Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
“ T hanks for coming by to check,” Viola said, holding her hand out to the planning officer as they reached the front door. She flashed him a smile despite her body itching with anger at his unannounced appearance an hour before, which had interrupted her morning. He was only doing his job; the anger she needed to save for someone else.
“Sorry again, for disturbing you,” he said, shaking her hand. “We have to check these things when we get a complaint.”
“Oh! It was a complaint then,” Viola pushed.
The man bit his lip. “Can’t comment, sorry. Thanks for your time.”
Viola watched as the man crossed the gravel drive and entered a car parked beside an overloaded skip. Ben, her project manager, appeared by her side at the front door.
“Any idea who reported you?” he asked.
Viola looked at the lodge and noticed the twinkling of a lens in the window. “I have my suspicions, yes.”
“I’d best get on. The lads do like an early finish on a Friday, and some of the tiles in that last bathroom are proving difficult to pry up. We’ll aim to start reinstalling the kitchen next week,” Ben said, turning and heading back into the house.
“Glad to hear it.”
There was only so much that could be done with a microwave and a camping stove. After two weeks of ready meals, Viola couldn’t wait to have the new kitchen installed. Although she would make some use of it herself, she was looking forward to speaking to Mrs Johnson, Gillian’s old cook and housekeeper, later that day. Even if the woman popped in a couple of days a week to clean and prepare some meals, it would be useful.
Right now, though, she needed to deal with Gillian Carmichael.
When there was no answer at the lodge, Viola decided to try her luck at the stables. She found Gillian grooming a handsome black horse in the stable yard. She was dressed in her riding clothes again, and it took Viola a moment to pull her eyes away from the woman’s frame as she bent and stretched to brush the horse. She had always been drawn to older women, but this one was a definite no-go despite how attractive she was.
She took a deep breath and focused on her anger as she forced herself towards Gillian.
“I presume you were the busybody who called the planning department,” she began.
Gillian snapped around. “I’m sorry?”
“Good.” Viola knew damn well Gillian wasn’t apologising, merely asking her to repeat herself, but she was taking it anyway. The woman’s gaping mouth confirmed her intended offence had landed. “I can assure you, as I did the planning chap who tried to lecture me and my project manager as to what is allowable and what isn’t, that all the changes I am making to my home do not require planning permission. Or, in fact, anyone’s permission, including yours.”
Gillian’s mouth flapped around some more, so taking advantage of the silence, Viola continued.
“If you’d had the decency to come and ask me what I was doing, I would have been happy to show you. Instead, you prefer to sneak around behind people’s backs and report them for things they haven’t done.”
“I…” Gillian stammered.
“My project manager is adequately versed in historic properties.”
“I have legitimate concerns for the welfare of my former home and perfectly serviceable utilities,” Gillian snapped, finally finding her voice.
“They may be perfectly serviceable, yet it is not to my taste, and it’s my home. I would appreciate it if you kept your meddling nose out of my business and away from your window,” she asserted with a firmness there could be no misunderstanding.
She could hear Gillian spitting out, “Well, I…” behind her as she walked away.
Viola decided a walk was in order. Her phone rang as she passed the side of the manor.
“Hey, Caroline,” she sighed as she answered. Her soothing voice was exactly what she needed right now; she always grounded her.
“Wow, you sound tense. You’re supposed to be relaxing in the countryside. You aren’t overdoing it, are you?” Caroline’s concerned voice replied.
“Relaxing would be a fine thing if the doorbell wasn’t constantly going or the builders banging or neighbours sticking their fucking noses in where they’re not needed.”
Viola reached a bench overlooking the estate and sank onto it.
“Breathe, darling.”
“I am breathing,” Viola reassured her.
“Fire or air?”
Viola thought before answering. “Air.”
“Good. Now, who has the sticky nose, and where are they sticking it?”
“Gillian fucking Carmichael,” she seethed through gritted teeth. “The woman who owned this place before me and all but lives in my garden. She owns the lodge at the end of the drive, and I’m sure she’s watching my every move. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s rummaging in the skip every night.”
“Struggling to let go, is she?”
“She reported me to the planning office.”
“Remember we all deal with loss differently.”
