by Liz Fielding
Thank you...right...he took a breath, called his body back from the brink and said, ‘Don’t make excuses for him. Your grandfather was a bully and bigot and your grandmother was too weak to stand up to him.’
‘I know.’ She shivered as she acknowledged the truth. ‘He wasn’t broken, he was just outraged that a drunken nobody had been crass enough to wipe out his heir. Outraged that Grandma had failed to give him a spare. She was the one who was broken.’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s dead and I’m not asking for sympathy from you, Kam. Heaven knows I don’t deserve it.’
She was shaking. So much for all that keep-calm-and-carry-on act, the teasing, those moments when she had thought that anything might happen. Anything just had, but it was just the place, the emotional fallout of the moment; as appealing as it might be, she didn’t have time to indulge in a little catch-up affair with Kam. She was on her own and had to remain focussed or she would lose everything.
She lifted her head, took a step back, aware of his hand still overstretched to steady her.
‘I’ve made arrangements...’ Something caught in her throat and she was forced to stop but he waited and after a moment she said, ‘In a few weeks I should have enough money to turn things around.’
‘Agnès...’
He clearly thought she was delusional. Maybe she was, but if she failed...
‘If I fail, if I can’t hold on, if I can’t stop Pierre Prideaux from taking the estate, selling it off in building lots to fill his coffers, I will burn the castle down, every stick and stone of it,’ she said, ‘before I’d let him spend one night in the home his ancestor stole two hundred years ago.’
For a long moment there was silence. Even the birds seemed to have stopped whatever they were doing to listen, open-beaked, to her passionate outburst.
Kam’s hand was on Agnès’s arm. She was shaking, or maybe it was him.
Then, gradually the world began to turn again. There was a clank as the ferry arrived at the quay, a gull shrieked over a fishing boat. Somewhere, far overhead, a blackbird began to sing.
He drew a breath, said, as gently as he knew how, ‘You can’t do that, Agnès.’
‘I’ve shocked you.’ Not a question, but a statement. ‘Not for the first time.’
‘No.’ But this was very different from her Aphrodite act. This was fury at what was happening, of losing control, losing her home. He understood that. He’d made his own vow to an unfair universe, clung stubbornly to thoughts of revenge.
He was not proud of that, but his return wasn’t about tearing the world down around him. It was about building something new. And Agnès, if she would let him in, could be a part of that.
She’d been stubborn as a child, following him with a determination that he hadn’t been able to shake no matter how hard he’d made it for her. In that moment he saw that small girl, chin stuck out, as she’d huffed and puffed to keep up with him, and he had to know what was driving her.
‘Will you tell me why you feel so strongly?’
She shook off his hand, took a step back. ‘You’re a man. You’d never understand.’
‘I understand that you dislike him, that he made you a slimy proposition, that given the chance he will carve up an estate that has endured for centuries for a quick profit, but what is it about the castle? How did Henri steal it?’
For a moment she appeared to consider, but then she stiffened her back. ‘That’s family business.’
There was a look, a warning not to push it, but he couldn’t leave it. There was something going on here that he didn’t understand. Something he needed to get to the bottom of before she did something stupid and ended up in jail.
‘You’ll need someone to speak for you when you’re in the dock for arson,’ he pointed out.
‘You’d do that for me?’
Right at that moment he would have done anything for her, but he needed to know why she felt so strongly. ‘Will you tell me?’
She gave a little shake of her head. ‘If it should come to that, I’ll speak for myself.’
She didn’t wait for a response but turned and walked to the dock where the small speedboat was tied up and stepped aboard.
He didn’t try to stop her or follow her, but he called after her. ‘I don’t want to develop the estate, Agnès. I won’t construct a hotel complex on your meadow. I won’t build expensive houses along the creek that the locals can’t afford. I won’t lease the coast field for a caravan park.’
‘I know. Pierre will already have it all sewn up.’
He didn’t bother to argue, just wished that he’d held her tighter, kissed her longer, done anything to stop her walking away from him.
She kept doing that but, sooner or later, driven by necessity, she would walk back and then, maybe, they could find a way back to something precious that had been taken from them, and then move forward to make a future here at the castle.
After two or three desperate attempts, she managed to start the outboard, startling the birds into flight.
When it was his, he would ban the use of outboards at the estate. Except that Agnès said she had accessed some money. Enough to keep going.
She had to be selling something. Not the family silver. What was left of it after her grandfather had sold the finest pieces wouldn’t make the kind of money she needed.
It had to be something personal and the way she’d choked up meant that it was precious to her, presumably something left to her by one or other of her parents. Wills were a matter of public record, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find out what it was.
He turned on his phone and called someone who, if he couldn’t access it online, would have the information as soon as the probate office opened on Monday. Then he flipped through his messages until he found the one he was waiting for and smiled at the attached photograph.
He put out the fire, cleaned up his camp, took in his rod and stowed everything neatly away beneath the tarpaulin, which he covered with some of the fallen branches that littered the island. Then he stepped into the dinghy and rowed, without disturbing a single living thing, across the creek to the town, where he tied up at the quay.
