Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
M uch to Gillian’s annoyance, she did not see Viola for the rest of the week. With arrangements for the summer flower show in full swing, she and Bridget were busy trying to work out how to fit everything into the village hall. It was proving to be a challenge, and its success would hinge heavily on the British weather playing ball — something no one should or could rely on.
She spent the last hour of the church service going through the plans in her mind, making sure everything was in order and checking they hadn’t forgotten anything. She needed to keep herself busy or she would nod off, and that wasn’t a good look, especially not from the front pew. Keeping her thoughts occupied also helped her to avoid eye contact with the reverend over her seating position; there were only so many smug smiles you could give a person.
Finally emerging into the warm, bright sunshine — a stark contrast to the cold, dark, dreary church — Gillian approached the reverend.
“Ah, Reverend, wonderful sermon today, and always so easy to hear from the front pew.”
The reverend opened his mouth to speak, but Gillian continued before he could get a word out.
“You know, my friend Viola pointed out the other day — after we’d luncheoned together — that the front pew is a Kingsford pew, and as Kingsford Lodge is technically within the boundaries of the estate, she insisted I should make use of it.”
The reverend’s mouth closed again as the colour drained from his face.
Where once she would have enjoyed waiting for a reply, an apology even, she found herself moving away. Enjoyment came from other places now, like passing the time of day with a good friend. Her mind went to Viola as her eye caught Bridget’s. A pang of guilt kicked her in the stomach. She could have two friends. She’d spent the last four days with Bridget yet found herself missing the quiet company of Viola — more than she could explain.
Bridget joined her, accompanied by Mrs Hawkins.
“Mrs Carmichael,” Mrs Hawkins said, “I was hoping Dudley might be able to use these carrots. They are a little past their best, but I don’t suppose he minds.”
“No, I don’t suppose he will,” Gillian replied, taking the carrier bag she was offered. “Thank you.”
As Mrs Hawkins walked away, Bridget whispered, “She’s the second person who’s asked me this morning if there will be a ball this year.”
“If anyone wants to know, then they should ask me.”
“You mean Viola?” Bridget corrected her.
“Oh, yes,” Gillian replied curtly, frustrated that at times her mind allowed her to believe nothing had changed. Each time the realisation left her with a cold emptiness in the pit of her stomach.
“I’ll leave you here today, Bridget. I’m going to walk back through the estate and sit for a while.”
“Good idea. You deserve a rest after the last few days we’ve had. I’ll pour myself a glass of wine and finish reading my book.”
“You do that; you’ve earned it, too,” Gillian said, tapping Bridget on the arm as she headed to the gate which led to the Kingsford Estate footpath.
Gillian didn’t have much time to read fiction. Her younger self wouldn’t recognise her today; her head had always been in a book, usually a classic like a Bront? or Austen. Although they were good books, she found over time that she wasn’t comfortable with them. She stopped reading romance entirely after meeting Hen, to then fall into an Austen book, only to realise it more resembled the Forsyte Saga.
Heterosexual romance left a bad taste in her mouth. The gendered power imbalance was inescapable, and the objectification of women didn’t sit right with her. The inequality was plain uncomfortable. Jonathon had persuaded her to try Agatha Christie’s books, which she found surprisingly enjoyable. They were also a good talking point when they ran out of anything else to discuss, which was frequent.
The air was warm and moist as she made her way up the hill to the bench. A distant rumble of thunder told her she wouldn’t be enjoying some peace on it for long. She would take what she could get; if she’d learnt anything in recent months, it was to take nothing for granted.
Stopping near the bench, she watched the once–bright blue sky darken as thick, grey clouds edged closer. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. Viola was striding towards her, dressed in her new tweed trousers, white shirt, and matching waistcoat. The sudden pounding in her chest made Gillian wonder if it wasn’t only the woman’s voice that sent pleasant shivers through her.
