Summer at the Little Cottage on the Hill_An utterly uplifting holiday romance to escape with

by Emma Davies

  ‘You're probably right. It's amazing that previous owners never materially changed anything. I mean, it wasn't like it is now – the whole place was pretty rundown – but Seth and Clara have done an amazing job to get the gardens at least looking like they once did. Now we're working on the cottages it won't be long before those too are returned to their former glory. After that, Seth has plans for the rest of the land, and ideally in a few more years it will be a traditional working farm once again.’

  Isobel turned her attention to the second picture, peering at it more closely. ‘You can really see that Joy loved this place,’ she said. ‘Her paintings are so… friendly. And it still feels that way today.’

  ‘I'm glad you think so.’ Trixie smiled. ‘Come on through to the kitchen and I'll get that book for you.’

  Isobel followed her through to a warm airy room, dominated in its centre by a large scrubbed pine table, the surface of which was littered with kitchen equipment.

  ‘Have a seat for a minute, I won't be long.’

  She chose a chair at the far end, where the table was the clearest, but also where several handwritten pages were stacked alongside a pile of notebooks. The papers were covered in large loopy handwriting, and Isobel picked one up, feeling a sudden pang of hunger again as she read the list of ingredients. She recognised it as a dish that Trixie had served one evening.

  ‘That's my very possibly pile,’ remarked Trixie, coming back into the room. ‘Have a look through and see what you think, particularly if there’s anything there that you haven't liked.’ She placed the book she was carrying down on the table. ‘There you go, a little light bedtime reading. Only make sure you have some tissues at the ready, it's a bit of a weepie.’

  Isobel looked up. ‘You mentioned it was all a bit tragic, what happened?’

  Trixie shook her head. ‘Uh-oh, no spoilers,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what was this idea you had?’

  ‘I'm not sure yet… quite possibly nothing, but I will have a read, thank you.’ She picked up another sheet of paper, changing the subject. There were several ideas in her head now, all jostling for attention, but Isobel wanted some time alone with them before she shared what was on her mind. ‘Is this the recipe for that chilled soup we had the other day, only I quite liked that.’

  It was nearly an hour later by the time Isobel got back to the cottage. Trixie’s enthusiasm, not only for food, but seemingly for most things in her life, was infectious, and Isobel could have listened to her for hours. How had she never done this? How had she never mixed with people who could have this effect on her? People who saw life as a thing to be explored and enjoyed, who had dreams and aspirations, but who also managed to achieve these in a balanced way and not with the all-consuming commitment which had enslaved Isobel for her whole life.

  Her computer was still on, and a part of her knew that she should sit down and try to work, but the couple of hours she had already spent that morning trying to do exactly that had already proved it was likely to be a waste of time. Her current mood was utterly bizarre, not at all what she was used to feeling, but something was telling her that now was the perfect time to just go with it. She wandered back into the kitchen and plated up the mushroom tart and some of the salad that Trixie had left. Then, carrying it to the sofa, she picked up the book about Joy’s Acre, and began to read, her eyes widening more with every page.

  It took Isobel a lot less time than she had expected to reach the area of woodland Tom had described. From the gate behind her cottage it had seemed so far in the distance, and yet it took only a matter of minutes before she was there. Perhaps it was the day itself that was skewing her sense of time; it was the first in a very long while that she had not kept to a rigid timetable and had simply gone with the flow of life on the farm. Perhaps even more telling was that, instead of picking up her work again this afternoon as she had originally intended, she had simply stretched out on the settee and carried on reading.

  Trixie had been right; the story of Joy’s Acre was both heart-breaking and heart-warming and, to her surprise, Isobel felt a huge affinity with the artist. Both of them understood the passion behind their art, the driving force to create which took precedence over all else, but which at times seemed to be an affliction rather than a blessed talent. And although Joy had lived during Victorian times, the constraints of society which would have been placed upon Joy during that era felt little different from the confines of Isobel's own life.

  The only difference between them was that Joy had been lucky enough to know the warmth of a loving relationship in her life. Joy had been bipolar, but instead of trying to subdue her, her husband had simply brought her to a place where he could love and care for her, at the same time allowing her the creative freedom she so desperately craved. Isobel could understand why Seth and Maddie had both fallen in love with this place. Apart from the stunning position and scenery, there was something indefinable here, and even after such a short space of time, Isobel could feel it at work. She had come to Joy’s Acre to escape her surroundings, thinking that this was all she needed to be able to work, but the longer she was here the more she realised that all this had provided was a change of scenery. It was not Isobel’s surroundings that had been imprisoning her, but her work itself. It was at once a both liberating and utterly terrifying thought, because without her work, who was she? She would be set adrift, and while that meant she would be free from all the things which had caused her pain in the past, she would also be loosening the ties on the only thing which had ever given her pleasure.

  If she were to ever move forward she would have to find a new way to achieve some balance in her life, and from where she was now it seemed an impossible task… or did it? Standing here, in the middle of the field, where all she could feel was the warmth of the sun on her skin, and all she could hear was the gentle rustle of the breeze and the busy hum of insects, it seemed as if almost anything were possible.

