by Kate Hewitt
All in all, Rachel reflected, it was a far cry from the cosy, busy home the vicarage had been mere weeks ago; now it felt more like an enormous and rather barren bachelor pad, if a friendly enough place. Simon was lovely, always affable and smiling, and no one seemed to have raised an eyebrow at two Holley sisters lodging in the vicarage.
As the weeks went on, Rachel found herself healing and getting stronger; it seemed her heart just couldn’t help it. She held her head up in the village and didn’t cringe quite as much when people gave her such blatantly sympathetic looks.
She saw Dan twice, both in passing, both brief meetings friendly enough, which Rachel counted as progress. Really, it was all good, even if she felt restless inside, as if she were waiting for something, although what she had no idea. Everything she had been expecting to happen, hadn’t. What else could there be?
Two weeks after her parents’ departure they Skyped for the first time, the four Holley sisters crowded around Rachel’s laptop in the vicarage kitchen.
“How is it?” Rachel burst out, realising belatedly she’d made it sound as if they were in an endurance test rather than a new vocation.
“It’s amazing,” Ruth said, her voice full of surprising enthusiasm. “Everyone is so friendly. There’s so much to do.”
“I’m not sure about the food, though,” Roger joked, smiling. He was notorious for preferring stodgy British food to anything remotely exotic.
“We’re taking a crash course in Mandarin,” Ruth continued. “Which is manic, but I’m enjoying using my brain for the first time in ages.”
“Mum, you’ve used your brain—”
“Oh, not really,” she dismissed. “This is something completely different.”
As they continued to chat, Rachel realised with a dawning wonder that her parents really were having a good time. She’d been half-expecting her mum to be putting a brave face on it all, stiff upper lip and all that, but she could see plainly that there was no need. Ruth seemed exuberant, full of energy and excitement.
“Well,” Esther said when the call had finished and they all sat around the blank-faced laptop, silent. “They seem to be doing well.”
“Yes.” Miriam sounded a little dazed.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Anna said, her tone just a little bit uncertain. “I thought they might have trouble settling in…”
“It appears not.” Rachel didn’t know how she felt about it all. Of course she was glad her parents were having a good time; Jinan was clearly where they belonged now. And yet…
“They could have acted as if they missed us a little more,” Miriam said dryly, and then she laughed. “Cheer up, everyone. You all look so gloomy. It’s a good thing Mum and Dad are doing well. They deserve it.”
“Yes, of course they do,” Rachel said, and gave herself a little shake. She was being ridiculous. Everyone needed to get on with their lives, her parents included. “Right. It’s my turn to make tea. Scrambled eggs or pasta with sauce from a jar?”
Esther gave a little shudder. “Thanks, but I’m heading back home. Will’s making a ragout.”
“A ragout?” Miriam raised her eyebrows. “Fancy, fancy. I didn’t think Will was that domesticated.”
Esther shrugged, blushing a little. “We’re both changing.”
“Ah, marital bliss,” Rachel teased, only to have an ominous silence descend. Belatedly she realised how it had sounded. “Oh, relax, everyone,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I was not being catty or bitter. Although speaking of catty, I might get one. Company in my old age.” She smiled to show she was joking. Sort of.
“Simon’s allergic,” Anna said apologetically. “If you were serious.”
“Ah, well that’s it, then. I’ll have to settle for a goldfish.” Everyone smiled dutifully. Rachel wondered when they would start seeing her as simply a sister, a person, rather than the wounded soul she seemed to have become. And yes, she was wounded. Of course she was. But she was getting over it. At least, she was trying to.
The next morning Rachel walked to the post box and posted sixty letters to various relatives and guests. She’d looked up the etiquette online, and spent several painful hours trying to word the missive, attempting to make it apologetic, grateful, and pragmatic all at once. She’d already texted, Skyped, and emailed various friends, including two bridesmaids who had come all the way from Newcastle. Everyone had been remarkably understanding, which Rachel supposed was to be expected. No matter what Dan had said, it was clear to everyone that he’d been the one to call it off. At least everyone, except for Esther, had had the delicacy not to ask why.
