Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
TWO MONTHS LATER
“ T his is simply ridiculous!” Gillian griped as she entered the small entrance hall of Kingsford Lodge.
“He says you don’t have a say because you aren’t on the church committee anymore,” Bridget replied, closing the front door behind her.
“Because he removed me! How dare he!” Gillian snapped, her fingers trembling as she tore off her gloves and threw them down on the hall table. “I’ve always been on the committee! I created it, for Christ’s sake — literally! When the church was on its knees and begging for a new roof. I bet he’s forgotten that!” Her chest heaved as she struggled to compose herself.
“You were never on it in an official capacity,” Bridget rejoined, “not like me as parish clerk, only as owner of the manor. And since you’re no longer — ”
“Yes, thank you,” Gillian glared at Bridget, passing her coat to her to hang up on the stand next to her. “I don’t believe I need the technicalities pointed out to me. If I’d been able to predict the Carmichaels’ future removal from the manor thirty-odd years ago, I would have ensured our continued position on the committee regardless of it. I wouldn’t have left it as an honorary position so it could be snatched from me, but unfortunately, I did not. And this nonsense about moving the church service from ten to eleven, it’s the thin end of the wedge I tell you! A ten o’clock service gives me enough time to ride Dudley before lunch at one. It’s always been that way.”
“On the plus side, it gives you time to make your lunch now you have to do it yourself,” Bridget pointed out.
Gillian glared at her friend and shook her head. “That does not bring the comfort you think it does, Bridget. Did you notice the quality of the toilet paper in the chapter house has gone downhill too?” Gillian made her way into the small sitting room, scarcely drawing breath before she continued. “I’ll feel less guilty about stopping my donation to the church now. The reverend has never been my biggest fan. Men like him don’t appreciate women guiding them as to the right way of things. If he insists on remaining unmarried, then how will he ever know the right way of things? Reverends come and go, but we Carmi — ”
Gillian stopped, realising she really was the end of the Carmichaels. Pushing the thought away, she took a brief breath before beginning again. “After everything I have done for that man. And having the gall to ask me to move back a pew at the service yesterday! We have sat at the front for over four hundred years. No doubt we paid for the blasted thing. It’s not a Kingsford Manor pew; it’s a Carmichael pew. I won’t be moving, that’s for certain. The new owner hasn’t even deigned to visit their house; I can’t see them visiting their pew anytime soon.”
“Still no sign of movement then?” Bridget asked, joining Gillian by the window.
“No. Why buy it only to leave the place empty for two months? Houses need to be lived in, especially that one. I bet they won’t even live in it full-time; it will become a weekend pad.” Gillian picked up a pair of binoculars and directed them at the manor. “I could do with getting my post.”
“Your post? Did you not redirect it?”
“It’s an expense I can ill afford.” Although that was true, the real reason was to make an introduction to the new owner when they arrived. The estate agent insisted she left the estate for any viewings, so she had never met them. The one time there had been any report of activity at the manor was a few days after it sold. Because it coincided with a day out for Bridget’s birthday, Gillian had annoyingly missed them again. “Why should I pay when they walk past my house to get to the manor? I’m effectively saving them money, or at least the weight of carrying my post the extra distance.”
“Could you not tell the postman?”
“Oh, I did. He said it was more than his job was worth to be misdirecting post from how it’s addressed.”
Directing the binoculars to the drawing room window, she could see the curtain closed as she had left it. It was a room she should be in right now, sipping from a cup of loose-leaf Earl Grey. With her budget not extending to her favourite tea, she was losing her taste for it. Every cup of inferior bagged tea from the local supermarket served as a reminder of how far she’d fallen. A surge of anger bubbled up inside her and lodged itself in her throat, where it tightened and pulsed with a burning intensity.
“I’m afraid I won’t be much company today, Bridget,” she said. “I need some air. I’ll take Dudley for a ride. The benefit of the place being empty is there is no one to tell me where I can and cannot ride.”
“Small mercies.” Bridget chuckled. “I’ll see myself out.”