Viola’s shirtsleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her auburn hair was tied in a ponytail. It induced the same weak feeling in Gillian’s legs that she had felt in the outfitters, followed by the same thought: What did Viola look like… underneath it all? She pushed the thought away again, as she had done in the shop. It wasn’t appropriate, and she wasn’t that person anymore. She needed to uphold her image in the village. Getting weak over a beautiful mezzo-soprano was not on the cards.
It wasn’t like beautiful women hadn’t caught her eye over the years; she’d just learned to ignore herself and suppress everything. She was good at it, and the aged population of Kingsford with its lack of temptations had helped — until now anyway.
Swallowing hard, she recollected Viola standing in her doorway earlier that week, wearing a short summer dress with one too many cardigan buttons open. A wave of nausea followed as she recalled Viola hearing her voice resounding through the lodge and catching a glimpse inside. Finding out later that Viola came from a poor background at least made her less self-conscious about her current living conditions.
Exasperated that, yet again, she had failed to keep the thoughts at bay, Gillian let out an audible sigh, only to realise Viola was beside her already.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, just a little out of breath,” Gillian lied, looking back down the embarrassingly small incline.
“Have you come from church?”
“Yes. The front pew specifically,” Gillian said with a hint of mischief as she took her usual seat on the bench.
“Excellent.”
“You’ll be pleased to know I only gloated a small amount.”
Viola grinned as she took the seat beside Gillian. “Good. You know the reverend offered me a committee place. I politely declined. Should I send you as my representative for that too? I assume it was yours once?”
“No, thank you. I find I’m quite content without the pettiness of it. Leave them to it, I say.”
Viola nudged her. “Well done, you.”
It caught Gillian off guard, but knowing Viola felt comfortable enough to do that filled her with delight. A wet spot of something landed on her hand. Large drops of rain began to fall, thick and heavy.
“Shall we finish this conversation back at mine?” Gillian asked.
Not waiting for an answer, she got up and strode up the footpath. She wasn’t ready to be parted from Viola quite yet. As she reached the back door of Kingsford Manor, she stopped to check if Viola was following, finding her right behind.
“You know this is my house,” Viola said, lips tight in a smirk.
Gillian looked around. “Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You strike me as a creature of habit. I’ll give you a period of grace. Are a few years enough, do you think?” Viola flashed her a cheeky grin as she opened the door and stepped into the back hall.
Gillian’s lips tightened as her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t sure that would be enough time, but she wasn’t about to voice it.
She hesitated a moment before crossing the threshold. It was her first time entering the manor since losing it. When she searched for a feeling, she found that only numbness remained. She couldn’t be angry at Viola for having the manor now, and being angry at Jonathon was pointless. It didn’t stop her from wanting it back, though.
Viola disappeared into the cloakroom, emerging with a towel in hand. “You’re soaked,” she said, reaching out and dabbing Gillian’s chest with the towel.
It was an unexpected yet pleasant sensation. She could feel the warmth of Viola’s rhythmic breath against her wet skin, which made her pulse surge. Their eyes locked until Viola stepped back, holding the towel out to Gillian.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t — ”
Gillian, momentarily thrown off, managed a quiet, appreciative “Thanks,” her voice barely more than a whisper as she took the towel. Viola offered an awkward smile before scurrying into the kitchen.
Running the towel across her chest and down her arms, Gillian slipped her shoes off, patting her ankles and the tops of her feet. It wasn’t the first time she’d been caught in a downpour on a summer’s day. Hanging the towel on a radiator to dry, she went through to the kitchen, where nothing could have prepared her for what she was met with — especially as she had forgotten at that moment that Viola had renovated it.
Gone was the harsh stainless steel, which had been replaced with chic, sage green, custom cabinetry in a classic Shaker style, complemented by an oak herringbone floor and dark marble worktops. A large island inlaid with modular Gaggenau cooktops dominated the centre of the room.
“This is exquisite,” Gillian gasped.
“It’s Clive Christian.”
Gillian knew the name well; she’d dreamt of having a Clive Christian kitchen. Necessity had led her to stainless steel rather than oak when she had refitted it, and although she’d come to love it over the years, it hadn’t stopped her from pining for something like this.