  They were just into the third week of her stay now, which only gave her a little under a month to finish her piece, or more importantly, as she now realised, to start a new one. The piece of music she had been labouring over simply did not work. Technically, it was very difficult, and like a lot of pieces she had played in the past it would showcase her talent, but there were any number of extremely talented violinists out there. In the past, the only thing that had made her special, setting her aside from the competition, had been her age, and that was no longer a factor. The only thing working in her favour right now was her spectacular fall from grace.

  It was much cooler under the shade of the trees and Isobel was grateful for the respite from the heat. The woodland around her was coloured with every shade of green, with just a hint of blue visible through the tops of the trees, and she sat for a moment on a fallen tree trunk recognising the heat of her own thoughts. She took a deep breath and cleared her mind.

  The cloistered atmosphere at home did not allow her any room to think and, perhaps subconsciously, she had known that her decision to leave and come to stay at Joy’s Acre would allow her to do just that. And now that she had finished reading Joy’s story and given herself some space to let it marinate, the seed of an idea planted by Trixie had continued to grow and her thoughts began to tumble faster and faster. There would be much work to be done – it would mean practically starting again from scratch – but simply knowing there was a direction to head in felt like a massive achievement in itself.

  She didn't want to think about the other things she would have to attend to as a result of her decision – those were far more difficult than either writing, or playing music – but unless she got this first aspect right there would be nothing to think about in any case. She would have to worry about them later, but for now her new idea must take priority.

  Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realised she was even thinking about Tom until the rumble of her stomach broke the spell. She had been daydreaming; picturing herself playing to him, him listening intently and joining in, adding new
rhythms and complementing melodies…

  The sudden realisation jolted her and she stood abruptly, thrusting the thoughts away and checking her watch. Her stomach had been absolutely right, it was dinnertime. Even this thought made her smile to herself. She had cut her lunch into tiny pieces before eating it, expecting to have only one or two mouthfuls. Instead, to her surprise, she had devoured the whole savoury tart, shoving forkfuls into her mouth in quick succession. It had been a very long time since she had actually enjoyed her food, and more than that, since she had looked forward to eating a meal. She made her way purposefully back to the cottage.

  Chapter 15

  Tom was about to head out the door when his phone rang. He swore gently under his breath. He’d wanted to be on the road half an hour ago, but it was turning out to be one of those mornings.

  He was just locking his front door, phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, when one word caught his attention.

  ‘I'm sorry, could you repeat that?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I said I'm looking for a violinist.’ The woman’s voice sounded extremely anxious.

  Tom's heart began to beat a little faster. ‘Any particular one?’ he asked, only half joking.

  There was a long pause. ‘Why, how many do you have?’ And then a sigh. ‘Look, it really doesn't matter, as long as they’re competent, and can get here in about an hour and a half.’

  Tom took his phone away from his ear and stared at the caller display, but the number meant nothing to him. He frowned. ‘I'm sorry, I think I must have missed what you said to start with. Who am I talking to?’

  ‘My name is Sally. Sally Edwards. I've been given your number by Harrington Hall – I gather you’re playing for a wedding there in a couple of weeks and they said you might be able to help me.’

  Tom let out the breath he was holding as Sally continued. ‘I'm one-quarter of Four Play… We’re a string quartet who are due to play for Julian and Catherine this afternoon, except our other violinist’s husband has just been involved in an accident and she's had to leave suddenly. Perfectly understandable of course, but it's left us utterly adrift. Unless we can find a stand-in there’s no way we can play, and I'd hate to let anyone down. You guys are a folk band, aren't you? The wedding coordinator at the hall thought you might be able to help…’

  ‘Well, we are a folk band, but no violinists, I'm afraid…’ He began to smile in relief but felt it die on his lips almost immediately as an obvious thought popped into his head. He pushed it one side. ‘Or, rather, no competent violinists. I play, but not at the standard you'd require for a string quartet, and I haven't played classical for years.’

  ‘Oh bugger. I thought it was probably too good to be true.’

  Tom thought quickly. ‘Listen, I can't help you personally, but I do know a few people, you know, friends of friends. How about I make a few calls, and if anyone can help I’ll get them to give you a ring straight away.’

  That was the best way to go about it, he thought. He hadn't made any promises, hadn't even mentioned Isobel's name, and so if she really couldn't bear to do it there would be no harm done. He would simply ask the question – she would either say yes, or no. He'd better get a move on.

  ‘Thank you, I really appreciate it, you may just save our lives yet.’

  Two minutes later Tom was on the road to Joy’s Acre.

  ‘Tom!’ exclaimed Isobel on opening the door to him. ‘Is everything okay?’

  He looked anxious, but then she hadn’t seen him properly for a few days, not since… She dropped her head, not quite able to look him in the eye.

  ‘Everything’s fine, but…’ He paused for a moment. ‘Look, I have a proposition for you,’ he said. ‘And I can either beat about the bush, or just hit you with it right between the eyes.’