CHAPTER SIX
Well, that didn’t go exactly to plan. I intended to have a quiet chat with Kam on the privacy of the island, explain the situation in a calm and sensible manner, but calm flies out of the window when he’s around. Arguing with him makes me feel alive. Kissing him makes me feel alive. Unfortunately he now thinks I’m a crazy arsonist.
Agnès Prideaux’s Journal
AGNÈS TOOK HER grandmother a cup of tea, planning to stay for a while to give Pam a break. ‘How are you feeling, Grandma?’
Her grandmother had dropped off to sleep in front of daytime television, but stirred, looked up and there was that moment of blankness Agnès dreaded before she said, ‘You’re very untidy, Agnès.’
She sighed with relief; today wasn’t one of those days.
‘You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Whatever have you been doing?’
‘It’s a bit breezy out.’ She sat down. ‘Grandma, I need to tell you something.’
She wasn’t listening, she was looking at the tray. ‘You haven’t brought me the biscuits I like.’
‘I’m sorry. The guests finished them all.’
‘Guests? What guests?’ She’d forgotten the question the minute she’d asked it. ‘I don’t like these.’ She picked them up and threw them across the room. Dora galloped after them. ‘What did I tell you? They’re dog biscuits.’
‘Grandma,’ she said, to get her attention. ‘I need you to listen to me.’
‘Why? You never make any sense.’
‘It’s important.’
She made an impatient gesture. ‘Well, get on with it.’
‘Do you remember Kam Faulkner?’
; ‘Who?’
‘Jenny Faulkner’s son.’
‘Jenny?’ For a moment she looked blank and then her face lit up. ‘Jenny was my treasure. She always brought me my favourite biscuits. Such a pretty woman. Hugo liked her a lot.’
‘Did he?’ Agnès frowned. ‘You told me that he was desperate for an excuse to get rid of her.’
‘Well, she didn’t like him, did she? Wouldn’t be nice to him and you know your grandfather, he always has to have his own way. She’d better stay out of his way.’
Nice?
‘She isn’t here, Grandma, just Kam. And Grandfather died last year.’
‘You didn’t bring the biscuits I like,’ she grumbled. ‘And for goodness’ sake do something with your hair. You look a mess. You always did look a mess. Chasing after that boy like a little tramp. A lady wears it up,’ she said. ‘Where’s Pam?’
‘Having a break. I’ll wait until she comes back.’
‘You’ll do as you’re told for once and fix your hair.’
Dora, having eaten the biscuits, followed her in the hope of more and Agnès picked her up, tucking her under her arm, holding the warm little body close for a moment.
Dora wagged her tail, licked her hand as if she understood.
‘I wasn’t a tramp,’ she whispered into her honey-coloured coat. ‘I loved him. I still love him.’ There had never been anyone else.
Pam, who had started working in the castle as a chambermaid before gradually become her grandmother’s carer, was in the kitchen having a cup of tea. ‘I’m sorry, Pam, she sent me away.’
‘Your hair?’ she asked.
It had been a battle since she’d turned eighteen. Wearing it loose, or clipped back, had been an act of defiance that she should have outgrown. ‘Maybe I should just wear it up.’
Pam patted her arm. ‘You wear it how you like, dear. If it wasn’t that, it would be something else.’
‘Biscuits. We’ve run out of those iced ones she likes.’
‘I’ve got a pack in my bag.’
‘You are my treasure, Pam. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
She used the mirror in her office to brush out her hair and pin it up like the lady she would never be and tried not to think about what her grandmother had said.
There was no doubt about what ‘nice’ implied and she was horrified that Kam’s lovely mother had been subjected to sexual harassment. Her grandfather couldn’t have sacked her for not giving him what he wanted; she would have been able to take him to an employment tribunal and he’d have had to pay to shut her up.
He had just waited, sure that her teenage son would, sooner or later, give him just cause. Did Kam know? Had his mother told him?
‘Forget it,’ she told her reflection. ‘No good will come of raking it up now.’
She had to focus on her plans for the future. Except that her mind was more interested in how she’d missed the fact that Kam had become a multimillionaire. A man with the kind of money to buy the estate, put it to rights and then pay staff, property taxes, the day-to-day running costs. The water bill alone ran into thousands...
The castle had always been a wealthy man’s plaything. There had been hunting and fishing, some grazing land for the small herd of cows that had once supported the dairy, but there were no farms, no rents, no crops to support the estate.
There was no income other than what she could make with the B & B, craft workshops and the gardens. And the castle was on the far side of the creek, a ferry ride from the town. Fine for a visit, but it had to offer something special to tempt guests to stay.
Without the visitors to the gardens she would not survive. She had to make the most of them and Kam’s idea of a wildflower walk with a picnic tea would be an excellent addition.
Maybe she could arrange some gardening talks? Lessons? Plant sales? Back in the days when there were gardeners, they’d boosted their meagre wages by selling plants they grew from cuttings, by division or from seed to visitors. She’d resisted opening a gift shop, but her roses were now with a grower who was producing them in quantity and a garden shop would be a good fit.
