by Liz Fielding
CHAPTER THREE
Kam went to see his old home. Of course he did. I wish he hadn’t seen it in that state. More to the point, how did he get in?
Agnès Prideaux’s Journal
AGNÈS AVOIDED THE Orangery restaurant whenever possible. She had no control of what happened there and every time she was faced with the reality, she raged at the lost opportunity.
Everyone at the castle had pitched in to repaint the wrought-iron work, shine up the glass, make it sparkle. In her desperation to get it up and running so that visitors would be able to make a day of their visit to the gardens, come just for a lunch or tea, she had let them down.
She sighed. From the outside it looked pretty under a sky that had cleared to a clear pale blue, with the entrance flanked by two of the tubs of orange tulips that she’d planted up in the autumn. The colour offended her but she’d softened the effect with white forget-me-nots.
Once inside she could see that Suzanna had passed on the message and ensured that this wouldn’t be a bog-standard lunch.
A table, half hidden by a vast palm that had only survived because it had, long since, broken through its pot, the tiles, and become rooted where it stood, had been laid with a cloth, linen napkins and silver cutlery from the castle. There was a spray of wintersweet in a specimen vase and a carafe of iced water.
The chef, employed by the caterers and as depressed at the heat-and-serve food he was forced to produce as she was, appeared briefly to reassure her that there would be something a little bit less motorway café for her guest.
‘And no queuing at the counter. I’ll serve you.’
‘Thank you, Jamie.’
She was picking a few untidy leaves off a couple of small orange trees, when Kam pushed open the door, letting in a little whiffle of breeze that raised gooseflesh on her arms. It had to be the breeze.
‘We’re in the corner,’ she said as he joined her. ‘I’ll be right with you.’
He made no move to sit and wait for her, but looked around, taking in the caterer’s Day-glo-bright branding.
‘Is this the best you could do, Agnès?’
She rubbed some aphids off a leaf before forcing herself to look up.
‘I... There was a misunderstanding.’
‘Yours or theirs?’
‘Mine.’ There was no one else to blame. ‘Grandma had just had her hip replaced and I wasn’t paying as close attention to the details as I should have.’ And having had the reality of her situation laid out in black and white by the lawyers, she’d panicked. ‘I didn’t have the capital to install a kitchen that would pass the local authority’s hygiene inspection.’ She lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a casual shrug. ‘You have no idea how expensive a kitchen can be.’
‘Couldn’t you have got a business loan?’
‘When I talked to the business adviser at the bank, he suggested I might be better off leasing the Orangery to professional caterers. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.’
‘Don’t tell me, he put you in touch with someone he knew. What on earth were you thinking?’
She lifted her shoulders in an awkward little shrug. ‘If I’d been thinking I’d have asked a lot more questions but this way didn’t cost me anything.’
‘What’s the deal?’
She looked at him. ‘Does it matter?’ She’d had a vision of white wrought-iron tables, chair cushions in a vibrant jungle print, tall plants everywhere giving a green, quiet atmosphere. She’d talk about home-made soup and bread, food prepared on the premises using fresh produce from the castle garden.
The woman she’d had that conversation with had agreed that it would be charming and when they’d shaken hands she’d thought it was a done deal. And then reality had caught up with her.
‘I signed on the dotted line, Kam, and I’m stuck with this for the next five years. The orange plastic, the canned soup, frozen mass-produced food, cotton-wool bread and all.’
‘I saw the comments on the review sites.’
She pulled a face. ‘The gardens are great but take a picnic because the restaurant is a rip-off.’
Her complaints to the company had been received with a shrug. This was their brand.
‘How much are they paying you?’
‘A percentage of the profits once they recoup their outlay.’
His face gave nothing away but she knew what he must be thinking. What an idiot...
She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. He was right.
‘I was totally naïve,’ she admitted. ‘Obviously creative accounting will prove that they never make a profit but at the time I was just so grateful to have something taken out of my hands.’
‘You aren’t the first and won’t be the last.’
‘No. Not that it’s much comfort. I had hoped to be able to use this for weddings at the castle. Obviously I have to clear it out and hire in suitable tables and chairs, screens to block off the self-service area, but on top of that the caterers expect me to pay them to hire their space, to use their kitchen.’
She expected him to suggest legal advice. It was what everyone had advised. But all he said was, ‘At least you have orange trees. I’m sure they’ll grow in time. You were always passionate about plants. You knew all the names of the wildflowers. Red campion, meadowsweet, ragged robin—’
‘You knew which berries and mushrooms not to touch,’ she said, cutting off the list of names her mother had taught her.
‘That was self-preservation,’ he said. ‘I was eating them.’ He nodded at the small mop-headed trees. ‘Will these ever have actual oranges on them?’
‘I hope so. They’re small, but they were cheap in the post-Christmas sale at Wicken’s Nursery,’ she said, ‘and I thought, with a bit of TLC, they’d add a bit of—’
Class. Add a bit of class. That was what she had been going to say but was afraid that he’d just mock her foolish pretensions.
