Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
G illian opened the front door of the lodge to discover the major on the doorstep with his fist clenched as if he was about to knock.
“Ah, Gilly, there you are.” A bunch of flowers appeared from behind his back.
“Major,” Gillian replied with an annoyed sigh. Ignoring the flowers she stepped out and closed the door firmly behind her.
The major took a step back. “You’re looking lovely. Off anywhere nice?”
“No,” she replied flatly, not wishing to elaborate.
The major was always overly friendly. Even when Jonathon had been alive, he would sniff around her like a dog on heat. Jonathon found it amusing, probably because he could see how uncomfortable it made her.
“Can I help you with something, Major?”
“Yes. That bloody Berkley woman! She’s refusing to open the car show. Isn’t that exactly what these celebrities are for?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “She hasn’t done anything for the village, not like you do, Gilly,” he said, voice dripping with saccharine sweetness.
Rolling her eyes, Gillian set off down the path, the major at her heels.
“Although,” he called after her, “she put up the money for the new cricket pavilion.”
Stopping abruptly, Gillian turned to him. “Pardon?”
“She… put up the money… for the… cricket pavilion,” the major hollered slowly in her direction.
Gillian glared at his audacity to assume she was deaf. “The whole restoration?”
He nodded. “Will you do it?” His thick, white brows and crinkled eyes twitched with anticipation.
“What?” Her mind was elsewhere, thinking of Viola and the fact that she had done something remarkable for the village — something more than she could offer it now.
“Open the car show. You always did a wonder—”
Not wishing to hear him grovel further, for fear it may make her vomit, she answered swiftly. “I’ll do it on two conditions. One, stop calling me Gilly, and two, never bring me flowers again.”
He stiffened. “Oh, of course, Gilly — I mean Gillian. See you Saturday then.”
The man was of his time. Sadly, he didn’t realise that time had long passed. As he bumbled off through the estate gates, she smiled, pleased to have her job back.
Viola’s words, “It would be nice to continue this conversation,” played over in Gillian’s head as she made her way through the garden of Kingsford Manor. Armed with what was essentially an invitation from Viola, she didn’t think she would mind if she crossed through the garden, rather than taking her usual route past the church.
A red kite circled above her head as she sat in her usual spot on the bench. She’d installed it shortly after arriving at Kingsford, to mark a brief chapter of her life that, despite her desire to move on, deserved to be remembered. It became her sanctuary, a place to unburden herself from the thoughts that weighed her down — memories of the past, reflections on the present, and fleeting hopes for the future. Anything she needed to unload, she brought to the bench, and it absorbed it all. It was her space to breathe away from the often-hectic pace of life inside the manor house.
There was no way she was going to move it when she left. It belonged there, and with it being on the public footpath she knew she would be able to sit on it whenever she wished with little issue.
Jonathon didn’t even ask who it was dedicated to when the bench was installed. She was grateful in a way, not to have to lie. The bench had seen better days. Although it was made of oak and kept well maintained over the years, it was still a few decades old and had weathered many harsh winters in its time.
Making herself more comfortable, she stretched out her legs and wondered if Viola would appear at some point. Her gaze wandered frequently along the path to the house as she sat looking out over the fields. The changing seasons always brought a new perspective, unveiling new growth and subtle changes, altering the landscape before her eyes. It had served as a reminder over the years to soldier on in difficult moments. She needed that reassurance now more than ever as she floundered in the unknown.
After thirty-five years of a stale marriage and now into her autumn years, she couldn’t help wondering what the future held for her. Was she destined to live in the lodge until death rang the doorbell? She certainly felt too old for any more changes in her life. Change in nature was generally a positive thing, showing growth and maturity. Losing her home, however, left her broken-hearted and put her right back where she had started out.
Recalling her words to Viola the previous day, she hoped this was the last time she would lose everything; not that there was much left to lose, apart from her health. The only person she had ever loved had departed this world long ago, and with her, she had lost her identity. Clawing her way back to civilisation, she had formed a new one only to lose it all over again. She needed to get it back; it suited her, and she liked it. Life just wouldn’t be the same without the manor.
She caught a small smile on her lips as she thought of their conversation. The woman was growing on her. She had gumption, especially in choosing to take on the estate when the easy option would have been to put it straight back on the market. To then create her mother’s vision, despite her loss, was admirable, and Gillian found herself admiring Viola. She was impressive in other ways too — learning to fly a helicopter, not to mention achieving significant success in her career.
