‘Dear Candice’, it began. I grabbed the envelope again. Sure enough, it was addressed to ‘Ms C. Nightingale’, and I could just about make out enough of the address to know it had been sent care of my parents’ home. Of course, everyone I’d ever met in the States knew me as Candice. But … who’d sent it? Who, apart from Shane, could possibly have known my parents’ address? And he certainly wouldn’t be writing to me! Come to that, who among my acquaintances in America, would send a photo like this, in an airmail envelope, folded inside a sheet of tiny, cramped writing? Everyone I knew shared photos on WhatsApp or Instagram. Why wouldn’t this person at least have sent it attached to an email? It made no sense to go to all the trouble of an airmail letter, not these days. It was … surely … something only an elderly person would do.
I sat up straight, staring at the illegible script again. That was it, of course – the old-fashioned decor in the room, the carpet, the curtains – Albert had been adopted by someone of my grandparents’ age! I sighed. Despite the frustration of not knowing who they were, and the worry of how they’d got hold of my Loughton address, I did feel better now I’d figured this out. Surely a nice old lady or gentleman would love my darling Albert and look after him well, give him lots of affection and cuddles. An indoor cat was the perfect pet for someone of that age, after all. I tucked the photo under my pillow, together with the letter, and went back downstairs.
‘Everything OK?’ Lauren asked me. ‘You looked a bit upset about that letter.’
‘Oh, no, it’s fine – it was just from my mum,’ I said. ‘She’s sent me some photos of my sister’s kids,’ I lied smoothly. It was worrying how easily the lies came to me these days.
Lauren smiled. ‘That’s nice.’ She looked at me slightly questioningly and I realised the normal thing would have been to show off the photos.
‘Oh, they’re not very good photos,’ I said, turning away. ‘In fact the children both had the chickenpox, that’s why she was showing them to me. They wouldn’t want the pictures shown around. Embarrassing for them – great big spots on their faces. Poor things, eh!’
Lauren nodded. She looked a bit surprised but seemed to accept it. ‘Well, it’s nice that your mum’s been in touch, anyway,’ she said.
I realised she probably thought it was odd that Mum and Dad never called, never wrote to me, hardly ever emailed or texted me. She couldn’t be expected to know what it was like to be the black sheep of the family, the daughter everybody was glad to see the back of, the one who’d never given them anything but grief.
‘Yes,’ I said, trying to ignore the sudden pain in my heart, the certainty that most mothers, in forwarding on an airmail letter to their daughter, would surely at least put in a covering note. Just a few lines. Even just ‘From Mum’ and a couple of kisses would have been nice. ‘She said how much she misses me, of course,’ I lied. ‘I know she’s desperate to have me back. But I prefer it here. I love being here in Crickleford.’
Lauren smiled again and said she was glad I was happy there. But I noticed her giving me the occasional odd little glance over the course of the next couple of days, and once again I wished I could confide in her.
My second week of looking after JoJo the cheeky hamster passed uneventfully, except that I’d had to find an old box to put him in while I cleaned out his cage now that the ball was no good – which rather cut down on his adventures and resulted in lots of squeaks of frustration. He seemed happy to see me every evening, though, but because it was always dark by the time I left, I’d often find myself thinking about the story of hauntings in the house. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and the place didn’t really spook me, as long as I had the lights on. But I did wonder what Billie’s husband would say when I told him, and whether he’d want to risk telling his wife.
Because I had the daytimes free, I spent quite a bit of time helping Lauren in the garden, ignoring her protests that she didn’t expect me to be doing it. I’d never done any gardening before in my life, but the weather was fine and warm and I was enjoying being outside in the fresh air. Under her direction I was learning which were weeds and which were plants, and how to cut the lawn and sprinkle the cuttings on the flowerbeds to mulch down into the soil. One afternoon when I was trimming the edges of the lawn at the same time as trying to maintain a game of hide and seek with Holly, Lauren came out saying I had a visitor. It was Matt, and Holly seemed almost as excited to see him as I was.
