by Alyssia Leon
“Don’t fuss, Sophie!” Kathleen shot her eldest daughter a stern glance, before smiling placatingly at Molly. “Now, Molly, I know you and Brian were close this past year, but you weren’t really in touch for a few months and these things die out.”
Molly gritted her teeth. The nerve of the woman to make assumptions. “Did he tell you that? That things had died out for us?”
“Of course not. But to tell the truth, I never could see what the two of you had in common. You were both like apples and oranges really.” Kathleen gave a dismissive shrug. “Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge now. A good looking girl like you won’t be lacking in eligible suitors for long, and it would be churlish of us not to be happy for Brian and Abby.”
“But who is she, exactly?” Sophie asked. “And don’t you think this engagement is a little quick?”
“Abby’s a sweet girl, Sophie, and I want you and your sisters to take good care of her. Her father owns the investment company Brian works for, so we want to show her that we’re not all living in the sticks up here.” Kathleen paused, looking smug. “And I must admit, it is quite a match for our Brian.”
“I knew I heard someone say my name.”
He’d changed his clothes. Gone was the cool city man, and there in the kitchen doorway stood the Brian she knew so well, casual in jeans and a fitted grey t-shirt, his dark hair tousled, and a carefree smile on his face.
Molly simmered in silent anger, not letting her thoughts travel to what might have put him in such a relaxed mood.
Kathleen smiled at her nephew. “Brian, how’s Abby?”
“A bit worn out.” He said with a smirk. He strolled up to the kitchen counter, picked up the champagne bottle and examined it.
Kathleen tutted. “Yes, of course. Quite understandable, the poor dear. The two hour drive from the city can be exhausting. Do you think she might join us once she’s rested?”
“Sure.” He put the bottle down and turned his attention fully on Molly.
Molly stared back, silently daring him to say anything to her.
“Yes. Well.” Kathleen fluttered over and picked up the champagne bottle. “Sophie help me with these glasses.”
With a worried glance in Molly’s direction, Sophie gathered up several champagne flutes, and hurried out of the kitchen after her mother.
Brian’s gaze dropped to roam over Molly’s silk dress. “You look beautiful, Molly. I’m glad you’re here. Coming home wouldn’t be the same without seeing you.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Believe me, Brian, if it hadn’t been for your aunt’s conniving today, I wouldn’t be within a mile shot of you.”
“She must have thought it would be easier on Abby to meet you here.” A small smile touched his lips. “Saves on gossip.”
“Easier on Abby? What about me, Brian? Or did I never matter?”
“You’ll always matter, Molly.” He took a step towards her.
The hungry look in his dark eyes threw her. “H–how can you still say that?”
He frowned then, looking thrown off balance for a moment. “Look, what we had… there was nothing here for me.”
“I’m here, Brian. I’ve always been here for you.”
“That’s just it, you’re here for your Nan, and she hates my guts. You’re here for Barrowdene, and that damn house isn’t even yours.” He shook his head, his lips curling in disdain. “It was never about me, was it? You’ve got your life laid out, and my role was to play happy families here in Appleby with you, no matter what I wanted.”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “But you were happy here. Appleby is your home. Everyone here dotes on you.”
“What use is that to me? I’m bigger than this place. I’m not ready to shut myself off from what the world can give. Look at you, you’re twenty-five and you’re stuck here acting like you’re fifty, for chrissake. It’s boring, Molly.”
Mortified heat burned her cheeks, and she blinked back sudden tears. “And Abby is the excitement you want?”
“You wouldn’t understand. It’s not about washed-out summer fairs out there. Out there, it’s throbbing with life, and it belongs to those who seize opportunity with both hands.”
“Do you love her, Brian?”
“Sure I do.” A ghost of a smirk hovered over his lips.
She glared. “Oh, I see. Like you loved me? Sounds to me like you’re just seizing a new opportunity.”
“Abby’s perfect for me,” he bit out. “I’m going places, and I need someone who can keep up with that.”