Viola’s openness about her past the day before had stirred an unexpected feeling in Gillian, something she could only liken to pride. She was not one for apologies, but she felt better having given one. She could count on a single hand the number of times she had apologised for something. It helped that she was rarely in the wrong.
Viola’s understanding of the guilt that could be felt when one didn’t grieve resonated deeply in her. Gillian felt guilt over Jonathon’s death too, not only from the fact she had spent her life pretending to be happily married but also from the relief she no longer needed to. He’d been part of her life for the majority of it, and they had shared the occasional good times.
Perhaps she had never given Jonathon the chance he deserved. It was hard when he wasn’t who she truly wanted. In the end, she was relieved she hadn’t opened her heart to love again. The only real grief she felt was for how her life might have unfolded had she been brave enough to pursue a different path. That would have meant no Kingsford — not that it was hers now.
“Not washing your hair then?” Viola’s voice came from behind her, making Gillian jump.
“I found time to do it this morning,” she said, watching Viola take the seat beside her.
“Lucky me,” Viola said, her face pinking a little.
Gillian couldn’t help smiling at Viola’s comment as she held out a folded handkerchief to her. She acknowledged it with a nod.
“Do you not have a dog or something?” Viola asked, settling back against the bench. “I thought you country folk all owned one.”
“I never could get along with them; they are too needy for attention. A husband was quite enough. I have the cat — I had the cat.”
“You still have a cat.” Viola laughed. The gentle nudge she gave Gillian took her by surprise, making her lips tighten into a smile. “Although I am considering charging you for her bed and board when she sleeps over.”
“I’ll be sure to pass your invoice onto her,” Gillian retorted. “And you do know that you are country folk now.” She narrowed her eyes as she took in Viola’s grey jeans and light blue hoodie. “Not that anyone would be able to tell by your attire.”
“Ouch,” Viola said. “Coming for my clothes now, are you?”
“Well. You could play your part a little more… authentically.”
Viola raised an eyebrow. “Could you help?”
“I can direct you to a decent country outfitter not far from here,” Gillian replied with a light laugh.
“Why don’t you come with me? Give me a guiding hand?”
“I’m sure they can serve you adequ—” Noticing Viola’s face fall in what Gillian could only interpret as disappointment, she realised she was looking to her for advice. “On the other hand, perhaps I should. To make sure.”
A smile bloomed across Viola’s face, giving Gillian a warm flutter in her chest. It led her to question when she’d started caring about how Viola felt.
“Thanks,” Viola replied with a grin as she closed her eyes and arched her head back into the sun.
Her long, auburn waves cascaded over the back of the bench. Gillian couldn’t help herself and stole a glance at the graceful curve of her profile whilst the opportunity allowed.
Viola radiated that annoying natural beauty that many women craved. Those who possessed it often failed to recognise it within themselves since women were conditioned to focus on their flaws rather than celebrate their natural appearance.
Her smooth, lightly tanned skin showed no signs of ageing, a stark contrast to Gillian’s complexion. She likely maintained an extensive and expensive beauty routine to help. Having invested in similar efforts in her forties, Gillian had come to the sobering realisation by her fifties that there was no denying the inevitability of ageing — at least not for her.
Mirroring Viola’s posture, Gillian allowed herself to bask in the warmth of the sun’s rays and the soothing melody of the birds twittering in a nearby bush. They remained that way, in peaceful silence, until they were interrupted by the sound of a miaow. Agatha jumped between them, looked at both women in turn, and then climbed onto Viola’s lap.
Gillian had expected to feel jealousy, but to her surprise, she only felt happy for Viola. “She trusts you,” she said, reaching out and tickling the cat’s head, feeling the vibration of her purr.
Viola tickled Agatha under the chin. “I trust her.”
Agatha stretched up, touching her nose to Viola’s. Gillian smiled at the bond forming between them amidst their recent upheavals.
“I can even forgive a cold, wet nose,” Viola said, wiping her own with her sleeve.
“It must be difficult being famous, knowing who to trust,” Gillian said softly.
“I’ve only trusted two people in my life,” Viola said with a sigh. “One of them has left this world.”
“You trusted me with a lot yesterday, and I’m only your annoying neighbour.”
“You are the only person who doesn’t want anything from me — except my house.” Viola grinned. “You’ve told me all the ways in which I’m failing and how I should be doing this and that, but you don’t want me to do it. You want to be doing it. You don’t see me as Viola Berkley, world-renowned classical musician; you see me, Viola, who is squatting on your property. It’s refreshing. You’re refreshing.”