‘I’m sorry I sulked, about that ghost story,’ he said, as soon as Holly had finally run off to play on her swing at the end of the garden. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about it since that night – I’ve been really busy covering loads of summer events. But you were absolutely right, of course. If you think the story might upset the lady, you must talk to the husband first and see what he says. When do they come home?’
‘Saturday evening. I’d better go round and see them straight away, otherwise they’ll beat me to it – open the safe and find all the stuff there.’
‘Maybe you should bring it all home with you on Friday night, just in case.’
‘Yes, that makes sense.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you’re not annoyed with me. I do want you to have your chance of a story, but—’
‘I wasn’t annoyed with you,’ he interrupted me. ‘Just frustrated, I suppose. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. How about I make it up to you by taking you for that drive across Dartmoor I promised you? I’m free on Saturday.’
‘Yes, I’d love that,’ I agreed. I was so pleased about being friends with him again that I managed to block out my worries about him being a journalist – for now, anyway. ‘Thanks, I’ll look forward to it.’
Lauren brought out a tray of cold drinks, and the three of us chatted for a while about the possibility of ghostly goings-on at Castle Hill House.
‘Perhaps someone died a violent death there, years ago,’ Lauren suggested.
‘Yes. It’s usually a murder, isn’t it?’ I said, with a little shiver.
‘But the document we found mentioned someone dressed in military uniform, with horrible wounds. Could they have been war injuries?’ Matt suggested.
‘Mm. And they mentioned a little child, crying for her mother.’ I glanced from Lauren to Holly, who’d now gone back to whizzing back and forth on her swing and was singing a happy little song to herself. ‘That was a bit upsetting,’ I added quietly.
‘Yes. But it’s strange that the family who live there now haven’t experienced anything, isn’t it?’ Lauren said thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps they’re not attuned to the supernatural,’ Matt said, with a grin.
‘You don’t believe in it, do you,’ I said. ‘You think it’s all – what? – someone’s overactive imagination?’
‘I wouldn’t say I don’t believe. But I’m sceptical, sure.’ Just then, Romeo came rushing out of one of the bushes, haring across the lawn and jumping up in the air after a butterfly, making us all laugh. ‘Cats are supposed to be linked to the paranormal world, aren’t they?’ he went on, as Romeo, looking offended with us for laughing at him, sat down with his back to us and started washing himself.
‘So they say,’ Lauren said, laughing again. ‘They do have nine lives, after all!’
But I stayed silent, thinking about Albert. It hurt me to admit to myself that I was never going to see him again. I wondered if he even remembered me now. I supposed I should be grateful that I could at least enjoy the company of Lauren’s two cats, to say nothing of all the pets I was looking after now.
For the next couple of days I looked forward eagerly to my day out with Matt, but, sadly, on the Saturday morning I pulled back my bedroom curtains to see the rain pouring down outside.
‘The weather’s broken,’ Lauren said with a sigh. ‘It was too much to hope for sunshine for longer than a week, here in Devon. We’ve had more than enough rain this year already, though.’ She shook her head. ‘Everyone’s getting nervous about the river again.’
‘
What do you mean?’ I asked, staring at the heavy clouds and rain-spattered windows.
‘The part of town nearest the river gets flooded sometimes when there’s been a lot of rain all year. Fortunately it’s been a few years since it’s happened, but it’s always on our minds.’
‘Oh yes – I noticed sandbags by the houses along the riverbank, back in the winter. It must be really worrying for those people.’
‘It is. Fortunately we’re OK over this side, we’re on higher ground of course. But let’s hope it doesn’t happen. Will you still go out for the day, though, Emma? The moor can be really dreary in the rain.’
‘I don’t know. Matt’s supposed to be picking me up in an hour, but perhaps he’ll want to reschedule.’
However, Matt was shocked at the very idea of cancelling the trip.
‘We could wait all year for a dry day,’ he pointed out. ‘Come on, a bit of rain won’t hurt us. It might even clear up by lunchtime.’
‘Ever the optimist,’ I muttered, as I ran from the front door to the car with my anorak over my head.
