Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
G illian heard a tapping sound against the drawing room window. Looking up from the framed photograph of her younger self winning the point-to-point steeple chase, she noticed Bridget’s face squashed against the glass and her hand gesticulating towards the front door. Gillian placed the frame into the cardboard box beside her and got up.
“Sorry, Bridget,” she said as she opened the front door. “I heard the bell but forgot I’d dismissed the staff. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to.”
“Have you ever answered the door yourself?” Bridget asked with a grin as she stepped into the small, covered porch.
Gillian sniffed. “Of course I have. There was the time when Bramingham caught flu in 1998. We were without a butler for a whole week.”
Bridget laughed as she removed her coat and hung it on one of the pegs.
“I’d put it back on if I were you; all the heating is off now. Mind the boxes as you come through.”
“We missed you at the WI meeting last night,” Bridget said, putting her coat back on as she negotiated the boxes blocking her way into the great hall. “I thought you said you would consider coming.”
“I did consider it. Then I decided against it.”
“Why? You missed a fascinating talk on the history of knitting.”
“In which case I definitely made the right decision.”
Apart from the fact her hair still desperately needed a cut and colour after she’d cancelled her last appointment — she couldn’t risk her card bouncing — Gillian had felt no desire to see anyone other than Bridget. She’d cut off all contact with the village following the wake six weeks ago and had no wish to show her face.
“You still haven’t told me why you decided against it,” Bridget said, following Gillian into the drawing room and seating herself beside a sleeping Agatha.
“Haven’t I?” Gillian was hoping to avoid answering the question. She couldn’t bear to face the village, not after her speech declaring how she would be taking the helm and all the changes she would be making. The humiliation was too much. She’d been lady of the manor all her adult life, and now she was lady of nothing. The villagers looked to Kingsford Manor and herself as a constant in the community. She exhaled slowly, her breath heavy with the weight of everything pressing on her. “Oh, how am I going to show my face in the village again?”
“People understand it isn’t your fault,” Bridget urged as she stroked Agatha’s head.
“It doesn’t change the fact it’s happened. The last thing I need is pity!”
“You’ll have to come out of hiding at some point. We have the summer flower show to organise.”
“I am not hiding,” Gillian bit back as she began pacing the room, knowing it was exactly what she was doing. “Where are we to hold the flower show now? Where are we to hold any event? This building was more than my home; it was the very heart of the village.”
“We’ll have to use the village hall.”
Gillian’s top lip curled.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Bridget replied with an optimistic grin.
“It’s not so good either. It’s not Kingsford Manor for a start.”
“We’ll manage. Who knows, the new owner might be as amenable to hosting village events as the Carmichaels are — were.”
“No one is as amenable as the Carmichaels,” Gillian replied, pushing aside the thought of having to attend, let alone organise, all the village events in what would be her former home. “We’ve prided ourselves on opening our home to the community, providing them with jobs for over four hundred years, and now we are reduced to this? Simply being one of them?”
Bridget grinned and rolled her eyes.
“We don’t even know much about them,” Gillian added, her voice beginning to crack. “They could be some ghastly city type who will erect a six-foot steel fence around the entire estate.”
“They couldn’t do that even if they tried, not with a public footpath going through it.”
A new thought caused a chill to run through Gillian. “The only reason the footpath is there is because we never disputed it.” She leaned forward in her seat, hand clutching her stomach. “What if the new owner reroutes it around the outside of the estate?”
Knowing she could legally access the grounds and no one could stop her from returning to the land she’d called home had kept Gillian going. Over the years, it had become her escape — a place to be alone, ride Dudley, and find peace.
“Take a breath. If it happens, then we’ll deal with it,” Bridget insisted. “The whole village will. Together.”
Gillian inhaled slowly, trying to push the fear away.
“What time do you have to be out by?” Bridget asked.
“Three o’clock.”
Bridget looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t the removal men be here by now?”