Moistness creeped into the corners of her eyes. At first, she couldn’t pinpoint why she was feeling emotional — it was just a kitchen, after all — but the new one represented change, a strikingly visual one in this case. She missed the old interior, or at least everything it symbolised, now a lost era. Still, she had to admit she was thrilled to see a kitchen that finally matched the building’s grandeur — especially the new marble fireplace, a definite improvement over the original.
Gillian pushed a pang of jealousy away; she didn’t want or need those feelings now. Viola had created a masterpiece where she was unable to.
“May I?” Gillian gestured to what appeared to be a large cupboard.
“Knock yourself out.”
Gillian opened the doors to find oak racking in the doors that held spices and shelves as well as drawers. “It’s remarkable. Functional, elegant.”
“It is. Why don’t you have a peek through there?” Viola urged, pointing at the door that led to the dining room.
Hesitant at first, Gillian found her feet and forced them across the kitchen. It would be rude not to look despite the fear of what she might find holding her back.
Gillian’s mouth opened as she discovered the room was unchanged.
“I don’t have anything fancy when it comes to tea, I’m afraid,” Viola called out from the kitchen.
“You kept it the same,” Gillian said as she returned to the kitchen.
“Sometimes new isn’t best, and when it comes to a table, you need something loved and used. I like to eat meals in there, even when it’s only me.”
“I used to spend a lot of time in there, too,” Gillian said with a smile. “It’s such a bright room compared to the front of the house.”
“You see now? I’m not a total heathen. Much of the place remains as you left it. I may have also improved a couple of bathrooms.”
Gillian tilted her head in concession. “They needed doing.”
“What can I get you to drink?”
“Assuming Earl Grey is off the table, I guess I could lower myself to a coffee in that fancy machine of yours.” She nodded at a Sanremo coffee machine.
“I only bought that until the kitchen was finished. This is what I use now,” Viola said, heading straight for the row of sleek appliances built into the kitchen cabinets. “That one will become a backup.”
Viola opened a drawer underneath what looked like a water dispenser and took out two mugs. On closer inspection, Gillian could see it was a coffee dispenser, not a water dispenser. She spotted a Gaggenau logo, the same brand stamped across all the integrated appliances.
“How do you take it?” Viola asked, placing a mug underneath the spouts.
Not being a coffee buff, Gillian racked her brains. “However it comes is fine.”
Her eyes fell to the kitchen island, noting something she hadn’t expected to see.
“A wine cooler?” Gillian said, her tone questioning.
“Yes.”
“I assumed you didn’t drink.”
“Why?” Viola asked, passing a steaming cup to her.
Gillian hesitated before saying, “Your past addiction. You drank orange juice at the pub.”
“Abuse, not addiction. There’s a big difference. I didn’t drink at the pub as I was driving, and it was lunchtime.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Gillian lowered her head, wishing she hadn’t mentioned it at all.
“Not that it’s not okay to drink at lunchtime,” Viola clarified, placing another cup under the spouts and pushing a button. “I have boundaries now, and it helps me to have a better relationship with alcohol. I used it in the past to help with my problems. Not that it helps of course, it just masks… takes the edge off, for a short time at least.”
Taking her cup from the coffee machine, Viola gestured to a breakfast bar overlooking the parkland. “Shall we? I find this is my favourite place to sit now.”
“I think it would be mine, too,” Gillian agreed as something brushed against her leg, making her jump. Agatha launched herself onto the breakfast bar and proceeded to walk up and down it. “Oh, Agatha, where on earth did you come from?”
“I ask her that daily,” Viola said, sounding a bit vexed. “I’m careful when I open the doors, and I don’t leave windows open. It’s a bit of a mystery.”
Agatha continued her procession along the breakfast bar, ignoring anything in her way.
“Sorry.” Viola reached out to pick up Agatha, who was having none of it and scurried off out of reach.
“Don’t be. Technically she’s still my cat, even if she has moved out. Or not moved out. Whichever.” Gillian’s forehead furrowed.