  ‘Okay…’ she said slowly, her heart beginning to beat just a tiny bit faster.

  ‘I've just had a phone call from a rather distressed lady who is currently minus a string for her string quartet. Their violinist has just done a bunk and they're due to play at the same wedding venue we’re gigging at soon. She was given my name by the wedding coordinator there, who thought I might be able to help.’

  ‘But I didn’t think you played classical violin?’

  ‘I don’t…’

  She took a step backwards, her hand fluttering up to her throat. ‘Oh, God, Tom, you didn’t!’

  He looked instantly stricken. ‘No, of course not!’ He stepped closer. ‘Isobel, I would never…’ His voice dropped a little. ‘I would never do that to you.’ His blue eyes were dark in the hallway, intent on hers.

  It was all she could do to hold his look. ‘No, I know you wouldn’t,’ she said eventually, her voice soft. ‘But you must have said something. What did you tell her?’

  ‘That you were a world-class violinist and they’d be extraordinarily… No, I just said that I would ask a couple of mates if they knew of anyone. I didn’t make any promises, I swear.’

  They looked at one another for a few moments. Isobel didn’t know what to say. A part of her so desperately wanted to reach out to him, to say something more, but she couldn’t. She had enough to think about right now without even more emotions complicating things. It was just that the way he was looking at her…

  Tom swallowed. ‘So, what do we do now?’

  ‘We?’ she replied.

  He nodded. ‘I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself. Whatever you decide is absolutely fine. Say no, if you don't think you can face it, but if you want to give it a go…’ He tentatively reached out a hand.

  Isobel stared at it as if she had never seen it before, but then lifted her eyes to his. ‘I don't think I can play the violin if you're holding my hand,’ she said.

  Her heart was beating like the clappers, her mouth dry, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t possibly do this. It was too much, too soon…

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘I can give you Sally’s number if you want to have a chat with her,’ he said. ‘That's the woman who called me. I guess she'd be able to answer any questions you have. And if it helps at all I’m pretty sure you’ll be playing as the guests arrive and during the wedding breakfast. I hate to use the term “background noise”, but you know what these things are like; folks are more interested in the food and drink.’ He groaned out loud. ‘What I meant was that there won’t be a huge spotlight shining on you, it won’t be anything like the concerts you’ve been used to.’

  She smiled. Despite the rather large hole Tom had just dug for himself, she did understand what he meant and, in all honesty, it was probably true. Whether that made it any better, she didn’t know. The seconds were clicking by.

  She would have to play again in public some time. She had no choice. It was as inevitable as the passage of time itself. But what would she do if she got there and she couldn’t play? Or was actually sick? Right now, that felt like a very real possibility. She looked up at Tom, silently pleading with him to make up her mind for her; she really didn’t think she could do it by herself.

  His hand stretched forward again, as if he would take her fingers in his. ‘Isobel.’

  There was a huge weight behind that single word. A whole conversation in fact, but as Isobel read the unsaid words of understanding in his eyes she knew that she would never get a better chance to take this leap. She drew in a slow shaky breath.

  ‘Would you honestly come with me?’

  He nodded but remained silent, giving her the time she needed to make up her mind.

  She screwed up her face. ‘I think I’m going to do this,’ she whispered. But then she stood up tall. ‘No, I’m bloody well going to do it,’ she said.

  Tom had never given much thought to the vehicles he drove before. They merely transported him from A to B, and were always chosen for practicality. He had occasionally thought that should he ever find himself with slightly more money on his hands than he needed to survive, that he might buy something from his wish list instead of making do
with whatever was both functional and affordable.

  It was with a huge amount of reluctance, therefore, that he opened the door for Isobel to climb into the front of the van. She really deserved something better. It was bad enough that she was quite obviously terrified of what was to come, without having to travel in his dustbin on wheels. He didn't blame her for hanging onto her violin for grim death.

  He glanced over at her now, but her expression hadn’t altered. He had wondered how best to behave on the journey to the wedding venue. Should he be talkative and animated, hoping that this would distract her from her inner thoughts, or should he be quiet? Respectful of the fact that she might like some time to mentally prepare herself? In the end, Isobel took matters into her own hands.

  As soon as she had settled herself in the cab, and fumbled to secure the seatbelt, she reached for the radio’s tuning button, pausing for a few seconds each time it found a station, listening to what was on offer, and then moving on. After a few moments, she found a station playing folk music, and turned the volume up to such a level that conversation would have been impossible. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, one thumb tapping against the back of the other.

  It was a relief even for Tom when the van drew up outside the rear entrance of Harrington Hall and he could kill the engine. He gave a low whistle. Even the back door of the place was a monument to wealth and fine living. He clambered from the driver’s side to let Isobel out. They had not spoken one word since leaving Joy’s Acre.

  She slithered from the passenger seat, holding her violin aloft as if trying to keep it above water, and then stood, unmoving, on the gravel driveway, save for a slight tremor which buzzed through her like an electric current. Her pale skin had taken on an even more ghostly tone, but she was, still, stunning.