“We are the removal men, Bridget — or women. The staff moved the few items of furniture I was keeping and everything from the kitchen before they left. There are only what’s left of my personal effects boxed in the hall and in here; everything else has already gone into storage.”
“What about all the tapestries and paintings? All the furniture? You can’t leave it all.”
“They are an integral part of the building. You can’t remove them; they’ve been here for centuries. Anyway, where would I put them? I can only store a few personal possessions. It would cost a fortune to store hundred-year-old four-poster beds and thirty-foot banqueting tables. Walter said the new owner was more than happy for them to be left and that they would include them in any future sale. I need them here for when I return.”
Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. “Return?”
“Yes. I have every intention of getting my home back one day.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet, but I won’t rest easy until I’m back where I rightfully belong.” Gillian reached for a button beside the mantelpiece. “I’ll have some tea brought through.” As she pushed the button, she realised her mistake and let out a sigh. Having no staff was going to take some getting used to. “I will make us some tea,” she corrected herself.
“Can you remember how?” Bridget teased.
Gillian narrowed her eyes at her friend as she left the room. Since moving into Kingsford Manor, she’d barely lifted a finger to prepare food or drink. It all arrived at the touch of a button and was served to her liking. When she returned with the tea tray, it was to find Bridget beckoning a sleepy Agatha onto her lap, where she curled up into a ball.
“Why does she never do that for me?” Gillian grumbled, setting the tea tray down on the table.
“Have you tried asking her?”
“No. I pick her up, put her there, and then she walks off.”
Bridget snickered as Gillian passed her a cup and saucer.
“We only got her to save money on pest control.”
“A cat isn’t a commodity, Gillian. Try treating her like a member of the family rather than a member of staff.” Taking a sip from her cup, she asked, “Have you changed tea?” Leaning forward, she lifted the lid on the teapot. A single teabag bobbed about in the murky water.
Gillian’s face flushed, and she set her cup and saucer on the table. “Tightening my belt is going to be a challenge.”
“What are you doing about Dudley?”
“The new owner has agreed he can stay where he is until I make new arrangements. I can’t bear moving him; we’ve never been apart. I was hoping they might allow him to stay, depending on their situation with their own horses, of course.”
“They might not have any.”
“Don’t be silly, Bridget; all the right country folk come with horses.”
“I don’t.”
Gillian lifted an eyebrow at her. “You can’t ride.” Checking her watch, she drained her teacup, winced at the taste, and stood. “I’ll clear up.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Bridget asked, as she quickly finished her tea.
“Would you mind checking the top floors? To make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Of course,” Bridget replied with a smile as she followed Gillian into the great hall and then made her way upstairs.
Gillian headed into the kitchen to wash up. As she packed the clean china into a box, she took in the kitchen. It was the first thing she’d changed when she moved in. Jonathon was a socialite and enjoyed drinking and partying to excess, and Gillian knew the space wouldn’t be able to keep up with the kind of future they had planned for the manor.
She designed the kitchen with the practicality of a commercial setup in mind, fitting it with stainless steel surfaces and appliances from top to bottom. A small area near the kitchen table, which held a stunning view over the estate’s southern expanse, was left more homely for family use, featuring a handful of cupboards, a marble worktop, and a traditional butler sink.
Whilst the kitchen remodel may not have aligned with the house’s Tudor character, it had been well received by the staff, earning her their admiration. It went on to cater countless parties over the decades. Even though it had become a little tired in recent years, it was still perfectly serviceable.
She opened the door leading off the kitchen, stepping into a space that starkly contrasted with the sleek stainless steel. The dining room, in particular, was one she would miss spending time in. An elegantly carved table was positioned at the centre of the room,in front of a large window. Being south-facing, the sun provided an abundance of light for meals throughout the day. A warmth radiated from the dark wooden floors, wood panelling, and historic fireplace, particularly in the winter months. French windows on the west side of the room led into a well-manicured garden and allowed a welcome breeze to flow in during the hot summer months.