We headed slowly out of town, the rain beating down on the car windows, the wipers going double time. I wondered how I was going to see any of the scenery through the downpour. But before we’d gone very far the rain eased off a little. We turned onto a tiny narrow lane, passed across a little bridge over a stream and started to climb slowly uphill, and by now there was only a fine drizzle in the air. At first there had been a few cottages beside the lane, but now there was nothing – no habitation whatsoever, just miles and miles of moorland in every direction. Suddenly, there was a shaft of sunlight through the clouds, illuminating everything, making all the greens, yellows and purples of the landscape brighten up as if someone had switched on the lights.
‘Oh, wow,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s so beautiful.’
There was a little lay-by just ahead where someone, perhaps a group of walkers, had parked an old Land Rover, and Matt pulled in behind it. We got out of the car, ignoring the persistent light drizzle, and crossed the road to stare around us.
‘That’s Grey Tor,’ he said, pointing towards a rock formation looming above the moor. ‘And that stack of rocks in the distance – see? – is called the Giant’s Nose. You’ll see why when we get there. It’s right on the top of Tinker Ridge. From there we can head down to Widecombe-in-the-Moor.’
‘Oh, that’s one place I have heard of,’ I said.
‘Yes. It’s a bit touristy, unfortunately, but there’s a nice pub there for lunch.’
‘Sounds good!’ I smiled at him as we shook the rain off our jackets and got back in the car. ‘I knew Dartmoor was beautiful, but seeing it in this light, with the sun shining through the rain – it’s just …’
‘Stunning,’ he finished for me. He put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine. He was watching me as I did up my seatbelt. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said softly.
‘The colours are amazing. The yellow – is that gorse?’
‘Yes. Though we usually call it furze.’ He laughed and added, ‘And I’ve heard some of the old folk call it Dartmoor Custard.’
‘It’s not edible though, is it?’
‘Only for cattle. And the Dartmoor ponies, of course.’ He was still smiling at me. ‘We’re bound to see some of them today.’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard a lot about the ponies, I’d love to see them!’
He turned away to start the car, but still didn’t move off.
‘There’s an old saying about gorse,’ he said without looking back at me. ‘When gorse is out of bloom, kissing’s out of fashion.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
He looked back at me, smiling again. ‘There’s always gorse in bloom,’ he said. ‘Kissing’s never out of fashion.’
I felt a sudden shock of excitement as he leant towards me. The kiss took me completely by surprise – I hadn’t even realised I’d wanted it until it was happening, but within seconds I was melting into it. His hand caressed the back of my neck, his lips were soft and warm, the kiss gentle and lingering. I didn’t want it to stop, but eventually I couldn’t bear the discomfort any more.
‘Ouch!’ I said, pulling away slightly. ‘The handbrake …’
‘Oh, sorry.’ He took a deep breath and looked at me anxiously. ‘I hope I’m not presuming too much?’
‘No, you’re not.’ I leant over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Of course you’re not. I enjoy being with you, Matt. I want us to be …’ I hesitated, and I saw his eyes cloud over.
‘Friends?’ he said. ‘Just friends?’
I sighed. I wanted more than that, of course I did. But how could I begin a relationship with somebody when even our friendship was built on my secrets and lies? I’d never be able to tell him who I really was, not when his livelihood and his future depended on making everything he found out public knowledge. It wasn’t fair.
‘Can we take it slowly?’ I suggested gently. ‘It’s not that I’m not interested. But …’ I searched for a reason that would buy me some time to think how to manage this, without hurting his feelings. ‘I’m getting over a break-up.’
‘Oh yes – you did say you’d come here to get away from an abusive relationship. I should have been more considerate. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’ I smiled. ‘I just don’t want to rush things.’
‘I understand.’ He reached for my hand and squeezed it. ‘No wonder you don’t want to talk about the past.’ He looked into my eyes now, and to be honest all I really wanted to do was collapse into his arms and kiss him again. ‘I’d like us to be more than friends, obviously. But I promise I won’t put any pressure on you, until you’re ready.’