“You disgust me. Love isn’t a business deal, Brian. I may be boring, but I loved you once, and—”
“Love! And did you love me enough to stay with me? Leave your precious Barrowdene, your Nan?”
She stared at him, lost for words. Was he right? He’d left and she’d wanted him to come back, but why hadn’t she tried harder to be with him?
His laughter was mocking. “I thought not.”
“You never asked,” she whispered.
“I already knew your answer.” Reaching out, he cupped her cheek and looked deep into her eyes. “I loved you, Molly, but I wonder if you ever truly loved me?”
Always, she wanted to say, but the word stuck in her throat. Had it actually been her fault? Could she have tried harder for them? If only she hadn’t stepped back…
The accusation in his eyes burned into her, and in a silent plea for understanding, she covered his hand with hers and pressed her cheek into his palm, breathing in his warm, clean citrus scent.
A light sparked in his eyes, and his gaze dropped to her lips.
Her breath faltering, she stared up at him, unable to move as reality mingled with memory and she was transported back to a time when there had only ever been the two of them together.
Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over hers. A gentle touch. And her eyelids fluttered close on a small sigh of relief.
But all of a sudden, his seeking lips demanded more, and his hands spanned her waist, pulling her into the hard heat of his groin.
Her slumbering mind jerked awake and she wrenched her mouth from his. “No! Oh god. Don’t!” Hands, arms and elbows shoving against his chest she yanked free from his hold.
“What the hell?” Brian stared at her in disbelief, his face flushed.
Cold shame drained the blood from her cheeks, leaving her trembling. She raised a hand to her lips. “I’m sorry. I can’t…” With a shake of her head she spun away, and yanking the back door open, ran out into the sharp evening sunlight.
2
Molly slowed her pace only after putting several yards between herself and the vicarage. Appleby’s wide Main Street with it’s shops and pub lay before her, but it was riddled with small-talk and well-wishers on this sunny evening.
Without breaking stride, she stepped into a narrow overhung lane, going from hot to cool in a blink as her sweat-glazed skin dried in the sudden welcome shade.
St Mary’s Lane, named after the tall parish church that stood further along at the end, was empty and quiet, with only the tweets of birds preparing for their evening nests sounding in the tree branches overhead. And occasionally, the smokey smell of a back-garden barbecue rose from beyond the Lane’s ancient stone wall as she passed.
In that calm, she slowly unwound, and the stew of emotion swirling inside her settled into guilt.
That kiss. What had possessed her?
Brian was with Abby now, and she had to accept that.
But… did he even love Abby?
She shook her head to clear it. None of her business. And it didn’t matter why he’d kissed her, she needed to keep away from him, needed to keep her heart safe.
The narrow lane opened up as the soaring, red brick bell-tower of St Mary’s Church loomed into view. Beyond the church orchard, she glimpsed the headstones in the graveyard, mostly worn-grey, patched and aged with green moss, but some were newer, gleaming white. Her grandfather’s was one of those. They’d buried him eighteen months
ago in the same spot as the ashes of her parents. What she wouldn’t give to hear his soothing voice once more. Quickening her pace past the church, she crossed the curving main road.
Set a short distance back from the road and half-hidden behind two tall silver birch trees, stood the white stone gate-pillars marking the entrance to Barrowdene’s driveway. Their seven-foot-tall wrought iron gates were wide open on either side of the driveway, a welcome invitation for all and sundry to enter. She’d never seen those gates closed. They must be at least a hundred years old. Did they even close anymore?
Their groundsman’s small whitewashed gatehouse with it’s grey slate roof and never used squat grey chimney stood to one side of the gates. She hurried on down the long driveway, flanked on either side by rows of spreading oaks and beech trees, and ahead of her, the imposing Georgian house, with its white front and rows of panelled windows, stood proud against a backdrop of sweeping greenery and clear blue sky.
Relief warmed her. Barrowdene might not be hers, but it was home.
She quickly made her way around the back of the main house to where the housekeeper’s cottage stood, grateful that she hadn’t seen a soul so far. At close to seven o’ clock in the evening, the large estate seemed deserted.