Gillian could feel her cheeks burning as she tried to battle against the pull of her lips. Viola chose that exact moment to look straight at her, just as her mouth gave out and creased into a smile. Typical.
Their eyes locked as Viola said, “Give me one person in this world to pass the time of day with who doesn’t want me for my body or my money.”
With her cheeks continuing to burn, a wave of heat swept over the rest of Gillian, along with a wash of guilt for her previous admiration of Viola’s beauty. Rationale kicked in as she told herself she was simply admiring her, not ogling. With their awkward silence beginning to linger, Gillian decided to move the conversation elsewhere.
“I was thinking. You could dedicate a bench to your mother.”
“Are you trying to move me off your bench by any chance?” Viola teased.
“Not at all. I know from experience that there is something therapeutic in dedicating a bench to a lost loved one. I still come here to reflect and attempt to leave my thoughts here each time.”
Viola tilted her head in question. “And that works?”
“Not exactly. Not to begin with anyway. There is no way around grief; it’s a process, and you can’t bypass any stages,” Gillian affirmed, her voice carrying the weight of experience.
The sound of sniffling drew her to look at Viola. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. A pang of guilt hit Gillian in the stomach as she watched her companion wipe her tears with the back of her hand.
“Sorry,” Viola said, taking a deep breath. “It just hits sometimes. Often when I least expect it.”
“Here,” Gillian said, passing her the handkerchief. “Keep it. I think you might need it more than me. I have plenty more.”
“Thanks,” Viola said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. “I just feel so alone.”
“I’m here,” Gillian said, doing her best at adopting a soothing tone, “and trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”
Viola laughed through her tears. “Is that some sort of veiled threat?”
Gillian grinned. “Perhaps.” Pointing at a small group of trees on the horizon, she added, “You see those trees over there? I planted them. Well, I instructed the gardeners to. The hedgerows in front I added to encourage more wildlife. I would have done more with the surrounding area if Jonathon hadn’t sold it all off. So much of the historic Kingsford farmland was lost to intensive agriculture, much of the South Downs too. The chalk grasslands mostly disappeared when the sheep did. There are only the rabbits left to encourage the likes of the milkwort to flourish. Humans have been impacting the landscape for centuries; we aren’t the first, and we won’t be the last.”
Spotting a bird, Gillian pointed at it. “The skylark is the most prolific bird in the South Downs, and it’s only here because the first farmers relieved the land of its beech and yew trees. It’s ground-nesting and avoids trees where it knows predators lurk. It was only by removing the trees that we gained the botanical tapestry we love and fiercely protect today. The South Downs is the oldest manmade habitat in England, you know?”
“This place really flows through your veins, doesn’t it?”
Gillian turned to find Viola looking at her with a tenderness in her eyes. A rush of something new spread through her chest, a feeling she could only describe as comfort — unexpected but welcome.
“Mmm. I’ve done what I can to protect it over the years. Instead of mowing the entire lawn, I left the edges to wildflowers and into the meadows beyond. I planted more shrubs on the borders of the garden and added climbers. Jonathon didn’t have much love for Kingsford; he saw it as a chain around his neck. He left me to style the house and garden over the years. Not that he noticed any of the changes I made.”
Her face dropped as she recalled all the times she had tried to impress Jonathon during their early days, only to give up.
“You’ve done a wonderful job with it,” Viola said. “It was the garden that drew Mum to the manor, plus her love for the area and the nature here, especially the skylarks. She grew up in the South Downs so it was always close to her heart. She said she could see herself on the patio, G it was a language she hadn’t practised. She folded her hands in her lap instead, opting for silence. She believed that sometimes sitting beside someone was enough.
On the rare occasions when Gillian’s emotions overwhelmed her, she cried alone, hidden away from the world. She knew how isolating that experience could be. There were so few people with whom one felt safe enough to shed tears in their company. Viola was correct about needing one person to pass the time of day with. There was always Bridget, but with her it wouldn’t pass so quietly.
In those moments of sorrow and isolation, she had longed for what she was having right now: sitting with someone in silence, feeling at peace whilst taking in the world around them, admiring the landscape together, seeing it and appreciating it in different ways.
In all the years of her marriage, she could count on one hand the number of times she and Jonathon had sat in the garden and passed the time together. Could she have had that with someone—a woman even— had she allowed herself to? Gillian felt a warm, wet tear roll down her cheek and quickly wiped it away, though this drew attention from where she least wanted it.
“Are you okay?” Viola asked, dabbing the handkerchief against her own cheeks.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Gillian snapped as she wiped her face again to ensure all traces of her tears were gone.
