Spellbinding Spirit (Greenview Manor Tales #5)

6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Catherine

T he morning sunlight filters through the kitchen window as I push my plate away, unfinished. The breakfast was excellent. Sebastian’s cooking skills never disappoint but I’m distracted by the thought that’s been buzzing in my mind.

“There is something else,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

Sebastian looks up from his own plate with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You mean on the tape? Because I’m still processing that.”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Before I came here. When I was digging into Sally’s past.”

He sets his fork down, curiosity piqued. “What did you find?”

“I didn’t want to bring it up until I was sure we’d found something in the attic,” I say, twisting my fingers nervously. “But now that we’ve heard that voice... I found Sally’s family.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Her family? As in living relatives?”

I nod as a little thrill of excitement tingles through me. “She had a sister called Lillian. After Sally died Lillian’s family stayed in Fellside. One of her descendants is still here… a Mrs Harris. She’s in her seventies now and she lives on the edge of the village.”

Sebastian leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “And you’ve talked to her?”

“Not yet.”

His lips quirk into a sceptical smile. “And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

“I wanted to wait until we had more to go on,” I admit, spreading my hands. “. I didn’t want to show up at the poor woman’s house with nothing but theories.”

He shakes his head, half amused. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“And yet here you are tagging along.” I grin. “I thought I could call her and see if she’s willing to meet with us this morning.”

“Do it,” Sebastian holds out my phone to me, his eyes full of curiosity.

Mrs Harris’s lives in a picture-perfect cottage on the outskirts of Fellside, its stone walls draped with ivy. Even on this drizzly day in February it looks welcoming. Despite the charming surroundings, I can feel my nerves buzzing in anticipation as Sebastian pulls his car into the gravel drive.

After I blurted out the whole story on the phone Mrs Harris just giggled and asked me to come over for tea. She was surprised when I called but willing to meet us. She said she remembers stories about Sally… stories her grandmother told her. The thought of being able to get background stories on what Sally was like makes me feel giddy. There is plenty of research available on the lives of the upper classes back then but information on the intimate details of the lives of the working classes are not easy to get hold of.

Sebastian glances at me as he parks, his expression softening. “Relax Cat. You’re just meeting a sweet old lady. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I know. But what if she thinks I’m crazy? It wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter.

“She won’t,” Sebastian assures me, getting out of the car. Let's hope he is right.

The door opens before we even reach it and a spry woman with bright eyes and silver hair greets us with a warm smile. “You must be Cat,” she says, her voice brisk and friendly. “And Sebastian. I’ve heard of you.”

He flashes his most charming smile. “All good things, I hope.”

She laughs. “Mostly. Please come in. I’ve put the kettle on.”

The cottage is cosy and cluttered in the most endearing way, full of books, photos, and knickknacks that speak to a life well-lived. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his early forties is working on the banister on the stairs leading to the upper floor.

“This is my grandson Alex,” Mrs Harris introduces us. “Alex, these are the people I was telling you about. Cat and Sebastian.”

Alex turns and I see a flicker of recognition pass between him and Sebastian.

“Sebastian,” Alex says, extending a hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Alex,” Sebastian replies with a grin. “Still saving lives up in the fells?”

“Someone has to,” Alex chuckles.

“Cat, Alex is a member of the Fellside Mountain Rescuers,” Sebastian introduces me. Of course they know each other; welcome to village life!

Alex nods to me. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I say, trying not to let my nerves show.

Mrs Harris ushers us into the sitting room where a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits wait on a coffee table. “I gather you’re looking into Sally,” she says as we sit. “It’s a story that’s been whispered about for generations in my family. My grandmother Lillian was Sally’s sister.”

Although I already know all of this, my pulse quickens because her words make Sally feel much more real than anything I've read about her. “What do you know about her? What did your grandmother tell you about Sally?”

“Not as much as I had liked to,” Mrs Harris sighs. “Lillian was a child when Sally passed. But she did say that after Sally died, Mrs Bryant, the wife of the master of Greenview Manor, came to the family. She brought a small chest of Sally’s things. Said she thought it was only right we should have them.”

“What was in the chest?” Sebastian asks, leaning forward slightly.

“A few personal items,” Mrs. Harris says. “A book, some dried flowers, and letters. Most of them were from George including the last letter he sent her.”

I feel my breath catch. “Do you still have it?”

Mrs Harris smiles. “Of course. It’s been sitting in the attic for years. Alex, love, could you please fetch the little brown chest?”

Alex nods and heads upstairs. The sound of his boots echoes faintly as we sit in tense anticipation.

When he returns he’s carrying a small, weathered chest. Its edges are worn smooth with age and the brass hinges dulled but intact. He sets it carefully on the coffee table and Mrs Harris motions for me to open it.

The smell of aged paper and dried flowers greets me. There’s a slim, leather-bound book with pages yellowed with time, and a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. Beneath them is a delicate spray of pressed flowers, so brittle they seem to whisper of a long-forgotten summer.

Mrs Harris watches me closely. “You’re welcome to take the letters with you if you think they’ll help you with your research.”

I look up at her, my throat tight with gratitude. “Thank you. This means more than I can say.”

Mrs Harris nods, her expression kind. “I think Sally would want someone to know her story.”

After we leave Mrs Harris, we don’t have much time before we have to leave for our investigation but I couldn’t resist heading back to Sebastian’s to take a peek at those letters.