Rose Cottage, named after the plum-size pink and red roses that climbed up its white walls, almost reaching the thatched roof, was a welcome sight. A thin plume of smoke rose from its chimney, reaching out into the cloudless, blue August sky. It looked like Nan was cooking something.
And sure enough, the warm boxy hallway with its buttercream walls and striped yellow and orange carpet, was filled with the rich savoury scent of herb-cooked meat when Molly entered.
The kitchen was straight ahead, but avoiding it, she bounded up the wooden staircase and sped to her bedroom, one of two in the tiny cottage, and just large enough for her single bed, wardrobe, a dressing table and a chair.
Closing the door, she leaned back against it, letting her racing heart calm down.
This was home, and here she wasn’t lost. She belonged.
She kicked off her shoes and sank down on to the pale oak floor, stretching her legs out before her over the thick-pile wool rug that covered most of the square room. Muted lavender walls and misty-blue wooden furniture surrounded her. She’d chosen these colours as a child and helped her grandfather paint her room. This was who she was, but it wasn’t what Brian wanted.
Surging to her feet with renewed anger, she unzipped the turquoise dress, and not caring if it ripped or not, dragged it off her body and threw it to the back of the wardrobe. It could stay there and rot. She never wanted to see it again.
She pulled on a white cotton sundress patterned with scattered red roses, and stood regarding her rather ordinary self in the long mirror beside the dressing table. Too short. Too slim. Too pale. She was no match for Abby and she never would be. Tears threatened, but a small part of her refused to cave and she pushed her chin up.
So what? So what if she was boring? This was who she was and she was going to be happy with it. She’d had it with relationships. She would never put her heart out there to be trampled on ever again.
The cottage’s little kitchen, with its bright yellow walls, white wood cabinets, and worn oak flooring, glowed with a herb-scented warmth that hugged Molly as she entered.
Nan glanced up from the soup pot she was stirring. Her long, curly white hair was piled up in its usual messy bun, and despite the warmth, she wore her favourite pink wool shawl over a simple beige dress. Pink suited her, giving her soft plumpness a comforting look.
She dropped the ladle into the pot and came over to catch Molly up in a fierce hug. “I heard. He’s back, and he’s not alone.”
It was hardly surprising. News in Appleby travelled faster than the speed of light.
Hugging her back, Molly rested her head down on her grandmother’s shoulders. “I’m leaving well alone, Nan. I want nothing to do with him.”
“Well, of course you don’t,” Nan said, stroking back Molly’s unruly curls. “He was never right for you. I told you many a time over the past year that you needed to move on. Still, it’s better late than never. At least I’ll be spared the spectacle of seeing you as Mrs Wilkins and married into Kathleen’s side of the family.”
With a giggle, Molly kissed Nan’s cheek. “When you put it that way…”
She stepped back and scrutinized her grandmother’s slightly swollen left leg. It was encased in compression stockings, and had been for a couple of weeks now following an operation to remove a varicose vein.
She pulled out one of the oak chairs from under the round kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down and take it easy on the leg? I’ll finish the soup.”
“Fiddlesticks. I’ve been taking it easy all day.” Ignoring the chair, Nan returned to the soup pot on the stove.
One glance at the table, however, told Molly there had been no taking it easy. Two large shopping baskets overflowing with a rainbow of fresh fruit and vegetable stood on it. “All day, huh? Then who bought all this stuff?”
“Clara. She sent it along with Nate.”
Molly raised her eyebrows. Clara Ainsley, Appleby’s nosy-parker post-mistress, having anything to do with Nate, Barrowdene’s cranky groundsman, was newsworthy indeed. “And she didn’t skin him alive in the process?”
Chuckling, Nan came to rummage though one of the baskets. “He was sober in the afternoon. Here, she sent your magazine.” She handed Molly the latest edition of Period House. “It came early.”
Molly flipped through the profusion of eye-catching photos of old and stately homes, instantly absorbed.