She jotted down ideas as they came to her, trying not to think about Kam and how he’d taken her into his arms to comfort her, the way he’d looked at her, kissed her.
She touched her lips, reliving the moment, then shook her head. Once before she’d been weak, stupid, thinking only of herself. This time she had to be strong for everyone at the castle. Kam’s anger might have turned in a different direction, but he couldn’t help her and his heart-melting kiss was a distraction she couldn’t afford.
Easy to think, but it was hard to let go of a dream and she took Elizabeth Prideaux’s cracked and fragile journal from the hidden drawer in her desk. Before she could open it the phone rang.
It was Joanne at the tourist office, calling to ask when they could put up the bluebell poster. She mentioned the idea of the wildflower walk and picnic and received an enthusiastic send-me-a-photograph-and-a-date response, which was cheering.
‘Sorry, Kam,’ she murmured as she ended the call. He’d made a fortune selling textiles; he could probably come up with dozens of ideas to help her sell the castle as a destination.
She wrote a note in her diary, checked the bookings for the following week, but his success story was nagging at her. How had he done that?
She’d glanced at a headline about two market traders creating an empire but couldn’t understand why the story hadn’t been picked up by the local paper and, unable to concentrate on anything else, she surrendered to curiosity and typed his name into the search engine.
There was no Kamal. There were, however, links to a KD Faulkner.
Was that him? Did Kam have a middle name? There had always been a tradition of Prideaux children having French names, but she had also been named for Elizabeth, who had lived in the castle before Henri ever set eyes on it. Who had held onto it after his death.
She placed her hand on her namesake’s diary for a moment, then clicked on the first link. It was from one of the financial papers about the launch of an online company that had become a household name. She’d used it herself. She’d read a snippet in a homes and gardens magazine featuring a new bedding design at a special price. It had been exactly what she’d been looking for, for one of the B & B rooms in the castle.
She’d ordered a set, thinking that if it wasn’t up to snuff she could send it back. What she’d actually done was buy more.
That was Kam’s company?
How?
The article didn’t say. It had been written in that typical low-key style favoured by the financial pages. It wasn’t about the personalities, it was about the money. A lot of money. Everyone who worked for the company had been given shares as part of their salary and become wealthy overnight when it had gone public.
The two partners who’d founded it, former market traders, Raj Chowdry and KD Faulkner, had made a nine-figure fortune in the scramble for shares and still held more than fifty per cent of the stock.
She went back to the search engine, but it was just more of the same. There were no flashy photographs of nightclub celebrations in any of the lifestyle magazines. No brooding portraits of the new millionaires on the block in the Sunday supplements.
KD Faulkner and his partner had, it seemed, both chosen to keep a low profile, which was rare when everyone was on social media and being famous was the career choice of anyone over the age of five.
She checked social media. The company had a page, but not Kam. On the point of trying to dig deeper, she stopped and, feeling a little grubby, left the Internet and got on with some proper work.
* * *
‘What about cats, Kam?’ Barb asked. ‘Sight hounds are hard-wired to go after cats.’
‘There are no cats at the castle. Agnès is allergic to them.’ She’d once been giv
en a kitten and started wheezing within minutes of her first cuddle. She’d had no pets after that. The only animal had been Lady Jane’s dachshund.
‘So, you’re not just down for a break to catch up with old friends, then? Support your favourite animal sanctuary?’
He’d spoken without thinking, and Barb, who’d made him work off the fees for his first dog by cleaning out the kennels—and who he’d gone back to help when he didn’t have to—had been quick to pick up the slip.
‘Where else would I go when I was looking for a dog?’
‘I’m flattered, but shouldn’t you check with Agnès first? I’m pretty sure they don’t take pets at the castle and lurchers can be a handful.’
‘I’m camping out,’ he said. ‘And I can handle Henry.’ He’d got down on the floor so that he was on the dog’s eye level. They shared a conspiratorial look and Henry leaned against him so that they were shoulder to shoulder, as if confirming that it was the two of them against the world. And cats.
‘Henry?’ She laughed. ‘He had you from the moment you walked in, didn’t he?’
‘You had me. You lured me here with a photograph of a fit young Labrador and then put Henry in my path.’
She didn’t deny it. ‘He’s very like the dog you had as a boy.’
‘He has longer legs than Tramp.’ His shaggy coat was a lighter mix of grey and white and there was a dark patch over his right eye that gave him a piratical look. It had been love at first sight. ‘What’s his background, Barb?’ he asked, rubbing the dog’s ear.
‘We don’t know. He was found wandering, all skin, bones and fleas. He’s been cleaned up, had a full health check and all his shots. We’ve had him for a few months, so he’s regained his weight. Normally I’d run a check on a new owner before I let a dog out of my charge, but I know you. He’s good to go.’
‘In other words, there was no rush to take him.’
‘Not true. Quite a few people have fallen for him. He’s got bags of character, a lovely nature, but there was the cat problem, and I cannot deny that he needs an experienced owner. I wouldn’t let him go to just anyone.’