Sebastian stretches out on the sofa, one arm slung lazily along the backrest and his other hand cradling a mug of tea. The little chest from Mrs Harris sits open on the coffee table between us, the letters carefully arranged in date order.

“Go on, then,” Sebastian says, nodding at the stack. “Let’s see what young George has to say for himself.”

I smile faintly, lifting the first letter from the pile. The paper is yellowed and fragile but the writing is surprisingly neat with ink that’s faded but still legible.

“Okay, this one’s dated 23 April 1915,” I say, clearing my throat. “Just after he arrived at Yp… Ypres.”

Sebastian leans back, his expression softening. “Hit me.”

23 April 1915

Dear Sally,

Well, we’ve made it. This place... it ain’t like I thought it’d be. You read about war in the papers, but the papers don’t tell you about the smell. Mud, smoke, and worse than that. Can’t wash the stink out of your nose, no matter what you do.

The lads are keeping their spirits up best they can. They joke about the rats—they’re big as cats here—but I can see it in their eyes. Same as I feel. We’re all just waiting. Don’t know for what, exactly, but it’s there, hanging over us like a bad storm.

I think about you all the time, my love. Every night when I lay my head down I try to picture you back home. The way your hair catches the light, the way you laugh. It keeps me steady, thinking about you. I’ve not had a letter yet but that’s alright. I know you’ll write when you can. And in the meantime I’ll keep writing, because it helps. Makes me feel like I’m not so far away.

Yours always, George.

I lower the letter and glance at Sebastian. He’s staring at the ceiling and idly drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Rats as big as cats, eh?” he says, his tone light but his expression thoughtful.

“Guess the papers didn’t prepare him for that,” I reply, setting the letter aside. “Or the rest of it.”

“Poor lad,” Sebastian murmurs. “He doesn’t seem to want to be there. But then did any of them want to be?”

I nod, picking up the next letter. “This one’s a bit later, 1 st of May. Let’s see how he’s holding up.”

1 May 1915

Dear Sally,

Another week down though it feels like it’s been months. The noise here is something else. Guns going off at all hours, and the shells... when they hit you can feel it in your bones. The ground shakes like it’s alive. Sometimes I catch myself shaking too. Try not to let the lads see but it’s hard, my love. It’s really hard.

I’ve been thinking about when we walked up to Grizedale Tarn last summer. You remember? You made me promise we’d do it again, and I said I’d take you to Derwentwater next time. I think about that a lot. About you, standing there grinning like you’d conquered the world. I hold onto that memory like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

I also can’t forget our night on Valentine’s Day. It was perfect and if I don’t make it out of this, I am just glad we at least had this one night. One night where we just belonged to each other.

Still no letter from you but I reckon it’s the post. They say letters go missing all the time out here. But I’ll keep writing. Helps me stay sane, talking to you like this.

All my love, George.

I glance up at Sebastian as I fold the letter. His jaw is tight and he’s staring into the middle distance. “You alright?” I ask softly.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Just... hard to hear, isn’t it? He’s trying so hard to stay brave, but you can tell it’s eating him up inside.”

“He’s holding on to her,” I say. “It’s all he’s got.”

Sebastian nods, and for a moment neither of us speaks. Finally I pick up another letter. “Next one. 15 th of May.”

15 May 1915

Dear Sally,

Things have gotten worse here. The air’s been thick with this awful yellow fog the last few days. Burns your throat and your eyes. The officers say it’s gas and we’ve been given cloths to wet and hold over our mouths, but it don’t do much. Lads are coughing, some worse than that. Every day feels heavier, like we’re walking through tar.

My love, you’re my light in all this dark. I don’t know how much more I can take but I close my eyes and see your face, and it keeps me going. I know I’ve not heard from you but I’ve decided it don’t matter. It’s enough just to imagine you reading these letters, maybe smiling like you do.

I’ve got to believe this’ll end someday and when it does we’ll be back in Fellside, just like we said. I’ll take you to Derwentwater, my love. I’ll take you anywhere you want.

Always yours, George.

When I finish I realise my voice is trembling slightly. I fold the letter carefully and settle it back in the chest with the others. Sebastian is silent with an unreadable expression. He carefully picks up the last letter Sally ever received and reads it aloud.

George’s joy of hearing from Sally is apparent through his words. But so are the terrors of the war. It becomes clear that the situation he was in felt like hell and he expected to die, but what kept him going were his memories of Sally.

“They never got to take that trip, did they?” Sebastian says quietly after he finishes the letter.

“No,” I say, my throat tight. “They didn’t.”

The room feels heavy, the weight of those letters pressing down on both of us. And then Sebastian shifts closer, his arm brushing mine. “They deserved better,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” I whisper, looking at him. “They did.”

For a moment, we just sit there, the space between us charged with something unspoken. And then he leans in, his lips brushing mine. It’s soft and tentative at first but then his hand cups my face and he deepens it, all the years of tension and unspoken feelings pouring into that one kiss.

When we finally pull back we’re both breathless. Sebastian chuckles softly, his forehead resting against mine. “This time it definitely was me,” he murmurs.

I laugh, though my chest feels like it might burst. “What are we doing?”

“Dealing with old ghosts,” he chuckles.

I swat at his arm because I know perfectly well he’s not talking about Sally and George. But what happened years ago… we agreed back then to move on and ignore it. But did we ever really move on? We’ve both been famously single, dating now and then but never anything serious. Sometimes I wonder if it’s ghosts from our past that are holding us back.

“Let’s get ready for the night,” I say, acting as if the kiss never happened. What’s a little more pretending anyway?