“It was Clara who phoned me about Brian. According to her, the girl’s quite a catch and Kathleen is over the moon.” Nan’s voice from the stove brought Molly back to the kitchen. Trust Clara Ainsley to know everything everywhere immediately.
She put the magazine down on the table. “Her name’s Abby. I didn’t hang around to find out her history, but no doubt, Clara will be an Abby expert come tomorrow and everyone will know more.”
Nan regarded her. She never wore glasses. She didn’t need them. Her glacial blue eyes, darker than Molly’s own, always saw more than what was there on the surface. “I don’t need her history. I need to know this isn’t a passing fancy of Brian’s and you won’t be reeled back in.”
“It isn’t. They’re hellbent on getting married at St Mary’s sooner than soon, and Brian and I are more than finished.”
“With that lad, I’ll believe it when I see it. And I hope you told him exactly where you stand.” She turned back to her soup pot with a frown. “You’re too giving for your own good, Molly. Always at his beck and call, and he couldn’t even make up his mind whether he wanted to stay with you or not.” She looked at Molly then, her frown deepening. “He’s gone around with the impression he owns you long enough, but that stops now. You are off-limits to him.”
The memory of that kiss seared through Molly’s mind, and she couldn’t meet Nan’s steady gaze, glancing down at the table instead “Brian and I are over, Nan. You needn’t worry. Why do you have enough food here to feed the whole village?”
Nan sighed. “Francine’s coming home tomorrow and she may have guests with her.”
Molly looked up at that. Francine Lamont owned Barrowdene House and the several acres of land surrounding it, but she rarely stayed here, preferring her townhouse in South London. The infrequent visits suited Molly. It made Nan’s job as housekeeper that much lighter.
“Guests? How many?”
“No idea. But knowing Francine, I’d say only one or two. Still, I thought it best to be prepared.”
Molly sped through a mental checklist. “The house will need airing, new linen… I’ll ask Martin to give me the morning off tomorrow.”
“You’ll do no such thing! You get on with your job. I’m perfectly capable.” Molly opened her mouth to protest but Nan held up a silencing hand. “I’ve asked a couple of girls from the village
to drop by in the morning and help.”
“That’s a relief. You really shouldn’t be tiring yourself.”
“And what would I do sitting around on my backside all day? What my leg needs is exercise.” Her expression became wistful. “It’s a shame Francine never stays longer than a day or two. Barrowdene is a family house, it needs people in it. When I was first here, you could feel the heart of the place whenever the little ones came to visit. It was the same when you used to toddle after me wherever I went in the house. You always cheered up Eugenie.”
Molly smiled, remembering Eugenie Thomas, Francine’s strict maiden aunt and the last in a long line of Thomases to own Barrowdene. Eugenie had employed a sixteen year old, inexperienced Nan, hand-selected her from a host of hopefuls. The sour old lady had suffered no fools and demanded perfection in all things, but Molly had grown up seeing her as family. She’d spent many a childhood evening listening to stories of Barrowdene and the past at the foot of Eugenie’s rocking chair in front of a cosy fire. A faint sadness crossed her. Everything had changed two years ago. She’d watched the fortunes of the big house shift after Eugenie died, just six months before her own beloved grandfather took his last breath.
Nan tasted the soup and gave a satisfied nod. “That’s ready. Did you see Nate on your way here?”
“No, the gatehouse looked empty.”
Nan tutted. “That man. He’ll be down the pub soaking up more than the sunshine, I bet. Go find him, child. I need him at least half-sober to see to the gardens before Francine arrives tomorrow. Promise him a hefty serving of the best beef soup he’s ever tasted.”
“That should get him.” With a grin, Molly turned to go.
“And, Molly,” Nan said, making her look back. “Keep well away from Brian, child. You deserve better. Let him lie in the bed he chose.”
* * *
She reached the King’s Head Pub ten minutes later, and people were drinking and chatting in small clumps out front. It looked like nobody wanted to sit inside the building while the sun still beckoned.