Gillian followed her into the hall, taking herself up the small staircase that wound around it. Even after two months of living in the lodge, she was still struggling to adjust to the scale of it. She’d never considered herself to be claustrophobic before, but then again, decades had passed since she’d lived in such a small house. Shuddering at the memory, she wondered if she would ever adjust. Reminding herself of her plan to return to the manor one day, she told herself it didn’t matter if she didn’t adjust; this was a temporary situation after all. She would need to keep reminding herself of that.
Having strapped herself into her black riding jacket, beige jodhpurs, and black boots, she headed out to the stables. Located on the eastern side of the estate, the stable block had been added at the same time as the lodge and was situated directly between it and the manor.
Comprising four stables, a coach house, a small groom’s flat, and four garages, all set around a cobbled courtyard, it was too convenient to lose. If she were able to retain accommodation for Dudley, it would likely cost her, but hopefully it would be for a fraction of the price that others were asking — that was, if there was space. Losing it would mean travelling twice a day to check on him. The time she had; the money she did not.
Dudley trotted over to see her as soon as Gillian came into sight of the small plot of land partitioned off behind the stable. She rubbed the bridge of his nose, careful not to catch herself on the electric fence as she did so.
“What are we going to do with you, eh?” she murmured to the horse.
The black horse stamped the ground with his hoof, sending a brief cloud of dust into the air.
“Don’t you worry. I won’t see you go hungry. I’ll make sure you get your rations first. Let’s get you tacked up, and then we’ll stretch your legs.”
The feel of the breeze against her face ten minutes later, as she cantered across the parkland, was like nothing else. Pulling Dudley to a stop on the hill opposite Kingsford Manor brought a tightness to her chest, though. To see the building empty was the harshest punishment Jonathon could have exacted on her. Being poor was unbearable; seeing Kingsford alone and abandoned ate away at her core. Tearing her moistening eyes away, she pulled the reins and directed Dudley back across the field towards the stables.
Maybe she should have made a clean break, left the area entirely, and started fresh somewhere new — somewhere she could be herself. She wasn’t even sure who she was anymore, and what was she without the manor anyway?
A low hum filled the air. Looking around, she spotted a helicopter coming in their direction. She expected it to veer off in another direction, but it only came closer. The hum became a thrumming that began vibrating the air. The wind whipped the loose hair cascading from under her riding hat as the helicopter passed above her head.
Dudley reared up at the sound. Feeling herself losing control, she instinctively slipped her feet from the stirrups and whipped her leg around, allowing herself to slide off the side of him and onto her feet. Running around to the front of him, she retook the reins.
“Whoa! There’s a good boy.”
As she tightened her grip and regained control of the animal, her mind leapt to what could have happened if her instincts hadn’t taken over. How lucky she was, and how some were not. Freezing at that point could have cost her everything. With the fresh reminder of life’s harsh unpredictability, her legs weakened, and a numbing chill filled her veins. Her pounding heart felt like it was pumping ice through her, tensing her muscles and making her body feel as if gravity were intensifying.
In the distance she could make out the helicopter, its echoes quieter now, telling her it was about to land on the lawn. Removing her black leather glove, she stroked Dudley’s neck. His soft hair soothed her as she closed her eyes and drew in some deep breaths. Dudley nuzzled at her as if to apologise.
“It’s okay, boy. It wasn’t your fault. Let’s get you safely in your stable, and then I’ll give that inconsiderate pilot a piece of my mind.”
Having completed her shutdown checks, Viola Berkley opened the helicopter door and jumped down onto the expansive grassy lawn clutching a small box. Giving a nod of gratitude to Douglas, her concierge pilot who would be returning the helicopter for her, she grabbed a Louis Vuitton Keepall and shut the door.
Stepping away from the landing site, she covered a yawn with her hand. Despite the short flight from London, the intense concentration required to pilot the helicopter always left her drained.
As she walked across the lawn toward the house, she noted the need for proper lighting to make nighttime landings possible. Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman striding toward her with determined speed. As she drew closer, her stiff posture, clenched fists and contorted expression made Viola’s steps falter. The woman stopped abruptly a few metres away.
“I demand to speak to the pilot of this ghastly contraption!” The woman’s voice, seething with anger, easily projected over the sound of the idling helicopter blades. She glared at Douglas, who was manoeuvring himself into the pilot’s seat.