Returning to the kitchen, Gillian collected the box she’d left there and, taking one last look around the room, suppressed the urge to be sick.
She found Bridget coming down the grand wooden staircase as she returned to the hall.
“All clear up there?”
“Yes, except for what looked like some old paintings in the attic. Should I bring them down?”
“No, leave them. They can be someone else’s problem.”
“Aren’t they worth anything?”
“No, just another money-wasting hobby of Jonathon’s. He went through a phase of picking up old paintings, thinking they would be worth something. The problem was he knew nothing about art. Thinking back, I don’t think he knew much about anything.”
“Shall we get these boxes loaded then?” Bridget suggested.
“I’ll make a start. Would you mind rounding up Agatha?” Gillian asked, picking up a cat box. “I get the feeling she might be more cooperative with you.”
Bridget took the box with a chuckle and disappeared into the drawing room. By the time she reappeared, Gillian was emerging from the porch, tying a scarf around her neck.
“That was more difficult than I expected,” Bridget said, her face flushed.
“Did you try asking her?” Gillian smirked, picking up the last box from inside the great hall.
“I did, but I don’t think she wants to leave.”
A wave of nausea hit Gillian again. “That makes two of us.”
Her eyes swept the hall one last time, a flicker of sadness crossing her face as she took in the familiar space. Swallowing her emotions, she walked to the front door, stepping outside with Bridget following silently at her heels. She closed the large, wooden door behind them, turned the key in the lock, and took a step back.
Looking above the door at the coat of arms chiselled into the stone, she wiped a tear from her eye. It might not have been her ancestral home, but she’d lived and breathed as a Carmichael for most of her life. The ties to this place coursed through her blood probably more deeply than they ever did through Jonathon’s. He had taken it for granted; it was natural when you grew up with it, and few knew the real pain of poverty.
Her stomach knotted as memories surfaced of a time before Kingsford. She couldn’t return to that life; she wouldn’t. She’d come too far. The knot tightened as her thoughts shifted to the future. Without land or wealth, who was she?
Bridget’s hand lightly gripped her shoulder, pulling her from her thoughts.
Grateful for the support, Gillian gave it a tap. “I won’t breathe easy until I get it back, Bridget.”
“Don’t rest everything on that hope. Try and see this as a fresh start.”
“It’s not a hope.”
“Look to the future, not the past, eh?” Bridget encouraged.
“What if the future is the past?”
“The future is never the past.”
“Hmm.” Gillian turned on her heel, in disagreement with her friend. The past was always in the future; it followed you everywhere, serving as a constant reminder of everything you would rather forget.
They headed for her trusty old beaten-up Land Rover Defender. It didn’t quite carry the look of Jonathon’s new Range Rover, which had been repossessed. Discovering it wasn’t even hers and had been bought through a hire purchase agreement was another little surprise she’d been gifted by Jonathon from beyond the grave.
Thankfully the old Defender carried the same sense of class, if not more. It didn’t have all the modern conveniences, but in a way, she preferred it. This one was a symbol of old money while the other represented new wealth — and there was nothing ghastlier than that.
Bridget climbed into the passenger seat beside her, lifting the cat box with little grace onto her lap. An angry meow came from within.
“Sorry, Agatha.”
Gillian watched Kingsford Manor become smaller in the rearview mirror as she drove away, and she brought the vehicle to a stop just before the estate gates. Putting on the handbrake, she turned off the engine and stepped down from the Land Rover, taking in the small, one-bedroomed Georgian lodge.
“I must say, it was an awfully good idea of Walter’s for you to move in here,” Bridget remarked, joining her outside the vehicle, still clutching the cat box.
“It didn’t sit easy to begin with, I can tell you. Separating the estate wasn’t ideal. If I couldn’t afford to keep it all, though, I could at least avoid selling everything.”
Looking back down the drive to Kingsford Manor, she smiled. This lodge would do for now. She would be able to keep an eye on the new owner and do what she needed to keep it safe until she could work out a way to get it back.