As she walked back down the lane to the vicarage, she halted midstride at the sight of the BMW convertible parked in the drive, looking rather incongruous next to Simon’s beat-up Volvo estate.
Then a man climbed out of the car, raking a hand through his wavy, honey-blond hair. He glanced up at the vicarage, and then turning, smiled and waved to Rachel.
“I say,” he asked in an upper-class drawl, the poshest accent Rachel had heard outside of an episode of Downton Abbey. “Is this the vicarage, do you know?”
The man wore a pair of brick-red chinos and leather loafers, with a pale blue button-down shirt and a yellow polo jumper tossed over his shoulders; he looked like he should be in the royal box at Wimbledon.
“It is,” Rachel said. “Are you looking for the curate—sorry, the vicar?”
“Simon Truesdell?”
“That would be him.”
“Yes, I am.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Jasper Edgington-Jones.”
“Oh, right.” This was Simon’s new lodger, his friend from Cambridge, and clearly quite the toff. “I’m Rachel Holley, one of Simon’s lodgers.” She thought about explaining how she used to live in the vicarage, but it seemed sadly unimportant. “Come on in. I think Simon’s out at some meeting or other, but he should be back soon.”
“Thanks very much.” Jasper followed her into the vicarage, and then around the back to the kitchen. All was quiet; Anna was back in Manchester, and Miriam was closeted in her bedroom, as she seemed to be most days. Rachel switched on the kettle.
“So what’s brought you to Thornthwaite?” she asked.
Jasper made a bit of a face as he untied his sweater and draped it over a chair. “Seems like a nice place. Always meant to visit the Lake District, you know.”
“Right.” She eyed him with a kind of bemused fascination, noting the signet ring on one well-manicured finger. There were plenty of well-to-do people in Thornthwaite, Londoners who made the Lake District their holiday destination or second home, but Jasper Edgington-Jones seemed like another species entirely. “How do you take your tea?”
“Do you have Darjeeling?”
She suppressed a smile. “Sorry, just everyday builder’s brew.”
“Right, then, just a splash of milk, please.”
He sat at the table, looking around him with interest. “Simon’s landed pretty well, hasn’t he?”
“It’s a nice house,” Rachel answered diplomatically. “And I think he suits village life.”
“So you lodge here?”
“Yes, for the time being. I’m hoping to rent a place shortly.” Staying at the vicarage felt too much like being stalled in neutral. She needed to move forward with her life, although when she’d gone on Rightmove there had been exactly one place to rent in Thornthwaite, and it was a six-bedroom holiday home on the edge of the village, for three thousand pounds a week. Not exactly what she had in mind.
“Right, this kind of arrangement is temporary, isn’t it?” Jasper gave a little grimace and Rachel recalled that Anna had said he’d been at a loose end.
“So do you think you’ll be staying here long?” she asked.
“Hopefully not too long. I’m between jobs at the moment, but I’m going to start sending my CVs out again as soon as I work up the enthusiasm.” He let out a little laugh. “It’s not always easy, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.” Rachel fel
t a flicker of sympathy, as well as of curiosity, for him. He’d clearly fallen on some hard times, although not too hard by the looks of him. Still, what was money? Someone with a signet ring and a BMW could be just as unhappy, or even more so, than someone with a lot less.
“Here you are.” Rachel put a cup of tea on the table in front of Jasper, and then, with nothing better to do, sat opposite him. She should have made one for herself, because now it felt a bit awkward to simply sit there and watch him sip his drink.
“Thanks for this,” he said. “What do you do, then?”
“I’m a primary school teacher in the village—Year Three. But I’m on summer holiday now.” Although she was looking forward to getting back to work. All this waiting around, mulling over her life or lack of it, was getting to her. Still, she only had two more weeks of holiday before she needed to get back into the classroom.
“Right.” Jasper took a sip of tea. “Lovely brew, thank you.”