“That may be so — hang on.” Viola frowned. “I don’t remember telling you her husband died.”
“Her husband died!” Caroline exclaimed.
“Yes. What were you talking about?” Viola asked, confused.
“Her losing her house, of course. The poor woman.”
Hmm. That was a fair point. Was the woman mourning the loss of her house as well as her husband?
“Why don’t you do something to lift your spirits?” Caroline continued.
“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, that is not going to cut it.”
Caroline’s laughter resounded in Viola’s ear. “I was thinking more of holding a housewarming party, though you could try that too. It might work in the short term, so long as you don’t think of this Gillian whilst you’re doing it.”
Viola’s breath caught unexpectedly, causing her to cough.
“Oh! Is that your problem?” Caroline purred. “Is she hot?”
“Caroline!”
“I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I? Why don’t you think of her and channel that anger? It would probably make for a better orgasm.”
“I’m hanging up now,” Viola replied, twisting her lips. “Unless there was a particular reason you rang?”
“No, simply checking in on my dearest friend,” Caroline retorted.
“And your biggest meal ticket.”
“Oof! Harsh.”
“Factual,” Viola snarked.
“You know I love you despite how incredibly rich you’ve made me. In fact, I’m working on something exciting for you, but you need to be fit.”
“Oh God, it’s not I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here , is it?” Viola shivered. “I told you I will never do that.”
“No, of course not. It’s early stages right now anyway.”
“Good. I need this time off, Caroline, and you promised me nothing until the end of summer.”
“I know, I know,” Caroline reassured her. “You can hold me to that.”
Viola breathed deeply with relief. After years of working with little rest, she needed some time to restore herself, especially after losing her mum.
“How are you getting on with the savages?”
“Well, like I said, everyone wants something. There’s been an endless stream of locals visiting; some bring flowers whilst others demand access to my land or my house like it’s their birthright. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, and I’ve already donated thousands to restore the cricket pavilion just to get the damn chairman of the cricket club off my back. Even the local reverend has been bothering me about attending church on Sunday. Apparently, I have my very own pew at the front, and he wants me to join some church committee as an honourable member.”
“Do people still go to church?” Caroline said, clearly fascinated.
“Apparently. I won’t be going. I came here to disappear for a while, but it’s like the locals all think I hold some position.”
“You do. Lady of the manor,” Caroline snarked.
“Oh, don’t you start. I wish everyone would leave me alone.”
“On that note, I need to head into a meeting.”
Viola laughed. “It doesn’t apply to you, but yes, go. I need to prepare myself for Mrs Johnson, whom I hope will be my cook and housekeeper.”
“I’m glad to hear you’ll be getting some help. It looks like a big place, and you don’t want to be dusting and hoovering it. We’ll never have you singing again.”
Muttering her agreement and a farewell, Viola disconnected the call. Taking in her surroundings, she realised how beautiful the estate looked from here. With the manor at the end of the path to the left and the top of the church spire poking above the trees to the right, an expanse lay between, comprising a small valley with a stream and the hill beyond. One could pass the time of day very easily just sitting there — not today, though; there were things to do. She noticed a plaque on the bench as she stood up.
Henrietta Fotherington
Taken too soon. Missed forever.
It was a bit mysterious, perhaps a relation of the Carmichaels. Bridget said they’d lived on the estate for more than four hundred years. Thinking no more of it, Viola returned to the house to await Mrs Johnson, who arrived precisely on time. This pleased Viola to no end; punctuality was an essential skill for a cook, though any previous employee of Gillian’s was likely to be well trained or more likely running on fear.
“Come through to the kitchen; it’s just being renovated. It will have all the mod cons once it’s done,” Viola added, hoping selling the kitchen would help persuade the woman to come and work for her.
Mrs Johnson ran a fingertip along the top of an old cast-iron radiator as they passed through the great hall. Examining the thick layer of dirt on the end of it, she scowled.
Viola felt compelled to justify the mess. “There’s a lot of dust from all the work going on. You can see why I’m in need of some help.”
Mrs Johnson didn’t react, which made Viola a little nervous as she followed her into the kitchen.
“Golly! You’ve gone to town in here,” Mrs Johnson said, looking around as they entered. “Not a trace of the old one. It’s magnificent.”