We were both quiet as Matt drove us on across the moor. All I could think about was that kiss, how much I wanted to do it again, how much I wanted to be with him. And how unbelievable it was that I’d let myself have feelings like this for a journalist. I’d never liked them, never trusted them! Back in New York it had felt like Shane and I had had to run in and out of our apartment block, and dive in and out of our cars, almost every day to avoid the paparazzi constantly hanging around, with their cameras and their microphones, trying to get the latest picture, the latest snippet of gossip to twist a supposed story out of – the more salacious, ridiculous and frankly untrue the better. In the end I was scared even to open my mouth when any of them were around, I was so afraid of saying something stupid. I knew these people. They’d do anything for a story. How could I expect Matt to be any different?
We were climbing higher now, and gradually the clouds were lifting, the drizzle giving way to sunshine.
‘You were right about it clearing up by lunchtime,’ I said, to lighten the mood.
‘Ah, well, I’m used to the Devon weather.’
‘Have you always lived in Devon? You haven’t got much of an accent. And – well, your surname’s not very English.’
He was silent for a moment. I glanced at him, wondering if I’d offended him. I was just about to apologise when he responded:
‘I’m half Italian. But I’ve never even been there. And anyway, we don’t all speak like Annie, around here.’
I laughed, but I couldn’t help thinking he’d seemed reluctant to answer. The thought came to me suddenly that perhaps he was hiding something about his past too. In a funny way, that would actually make me feel better.
When we came across a group of Dartmoor ponies grazing in the shelter of one of the huge rocky outcrops, Matt pulled over again and wound down the window.
‘They’re so cute,’ I said. I was surprised by the variety of their colours – brown, cream, black, white. ‘Although to be honest I was expecting to see more of them today.’
‘They’re an endangered species now – only a small number left, compared with the past. They’ve been on Dartmoor for thousands of years. I’m surprised you haven’t seen any before. We do occasionally get one or two wandering into town. They shouldn’t be ha
ndled or approached, though.’
‘No, of course not – they’re wild animals after all,’ I said.
‘Not really. They’re not tame, of course, but they all belong to various people who live on the moor. Every year in September or October they hold drifts, where the ponies are rounded up and herded into fields where they get sorted out by their owners’ brands, and given health checks, to make sure they’re OK for the winter. It’s tough out here on the moor but they’re hardy little ponies.’
‘That’s really interesting.’ I smiled at him. ‘You’re an excellent Dartmoor guide, you know.’
‘At your service, madam,’ he said, starting the car again. ‘Are you ready for lunch now?’
The rest of the day passed quickly. It was easy to feel relaxed and happy in Matt’s company, as long as I stopped thinking about his profession. I’d have liked the day to go on forever. As we finally headed back to Crickleford, I sat in silence, still enchanted by the scenery but struggling with my feelings. Would I ever be able to have a relationship again? Would I always think about Shane and my life in the States, whenever I got close to being with another man? How could I ever leave my past behind?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
That evening, I went back to Castle Hill House, taking the tin box with me in a carrier bag. Billie was just trying to chase the two boys upstairs to bed.
‘They’re tired and overexcited after the flight and everything,’ she said apologetically. ‘I really need to get them settled. Can I leave Carl to sort out your payment? Was everything OK with JoJo?’ she added with her usual anxious look.
‘Yes, absolutely fine,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
I was glad I had an excuse to talk to Carl, her husband, on my own.
‘I didn’t actually just come for my money,’ I explained quietly as soon as Billie and the children were out of earshot. ‘I needed to show you something.’ I pulled the tin box out of the bag and placed it on the table in front of him. From the way he stared at it and looked back up at me blankly, it was obvious he’d never seen it before. ‘I’m afraid everything wasn’t completely fine while you were away. I had to ask a friend of mine to come and help me take up a couple of floorboards,’ I said. ‘JoJo’s hamster ball is broken. I’ve left it in the kitchen for you to see. It doesn’t look like much of a hole, but he managed to get out of it and went down that gap—’ I pointed to the place, and Carl gasped.
Trust Your Heart Page 5