“Why are you ashamed to show emotions, Gillian?” Viola asked, point-blank. “It’s not something to be embarrassed about. What’s wrong with showing that side of you to the world?”
“It’s weak,” Gillian replied curtly, her jaw tightening.
“Being vulnerable is a strength, not a weakness. It’s the greatest measure of courage. Who told you it was a weakness?”
“I… I was never encouraged to show emotions. It was actively discouraged,” Gillian admitted, her voice faltering.
“By your parents?” Viola pressed, her gaze searching Gillian’s face for the truth.
Gillian shrugged. “My mother. My father worked away.”
“It’s not healthy to cloak yourself in walls, Gillian. What are you hiding behind them?”
“Nothing,” Gillian snapped. “You don’t know me. Nobody does.”
Viola’s jaw fell open and worked silently before she settled on, “Because you don’t let them.”
“I would only disappoint.” She wanted to get up and walk away, yet some invisible force held her down in her seat.
“Wow. That’s quite a statement, Gillian. May I ask why you never grieved your mum?” Viola asked, caution in her tone. “What did she do apart from teaching you some seriously unhealthy emotional practices and low self-esteem?”
For the moment, Gillian ignored the bald face of the question and pondered her answer. How could she give it honestly without giving away a part of herself she’d hidden most of her life? Leaning forward she rested her elbows on her knees. Would it be so bad for someone to know? Someone who felt safe? She shook her head at her thought only for a voice to point out there was little chance of judgement by someone who was in some respects similar to herself. It was Hen’s voice, encouraging her on.
“I…”
Words were failing her even if she wanted to say them. How could the loss of someone still affect her so long after? It was ridiculous, irrational even. Feelings were irrational. The warmth of Viola’s hand radiated into her back, and her leg pressed against her.
When had she gotten so close?
Viola leaned forward, mirroring her. Her hand slipped into Gillian’s, sending a wash of adrenaline through her like butterflies.
“Trust me, Gillian.”
How could she not tell this woman anything she wanted to know? Her bold eyes and soft, encouraging smile were like magnets. Part of her needed someone to know her, to see her, to have someone remember the real Gillian when she left this world. She found her mouth opening, and before she knew what was happening, words were flowing freely as if pulled from her by some invisible force.
“Hen was a natural rider. I wasn’t always.” Gillian smiled remembering her first lessons. “Her parents ran a riding school, so she grew up around horses. She was bought her first pony at two. We became friends when we were fourteen, and I became… infatuated with her, you might say. She was everything I wanted to be and everything my mother wanted me to be. She was clever and talented. We became inseparable over the years, and my… infatuation turned into something more. I couldn’t have been more surprised, though, when she kissed me one day.”
The memory of Hen’s soft lips meeting her own on that warm summer day brought a smile to her face. It had been her first kiss, and she could still recall every detail as if it happened yesterday — if she allowed herself.
“How old were you then?” Viola enquired.
“Sixteen. Hen never saw seventeen.”
“What happened to her?”
“A low-flying helicopter spooked her horse in the yard, and he threw her off.”
Gillian watched as Viola’s face paled, her lips twitched as if she was unable to decide whether to grimace or speak. She held her expression steady as Viola scanned her face, perhaps hoping she would say she was joking.
When Viola finally spoke, her voice was quiet, hesitant.“That’s... awful.”
Gillian sighed inwardly and decided to move on. This wasn’t about making Viola feel bad for the situation she had created when they first met, even if the true consequences may have only just sunk in for her.
“Hen knew not to remove her riding hat before she dismounted, and yet she did. It was a hot day, and we’d been for a ride. I was the only one with her. She lay there, unconscious… I couldn’t rouse her.” Gillian inhaled deeply, finding herself breathless. A squeeze from Viola’s hand sent warmth through her. It gave her the strength to tell the story she hadn’t shared with anyone else. “ Her parents were out. My mother arrived to pick me up moments after Hen fell. She called an ambulance from the house — we didn’t have mobile phones back then, did we?”
“What happened next?” Viola asked, shifting in her seat.
“They took her to hospital. I forced my way into the accident and emergency room, only to reach her as the doctors stopped trying to resuscitate her.” Gillian swallowed hard at the memory. “They allowed me a few minutes with her.”
There was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional measure of birdsong.
Then Viola took a slow, even breath. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “That must have been horrendous.”
Gillian took a breath, too, and exhaled. “I kissed her goodbye at the very moment my mother stepped through the curtain.”
