traditional way. We can't afford to just sit back and let things continue to slide. The truth is, I'm going to have to shake things up on a huge scale. New blood. It's not going to be pretty. I guess that's why I've been putting it off for so long."
"I see. If it helps, I think you're right—about the online presence, I mean—and I'm sure
your father would agree. He obviously believed that you were capable of making the right decisions, or he wouldn't have left the business to you. It meant so much to him, he'd have put someone in place to run it for you, otherwise, wouldn't he?"
When he didn't answer, I stood up, thinking he obviously wanted to be alone. "I'll leave you to it."
"You've been to Hasedale?"
I turned to face him, surprised at his sudden question. "Helmston,"
"Helmston?" He looked up at me, his hand shading his eyes. "Have you eaten?"
I really couldn't fathom him out. I wished he'd make up his mind whether he was friend, or foe. "Yes. I had a toasted teacake."
"That's not much. I've got a sandwich in my backpack if you're hungry."
I stared at him blankly. What on earth had got into him? "No thanks, I'm okay."
"I've arranged for Mrs Turner to have Adele tonight," he said unexpectedly. "Susie will be coming back to pick her up later. I thought it would be for the best, given that things may get quite noisy later on. Besides, you should have a night off. It's not fair otherwise."
"That's very thoughtful of you," I said. "Thank you. Although I wouldn't have minded looking after Adele—if the noise woke her up, I mean. She's no trouble, bless her."
He didn't reply. Instead, he turned his head and stared intently toward a ewe who’d wandered close by and was tugging at the grass, while her lamb watched us curiously.
"Swaledales." Mr Rochester nodded at them. "See the black faces and the curved horns? They're from the Dales originally, but there are quite a few of them ‘round here. You'll see some Herdwicks and Cheviots, too, and plenty of Rough Fell sheep—they're quite big and chunky. Hill breeds, strong, hardy. They need to be tough to survive up here, you see? Sometimes they cross them with other breeds to make mules. There are lots of those around."
"Right," I said, puzzled.
"Hill sheep make excellent mothers, you know," he said. "It's one of their most endearing traits."
I watched him, wondering what on earth had got into him. "I didn't know you were an expert on sheep."