‘Be a distraction from the cheap self-service cafeteria vibe?’ Kam suggested, filling the gap and mocking her anyway. ‘And you may be right about the oranges,’ he continued, which was just as well as her own tongue appeared to be stuck to the roof of her mouth.
He bent to take a closer look and every nerve jumped as his shoulder brushed against her arm.
‘You’ve got a few buds here.’
She focussed on the spray of small white buds. They were the same shape as the drops on her mother’s pearl earrings when she’d bent to kiss her goodnight, then say, ‘Sleep tight. See you in the morning, sweetpea...’ before leaving for the party from which she and her father never returned.
She swallowed to moisten her dry throat. ‘The baby fruit will probably drop.’
‘Will it?’ For a moment neither of them spoke and, unable to help herself, she glanced up to find him watching her intently. ‘I thought you were going to follow in your mother’s footsteps.’
Her mother had been a horticultural student who’d met her father when she had come to spend the summer doing work experience in the rose garden.
She’d once overheard her grandfather complaining to her grandmother that it had been the most expensive cheap labour he’d ever had the misfortune to employ. Her father was supposed to marry a girl with an inheritance; someone who could boost the coffers.
A pretty tenant farmer’s daughter was good for a roll in the hay but marriage was far too important to be complicated by emotion.
And the stupid cow hadn’t even had the class to drop a boy.
‘Shall we sit down?’
She didn’t wait for a response but dropped the leaves she’d picked off the trees in a nearby bin and headed for their table. His long legs beat her to it and he drew out a chair for her.
‘Thank you.’
He glanced across to where people were queueing with trays, eyebrow raised. ‘Sha
ll I go to the counter or will you?’
‘Sit down, Kam,’ she said, hooking her bag over her chair and nodding to one of the staff to indicate that they were ready to be served. ‘The chef cooks and freezes dishes which I reheat in the evening for the craft workshop guests. We had a couple of cancellations so you’re in luck.’
‘So I’ll get the same meal this evening?’
‘Sorry, we’re a B & B. Bed and breakfast. We only cater for the workshop groups in the evening because that’s a package. It’s not too late to sign up.’
‘Would I have to actually take part?’
‘It’s compulsory,’ she said, risking a smile.
‘Then I’ll go to the pub.’
‘Good plan. You’ll probably meet some old friends.’
He frowned. ‘Aren’t you missing a trick here? People pay good money to spend a night in a castle, dine with the gentry. Full silver services, antique crystal and Lady Jane playing the gracious hostess at the head of the table.’
Another unticked box on her plan to make the castle pay its way but she’d exposed herself to enough ridicule.
‘We had to let the butler go,’ she said.
‘Before you were born. You could hire one for the night.’
‘Is that what you came here for, Kam?’ she asked, tired of playing games. ‘To be waited on by me?’
‘No, Agnès. I’m not interested in playing at this. I want Priddy Castle.’
For a moment she didn’t think she’d heard right, then, as the words lined up in her head, she said, ‘The castle? That’s it? That’s why you’re here?’
‘I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’ And he named the exact figure of the probate valuation of the estate.
For a moment Agnès stared at him and then she laughed.
Not a Ha, ha, ha, you must be joking laugh. It was a choked sound, torn from somewhere deep inside her.
Anger lit dangerous sparks of lightning, flashes of gold in the dark depths of Kam’s eyes. ‘No doubt you think it’s on the low side. The probate valuation does not take into account the possibility of planning permission for development, but then I have no intention of building on the site and, as you are obviously aware, the castle, and other properties on the estate, will require extensive renovation.’
His home. He was talking about his home. She had to explain, but before she could speak the chef was beside them, placing a dish before her, and then before Kam.
‘Carpaccio of salmon wi’ herbs and lime.’
It took her a moment to recover and say, ‘Thank you, Jamie. It looks delicious.’
He frowned, then glanced at Kam as he picked up the carafe of water. ‘If ye need anything,’ he said, filling her glass, ‘just gi’ a shout.’
‘I’m sure we have everything we need.’
‘Aye, well, I’m here if ye need me.’ He glared at Kam, pointedly ignoring his glass as he replaced the carafe on the table, then walked away.
‘You may not be happy with your caterer, Agnès, but their chef is very protective.’ He filled his own glass. ‘Or is that possessive?’
‘What? Jamie...’ Oh, for heaven’s sake. ‘Kam, I’m sorry but I wasn’t laughing at you.’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘No—’
‘No doubt you’re wondering where I’d get that kind of money.’
‘To be honest, yes.’ Kam had been dragged out of school just before his exams, gone who knew where and he was talking about a huge sum. It wasn’t just the castle, the cottage. There were outbuildings, gardens, woods, land that stretched out as far as the coast. Everything on this side of the creek for a mile in either direction. ‘I was hoping that you might give me a few tips.’
‘When I write the book,’ he said, shaking out his napkin, picking up his fork, ‘you can buy a copy.’
For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought they were beginning to get past his anger, but that was a clear slap in the face.