Viola’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Mmm. I didn’t expect her to find a parking space so quickly. Our relationship was already pretty strained by then, and yet this was a turning point. She never looked at me the same again, even with my insistence that it was a platonic kiss goodbye to my best friend. It seems we hadn’t been as careful as we had thought. She’d begun to suspect something, and she chose that moment, as Hen lay dead in that hospital room, to tell me how I sickened her, how she was glad Hen was dead, how I needed to forget about her and start being a proper young lady.”
Viola grimaced. “And did you?”
Gillian nodded, embarrassed to admit it. “I was broken. I realised if I stayed in line and did as I was told, it would be easier for everyone. I didn’t have the strength to breathe, let alone fight my mother. She kept me alive, even if I wasn’t living. I thought she would be satisfied when I married Jonathon; instead she went on to eye our marriage with suspicion. In a way, it was a relief when she died. I no longer needed to look over my shoulder, worried she might say something and bring my house of cards falling down. Looking back, there was nothing to fear. For all her faults, one thing my mother wasn’t was stupid. She knew my being at Kingsford would benefit her too. She would have been a fool to speak up and suggest our marriage was anything other than genuine. It didn’t stop her worrying, though, and jibes over the years about the lack of grandchildren and suggestions I wasn’t the motherly type didn’t help. In the end, she took my secret to the grave. Only she knew what I felt for Hen.”
“How long have you been keeping this in?”
Gillian didn’t answer. She didn’t want to say forever .
Viola’s hand squeezed hers again as if she sensed the answer. “And you haven’t told anyone since?”
She shook her head, still unsure why she let herself open up so completely to Viola. She was like a vampire, sucking everything from her, and she’d surrendered it to her willingly.
“Not even Bridget?”
Gillian shook her head again.
“Do you not trust anyone either?” Viola’s voice was heavy with sadness as her eyes appeared to search Gillian’s for a glimmer of truth.
“The one person who knew me rejected me,” Gillian said, her voice trembling. “Can you blame me for never wanting to open up again?”
“No. No, I can’t.”
“My mother’s cruelty taught me something about people, and I knew I could never be that person again. When I moved here, I dedicated everything I had to Kingsford and the village, helping wherever I could. I know my manner and approach may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I get things done. I make a difference—or, at least, I did.”
“You still do. Only you get to decide when to stop. You can’t let this place define you. You’re so much more than it; so much beyond it.”
Gillian sighed, deflating a bit. “Whatever I am, I’m all alone and losing direction for my next chapter.”
“You’re not alone,” Viola said softly. “I’m here for you, too, and I won’t be going anywhere either.” She quirked a smile before adding in a soft, teasing tone, “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Gillian didn’t feel disappointed. She was about to voice that when Viola removed her hand, leaving a cool sensation against Gillian’s skin. She instantly missed its weight and comfort.
“Now that you’ve told me your darkest secrets, are we still going shopping?”
Were they her darkest secrets? An mmm escaped Gillian’s mouth in answer to herself.
“Great. How’s Saturday?”
Realising she’d inadvertently agreed to that day, she replied quickly, “Can’t. I’m opening the classic car show.” Gillian blushed as soon as she realised how eagerly she’d spoken.
“Good. It’s your job. That’s why I refused, amongst other reasons. So… Sunday?”
“This isn’t the city, you know. Shops close around here on a Sunday.”
“Monday then?”
Out of excuses, Gillian nodded. She liked how desperate and persistent Viola was to tie her down to a date. Okay, not a date exactly, merely a meeting to assist her in finding her country attire. She would need to carefully consider how to dress Viola’s body in tweed, finding the best way to compliment her figure. It was the least she could do. Her body was beautiful, with gentle, subtle curves. Tweed would look fabulous on her.
“Thanks for the chat,” Viola added as she stood, pulling Gillian from her thoughts whilst presenting the very shape that occupied her thoughts.
“Oh… anytime,” Gillian stuttered.
“I can’t fix your past, but I can sit with you whilst you work on repairing yourself,” Viola said with a warm smile.
Gillian opened her mouth to object to the need to repair herself. She was perfectly fine, or she had been until Viola coaxed the past out of her. She searched for a sense of regret, only to find a surprising feeling of lightness inside instead. “Likewise,” she finally replied.
Viola gave a nod of acknowledgement. “See you tomorrow then?”
Gillian nodded and watched as Viola walked away. It took her a moment to realise she was caressing the hand that Viola had held. An urge forced her hand to her nose, and she inhaled, finding a faint, pleasant aroma, a natural musky scent that was becoming so familiar to her.
What on earth had gotten into her?