“Even though it’s not Darjeeling?” she said with a smile, and he smiled back.
“Was that terribly snobby of me, to ask?”
“No, of course not.” She laughed. “But you do seem…” How to put it diplomatically? “Like you have a title or something.”
Jasper hung his head with mock sheepishness. “Only a viscount.”
“Pardon?” Rachel started. “You mean, you really are titled? I was actually joking.”
“My father’s an earl, which makes me a courtesy viscount. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise—” She felt embarrassed for her apparent gaucheness. “So should I call you Lord Jasper or something?”
“No, please don’t. Just Jasper is fine. Although actually, if you were going to call me by my title, which I really would rather you didn’t, it would be Lord Hartleigh.”
“Right, I suppose I’d better get a copy of Debrett’s.”
“Don’t, please. It really is just Jasper.”
“Okay.”
He smiled boyishly, and with a little ripple of awareness Rachel realised how good-looking he was, with his floppy, honey-coloured hair, glinting green eyes, and teeth that looked like they belonged in a toothpaste advert. She stood up suddenly.
“Sorry, but I should be getting on. Simon will be back soon—I think he was visiting a baptism couple. I’m sure he’ll tell you which room you should have.”
“Oh, right.” Jasper looked a little startled, and then a little disappointed. Rachel felt guilty for abandoning him so abruptly, but she wasn’t remotely ready to feel attracted to someone yet. Not that she was attracted to Lord Hartleigh. He wasn’t her type at all. He was just very handsome.
“I’ll see you around,” she said brightly, and then went upstairs to hide in her room, because she didn’t actually have anything better to do.
Fortunately, Simon returned home a few minutes later, and Rachel listened from behind the closed door of her room while Simon showed Jasper the bedroom across the hall. He had, with characteristic sensitivity, left Jamie’s old room untouched, the door closed.
Still, it all felt a little too close for comfort, living in her old house with Simon, Miriam, and now Jasper. Too many memories, too much awkwardness. It really would be far better for her to get her own place as soon as possible, and start looking towards the future.
“Aren’t you worried parishioners are going to think this is a den of iniquity?” Miriam asked with some of her old acerbic wit as the four of them ate dinner around the little table that night—beans on toast, courtesy of Simon.
“A den of iniquity?” Simon looked startled. “Sorry?”
“Two men and two women living under one roof and none of us married,” Miriam clarified. “Really, Simon, don’t you know how gossip flies in a village?”
“Oh, but…” A blush started on his cheeks. “It’s not like that.”
“Of course it’s not like that.” Miriam rolled her eyes. “But that doesn’t really matter, does it? When we were teenagers Dad was always going on about the appearance of evil, and causing your weaker brother to stumble, and all that. I wouldn’t want tongues to start wagging.” She pressed her lips together, her humour suddenly vanishing as a look of desolation came over her face. “Although they will anyway.”
Rachel looked at her sister askance. When was Miriam going to tell her what was going on?
“Well,” Simon said after a moment. “If you really think it’s going to be a problem…”
“Oh, I think any gossip will die down soon enough,” Rachel said quickly. “But the truth is, Miriam and I really should be looking for our own place anyway, Simon, as kind as it is for you to let us live here. We need to move on from the memories.”
Jasper looked confused. “Memories…?”
“Rachel and Miriam grew up here,” Simon explained. “I took over as vicar from their father.”
“Oh how wonderfully Austenesque,” Jasper exclaimed. “Two vicar’s daughters! Shall we play whist after supper?” Rachel couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
It turned out he wasn’t; they played three pleasant hands of the card game before Miriam pleaded tiredness and went upstairs. Sensing that Simon and Jasper wanted a catch-up, Rachel went up as well. She paused by Miriam’s room; her sister was staring out the window at the darkened night, looking lost.
“Miriam…?” Rachel tapped gently on the door. “I wish you would tell me what was going on.” Because it was painfully obvious that something was.
Miriam’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe you don’t want to know.”