‘You’ve told me what you want, Kam, and, for a whole heap of reasons, mostly involved an ancient entail that I’m not going to go into, you can’t have it. There is nothing more to discuss.’ She tossed her napkin on the table and got to her feet and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘This meeting is over.’
She didn’t wait for his response. Angry, amused, baffled, she didn’t care. But her legs were shaking as she left the Orangery, first walking quickly then running to her car.
She called Suzanna from the ferry to let her know that she wouldn’t be back until late and to warn her that Kamal Faulkner would not be staying after all.
* * *
Kam rose, instinctively, to go after her but found his way blocked by the chef. He wasn’t actually brandishing a knife and Kam stood nearly half a head taller, but he was a wiry Scot and he raised a warning finger in his face.
‘I don’t know who ye are, pal,’ he said, his voice a low growl, ‘and I care less, but Agnès Prideaux is a lady and if ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll remember that.’
The man’s protectiveness, irritating though it was, had a fierce gallantry that Kam admired. Resisting the urge to push past him and go after Agnès, he stood his ground, not backing away but moving into the threat of that accusing finger.
‘I’ve known Agnès since she was in her pram,’ he said, softly. ‘I taught her to swim, to fish, to be so still that a blackbird would take a worm from her hand. I knew her long before she was a lady, so step aside, Chef, and let me go after her.’
‘I think she made it plain that she’s had enough of ye,’ he replied.
‘Unfortunately, she doesn’t have that option. This is business.’
He waited and after ten long seconds, Jamie stepped back.
That was the easy one. Agnès, he had discovered, was not going down without a fight.
So, where would she have gone? Back to the castle, hiding behind her office door? Or would she find some quiet corner in the woods or the garden to contemplate the reality of her future?
She’d taken over an old greenhouse built against the wall of the kitchen garden when she was about ten, and made it her private place. He’d helped her clean it and replace putty where the panes were loose. She was, she’d said, going to create a new rose and name it after her mother.
He went there first.
Inside it was clean, all her tools neatly held in clips. An old chair with a leather seat and wide wooden arms was still at the far end, half hidden by some large evergreen plant in a large pot. The little camping gas stove Agnès had bought at a jumble sale and used to make tea from the mint and lemon balm she grew in large terracotta pots was still there, as was a kettle and a clean mug.
The once rickety wooden trolley that she’d found in an attic and he’d fixed for her held a stack of notebooks fastened with elastic bands and, on the staging, there were pots filled with the roses she grew from seed taken from the old roses in Lady Anne’s garden.
She used to hand pollinate the flowers, putting tiny labels on each one. She was still doing it. She had been passionate about breeding new varieties. Apparently she still was.
‘What are you doing in here?’
He turned to find himself being watched by a young man.
‘Remembering,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Tim. I cut the grass. It doesn’t mind,’ he added.
‘I used to the cut the grass here,’ he said. When his father had left, Sir Hugo had told him to get on with it. ‘Does Miss Prideaux pay you?’ he asked. ‘Agnès,’ he added when the young man looked confused.
‘Agnès paid me the minimum wage when I started working for her. It’s the law.’
‘And now?’
‘After a month she gave me a rise because I love the garden so much that I make it happy.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ All he’d
ever got from Sir Hugo was a mouthful of abuse if he didn’t keep it short enough. ‘You’re doing a great job, Tim. I’m Kam, by the way,’ he said, offering his hand.
Tim backed away. ‘I have to do something. You should come out of there. No one is allowed in Miss Agnès’s greenhouse.’
‘I hoped she be here,’ he said.
‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘I heard her car. It’s the same car that Lady Jane used to drive.’
‘I remember.’
‘It’s a classic,’ Tim said, seriously.
‘Yes, it is.’
He wondered who kept it running.
He stepped out of the greenhouse, closing the door behind him, and Tim followed him out of the walled garden just to be sure he left.
Suzanna was in Reception. ‘Do you know when Agnès will be back?’
‘Not until late. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Faulkner?’
‘No,’ he said, then, changing his mind, ‘Is the dinghy in the cave?’
‘Dinghy?’
‘Small wooden boat with oars. I thought I’d go over to the island.’
‘I’m sorry but that’s off-limits to guests. There used to be a pretty summer house where the family had picnics, but it was ruined in a storm. There are some pictures in the library. The women in long white dresses, the men wearing straw boaters.’
‘I’ll take a look later,’ he said, as if he hadn’t seen them years ago on his ‘off-limits’ illicit wanderings through the house. He hadn’t taken anything, touched anything. He’d just wanted to look, see what made these people think they were so special.
To see Agnès’s other world.
He’d imagined her bedroom would be pink and princessy, but it was not so different from his. It was bigger, but the bed was an old iron bedstead, the wallpaper had been put up half a century before and she had a decrepit old armchair in what he now knew was called ‘country house condition’.
Unlike him she hadn’t put up posters of musicians. Her walls were covered with framed botanical drawings that on closer inspection he saw had been signed Emma Lawrence, Agnès’s mother before she married Guy Prideaux.