“That would be me,” Viola replied, raising an eyebrow.
“You!” The woman sniffed. “You can’t be the pilot.”
Viola tucked a strand of her long, wind-blown auburn hair behind her ear. “And yet I am.”
The woman glared, blue eyes piercing into her. “But… but you’re a woman.”
“Well observed,” Viola replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Amazingly, it doesn’t stop me from flying a helicopter. My ovaries are cleverly concealed, and even the helicopter is fooled.”
The woman’s gaze lingered on Viola. Her stern expression wavered, almost softening, as she studied her.
“I see being a woman doesn’t prevent you from being misogynistic,” Viola continued.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman snapped back, her face hardening again.
“I’m not the one who is being ridiculous.”
“You threw my horse. I could have been seriously injured or worse. This is the countryside, not Monaco. You can’t land here!”
“Why can’t I?” Viola demanded.
“I own the place,” the woman retorted, lifting her chin.
Viola arched a brow and folded her arms across her chest. “That makes two of us.”
The woman pulled back in surprise, fiddling with her riding gloves. “Oh! You’re the new… owner.”
“Viola Berkley. You must be the old one.”
The woman’s twitching upper lip told her she may have chosen the wrong word, using ‘old’; her reply confirmed it.
“ Previous … owner, yes,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Gillian Carmichael.”
“I hope your horse is all right,” Viola said gently, feeling she should at least try to diffuse some of the tension.
“Yes. He’s in the stable.”
“Ah, yes, that would be my stable too.”
“Yes. I’m grateful to you for allowing me to stay on whilst I seek alternative suitable arrangements.”
Viola shrugged. “I don’t ride, so feel free to continue.”
She was torn about giving such an offer, but she’d always believed in killing people with kindness, and right now, it was clearly having that effect on Gillian. She could have been petty and told the woman to fuck off, yet the look on her face was far too satisfying.
Gillian finally responded, her smile stiff and reluctant. “Thank you.”
And that was the icing on the cake. Viola sensed those words were rarely uttered by the woman. Gillian Carmichael struck her as more of a ‘giving orders’ type, who was more likely to chastise you for doing something wrong than thank you for doing something right.
“You’re welcome.” She hitched her luggage up on her shoulder. “May I go now? It’s been a tiring journey, and I have a lot to do.”
“Yes, of course,” Gillian said, looking down as she stepped out of her path.
Viola pulled her mobile from her pocket, dialling a number as she strode across the front lawn. The call was answered immediately.
“Hey, I’ve arrived,” she said.
“And is it full of savages as you feared?” The sarcastic voice of her agent, Caroline, came back.
“One at least,” Viola replied. She looked behind her to see the woman still standing there, staring in her direction. What is her problem?! Their eyes met briefly before Gillian turned and strode away. “I’d barely touched down when I was set upon.”
She fell silent as she looked up at the house, the sound of Douglas lifting off behind her echoing off its walls.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, I — ” she said breathlessly, thinking about how this moment should have played out had things not changed so drastically. She pulled the box a little closer, her grip tightening as she tried to push away the thoughts of her mum’s ashes within.
“Hey, Viola. Take a deep breath.”
Viola inhaled, noticing how clean the air felt as it filled her lungs. “I didn’t expect to be here alone, you know.”
“I know, and yet, here you are, and you can handle it. Take some time, kick back, relax, and rest that beautiful voice of yours.”
Viola inhaled again. “Mmm, I’ll try. I’m not sure how much relaxing I’ll be doing. Work starts tomorrow.”
“Yes, and you hired a project manager for a reason.”
“I did,” Viola sighed.
“Let them get on with it. Read a book; write one if you need to. Get friendly with the savages if you must, though not too friendly. I’ll have your car delivered tomorrow; you can take in some country air. Do some healing, and then we’ll get you back to it.”
“Okay.”
“Keep checking in, won’t you?” Caroline asked. “I’ll need to hear from you regularly to make sure the savages haven’t killed you in some ancient village ritual.”
Viola snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past them if they are anything like the one I just met.”