Rachel’s insides lurched with alarm but she kept her voice steady. “I do. Whatever it is, it would surely help telling someone?” Miriam didn’t answer and she pressed, “You’re not ill, are you?” Her sister let out a huff of humourless laughter. “It’s just you’ve been so tired and you look a bit…washed out.”
“No, I’m not ill,” Miriam said, with savage emphasis.
“Then…”
“Leave it, Rachel, please.” Miriam turned to her tiredly. “What do you think of Jasper?”
“He seems nice enough.”
“Yes.” She sighed, shaking her head as she glanced out the window once more, at the dark night. “It feels so weird being here though, doesn’t it? Now, I mean, without Mum and Dad. Last night I dreamed of Jamie. I haven’t done that in ages.”
“What was the dream about?” Rachel asked. She’d dreamed of Jamie several times over the years, always a bittersweet experience. He was alive in the dream, which was wonderful, but then she woke up and reality flooded in, usually leaving her feeling down for hours, if not days.
“I can’t really remember,” Miriam answered. “He was just in it. And I’ve been feeling as if I’m a little in that dream all day—like I can’t shake it, you know?”
“Yes,” Rachel said quietly. “I know.”
“It’s been so kind of Simon to let us live here, but I’m starting to feel like Miss Havisham. All I need is a moth-eaten wedding dress…” Her horrified gaze flew up to meet Rachel’s. “Sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry, for heaven’s sake. I can handle it, I assure you. And if you want a wedding dress, not moth-eaten quite yet…” She smiled, inviting her sister to share the joke, and to her relief, Miriam smiled back. Rachel really didn’t think she could take any more pity.
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Okay, then. You’re sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?” Miriam shook her head, and Rachel relented, stepping back. One thing she was certain of now, though; something was going on. She just didn’t know what.
The next morning, with fresh zeal and determination, Rachel decided to see if she could find her and Miriam new accommodation. If the realtor websites didn’t have anything to offer, maybe she could find something on a stroll through the village. It was perfectly possible someone local might have propped a sign in the window or staked in the garden rather than going the official route of putting it on the Internet.
She
had nothing better to do, anyway, and it was a lovely day, if a bit nippy. Mid-August was the start of autumn in the Lake District, whether you liked it or not. Already the leaves were turning, the air decidedly chilly as Rachel headed out.
She walked slowly across the bridge, St John’s Beck burbling merrily underneath, and then up the high street, past The Bell, looking away from its frosted windows as she remembered the whole sick-on-the-boots episode afresh. Up past the post office shop, and then the primary school, tucked down its own narrow lane, and then to the top of the village, where the once-new housing estate had sublime views of the rolling fells, Derwentwater glinting in the distance.
Rachel wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for—a smiling granny to invite her in for tea and mention the flat out back she had? A sign in a window reading ‘To Let—cheap and cheerful, immediate occupancy’? Whatever it was, she didn’t find it. The village was quiet, only a few people out in their gardens, and while they waved as she went past nobody had a room or flat to let. Rachel asked, ignoring the looks of sympathy she got in return. Even strangers seemed to know of her plight. Thornthwaite really was a small place.
Eventually she turned back down the lane, her steps coming more slowly now, the zeal she had started out with beginning to flag. She really didn’t want to live in the vicarage anymore. As kind as Simon was, as friendly as Jasper seemed, it just felt too strange. Her parents weren’t there. It wasn’t home.
She’d almost reached the bridge when she saw the sign propped in the corner of a dusty window of The Bell. Flat to Let—See Proprietor.
Her heart flip-flopped in her chest as she hesitated, wondering if she really wanted to follow that particular lead. Living above The Bell would be a noisy business, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to run into Sam West on a regular basis, although surely he wouldn’t be working now? It was eleven o’clock in the morning. This flat seemed like the only thing going in Thornthwaite; she should at least see if it was at all suitable.
Taking a deep breath, Rachel marched towards the door of The Bell, flung it open, and went inside.