“I’m not sure it will please Gillian Carmichael,” Viola said, though she inwardly cringed at her own question. She’d been hoping to gauge some reaction for the fallout she might expect when news got around, but what was she thinking? She didn’t care what that woman thought anyway.
“Ah yes, Mrs Carmichael,” Mrs Johnson replied. “What a woman.”
“Yes, indeed,” Viola agreed, shaking her head.
“Such a respectful, kind, and generous woman. She’s a true saint.”
Viola looked at her to see if she was joking. She was aggrieved to find what she could only describe as deep affection in the woman’s eyes.
“I have a lot of respect for her. She dedicated her life to this estate, only to lose it thanks to that husband of hers. I never liked him. The loss of a husband like him a woman can quite easily bear. The loss of Kingsford…” She shook her head. “I dare say it broke her heart. Not that she’d admit it. She’s nothing but grace and fortitude.”
“Really?” Viola couldn’t help blustering. “Are we talking about the same Gillian Carmichael?”
Mrs Johnson let out a laugh. “She may have a way about her, but she did her job remarkably efficiently.”
“Her job?”
“Yes, running this place. Organising all the village events. You have big shoes to fill.”
Viola gulped. “I’m beginning to realise that.” How had she signed up for a job by buying a house? It was a job she most definitely didn’t want.
“Are you on your own? No husband or family?”
Viola looked at her blankly. The question always came as a surprise to her; she’d been outed as a lesbian after a relationship went sour in her twenties. It also pissed her off every time she was asked if she had a husband. Not only did a woman not need a husband, but some also didn’t need or want men at all. She despised the insinuation that a husband was the norm. Why couldn’t people say “partner” and stop excluding others? It wasn’t difficult.
Perhaps the woman didn’t know who she was, though; that would make a welcome change. She’d encountered enough obsessive fans to last several lifetimes.
“It’s just I need an idea of how many will be living here,” Mrs Johnson prompted her. “It makes a difference when you are clearing up after them, especially the young’uns.”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course. It’s only me.”
Mrs Johnson lifted an eyebrow. “Big house for one.”
“Yes, it is.” She inhaled deeply, “It wasn’t meant to be that way.”
“So rarely it is.”
“I bought the house for my mum.” Viola took in a deep breath. “She passed away recently.”
Mrs Johnson’s no-nonsense demeanour deflated. “Sorry to hear that, dear. I lost my mum last year. Doesn’t get easier, only different. A bit like raising children, I say.”
Feeling her eyes beginning to moisten, Viola walked over to the window, minding not to trip on some of the workmen’s equipment, which was scattered on the floor. She wasn’t expecting it to get easier, but the reminder of the emptiness inside her from her mum’s death, not to mention how it was unlikely to leave, sat heavily in her stomach. She needed a distraction. Was a housewarming party the answer?
“I assume you can cater for parties,” Viola asked her guest.
“Is the pope Catholic?” Mrs Johnson replied with a laugh.
Viola smiled.
“I’ll pop in every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday if you’re happy with that, and I can leave you something in the fridge to reheat if you want. Leave a note for Monday if there’s anything you particularly like or don’t like, and let me know if you need me for anything else.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” Viola replied, slightly taken aback by the woman. She was sure she was the one who was supposed to be setting terms, not that she was about to argue.
“I won’t keep you. I’ll see myself out, and don’t worry — I’ve still got my key.”
Viola blinked. Should she have changed the locks? What if Gillian still possessed a key too? Would she be letting herself in like her cat was? She wouldn’t put it past the woman to do a bit of snooping; she looked the type.
Mrs Johnson, on the other hand, was mild-mannered and agreeable. She was the sort of woman you knew you could rely on to run a house, which left Viola with a feeling of inadequacy. There was no question of wearing Gillian’s shoes, let alone filling them. She wasn’t respectful whatsoever; she’d met children with better manners. Was the grief making her unpleasant? It did strange things to people; Viola knew that much herself.
But she had a party fixed in her mind now; planning it would give her something to focus on other than her lacking as lady of the manor. With any luck, she’d be able to piss off Saint Gillian at the same time.