There was no going back now, Viola realised as she hung up. She rounded the house and opened the front door — or, rather, she only just managed to open it with all the post blocking it. She hadn’t been expecting any post yet except junk mail, and this didn’t look like junk mail. Setting her luggage down, she picked up the letters, noticing some envelopes were addressed to Gillian Carmichael. Some of the postmarks were weeks old.
Speak of the devil… the postman was walking down the drive. She sifted through the rest, realising they were all for Gillian.
The postman approached her as he ferreted in his bag. “You the new owner?”
“Yes, Viola Berkley.”
He looked up and handed her a letter. “As I live and breathe,” he said with a smile. “My wife is a huge fan of yours; she’ll never believe I’m delivering your post. We even came to one of your concerts last year.”
“Thank you. Now these aren’t mine,” Viola said, trying to change the subject back to the matter in hand, literally. Checking the addressee on the additional letter he’d just given her, she added, “And neither is this one.”
“No, they would be Mrs Carmichael’s. She’s too important to redirect her post like the rest of us mere mortals,” he said, adjusting his postbag on his shoulder. “Or too poor,” he muttered.
“Well, I don’t want them,” Viola said, waving them at him to encourage him to take them.
“I am duty bound to only deliver as per the address as I told her.”
“Does she still live in the village?”
The postman chuckled. “Oh yeah, she never left.” He pointed to the lodge at the end of the drive. “You’re neighbours.”
Viola’s face soured.
“You can deliver them yourself. Or throw them at her. I’ve been inclined to do that a few times. You should take her cat back to her too,” he said, pointing to the side of her at one of the windows. “That’s hers un’all.”
“Cat?” Viola said, her eyes shooting to the window, where a black cat was sat, watching them with an air of quiet judgement.
She turned back, only to find the postman sauntering up the drive, whistling to himself. He stepped aside to allow a grocery delivery van to pass, it was right on time. She was desperate for a coffee, but with the delivery from John Lewis with her new coffee machine, crockery, and other essentials like bedding not due until later, she would have to wait.
By the time she’d unpacked the shopping and made it to the drawing room where the cat was last seen, she found it curled up on one of the Chesterfield sofas.
“Hello there,” she greeted the animal. “How did you get in? Did you sneak in when I wasn’t looking?”
The cat opened one eye and then closed it again.
Giving the cat a stroke on the head to gauge its temper, she said, “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
The cat purred.
She ran her hand over the sofa. Although clearly old, they both had a worn-in charm that appealed to her. Discovering the place could come partially furnished had been a pleasant surprise.
“I have to kick you out, kitty,” she said, turning to the task at hand. “This is my home now, and I don’t think it will go down too well with your mistress if you move in with me.”
Brushing her hand over the cat’s back, she slipped her other one under it and picked it up, cradling it against her. Grabbing the pile of post on her way out, she carried them both up the driveway, grateful the cat wasn’t putting up a fight. It seemed quite content being held, and although she couldn’t hear it purring over the sound of the gravel crunching underfoot, she could feel the vibration in her chest.
She’d always wanted a cat, but her penthouse in London wasn’t ideal for one, and life on the road made pet ownership difficult. Perhaps having one so close on the property would help her feel more like she had a cat in her life. Reaching the lodge, she pulled the rope hanging from a bell.
“I believe these are yours?” Viola said, handing a pile of letters to Gillian as she opened the door.
“Not content with taking my home and throwing my horse, now you steal my cat?” Gillian said as she took the letters.
Viola let the cat down, and it ran inside. “I’m returning your cat, not stealing it. It was in my house.”
Gillian sniffed.
Was that the woman’s gripe? She thought she had taken her house from her. Technically that was what had happened, but why would she sell her house if she didn’t want to? After the postman’s comment, Viola was beginning to wonder if it was a financial decision, very likely something Gillian had been forced into. A pang of empathy rose inside her for the woman, but then she pushed it away. This woman was worthy of no one’s empathy.
With that thought, Viola gave her a flat smile and turned, calling back, “I’d appreciate it if you’d redirect your post in future.”
The woman’s financial problems weren’t her concern.