“I get you,” Viola assured her, patting her arm and then leaving her hand resting there.
It was warm and soft against Gillian’s skin, a gentle touch that shot a wave of comfort through her. It wasn’t unwelcome, yet it stirred feelings again in her that she didn’t want to think about, let alone deal with. It made her wonder why Viola was still touching her. She was quite hands-on at times, though recalling those situations it was more likely to be a supportive gesture. The tender nudges, playful smiles, and little digs she couldn’t ignore. Could they be construed as flirting, or was she so out of touch that she was reading too much into it all?
“Honestly, this kitchen is a work of art,” Gillian said, hoping to turn her internal monologue off by talking over it.
“My mum chose the style and helped a lot with the layout,” Viola said, looking behind her. “It’s gutting that she never got to see the finished article and only saw it on a screen. It evokes a lot of memories from her final days.” Her voice faltered. “It’s beautiful because it’s hers, but it’s also a constant reminder that she’s gone.”
Gillian realised then that the kitchen was a tribute to Viola’s loss, with each carefully chosen detail serving as a silent echo of her mother’s influence, now immortalised in its grandeur. It wasn’t just a kitchen; it was a space that held grief and love in equal measure. For all her own grief over what had been lost at Kingsford Manor, Viola was mourning, too — just differently, if not deeper.
“You’ve made it into something that keeps her here with you.”
Viola nodded. “Sometimes, I imagine what she would say, what she would think seeing it in person.”
“I’m sure she will be looking down on it from somewhere and that she would find it as enchanting as we do,” Gillian said.
“You believe that?” Viola asked, eyebrow raised.
Gillian pondered the question before answering, “No, not at all.”
“Then why say it?”
“I thought it might bring you some comfort,” Gillian said with a shrug. “Perhaps I’ve been going to church too often.”
“Sounds like it. Thanks for the thought, though.”
Gillian picked up a book from beside her and examined it. “What are you reading?”
“A romance,” Viola answered, sipping from her cup.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a romance reader. Don’t you find the power imbalance in those kinds of books a bit distasteful?”
“That’s the best bit. The ice queen boss being forced to melt by her assistant.”
“Ice queen, eh? Then the assistant is a man. Romance has come a long way.”
“No, they are both women.” Viola grinned. “It’s a sapphic romance.”
“Sapphic?” Gillian blinked in confusion. “Not lesbian?”
“In this case, it’s a lesbian and a bisexual woman, so yes, sapphic.”
“Things really have come on.”
“Where have you been these past decades?”
“In here, out there.” Gillian nodded out the window. “It has been some time since I’ve wandered into a bookshop. I don’t remember seeing a sapphic romance section. I’m sure I would have remembered.”
“They have whole book shops dedicated to LGBTQ+ books now. You won’t find so much in the larger retailers, mainly youth or new adult offerings from traditional publishers. You need the indie presses and authors. I do a lot of travelling, and I’d go mad without it. I often listen to audiobooks too. Can I take it that you only read heterosexual romance?”
“Once upon a time. I became sick of female characters being developed just enough to serve the role of the love interest, only to then become an appendix of a man.”
Viola nodded her agreement. “It is so much more difficult to get them right. Queer romance is gentler, more balanced, and less aggressive. The characters are often portrayed as equals, with less emphasis on traditional power dynamics or roles. I find it makes the relationships feel more authentic and relatable. I could lend you one if you like?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Gillian stammered, though she couldn’t deny she was more than a little intrigued.
Viola could see in Gillian’s face that she was a little intrigued by the concept of a sapphic romance book; even so, she wasn’t about to push it on her. She was still baffled that Gillian was completely unaware of an entire industry, one that she might take pleasure in.
It wasn’t as if she knew exactly what Gillian’s sexuality was; she had once mentioned being like Viola. That didn’t necessarily mean she was a lesbian; she could be attracted to women as well as men, or ‘people’ as she preferred to see it. She wasn’t sure any woman could be in a relationship with a man for that long if she were a lesbian — but then, this was Gillian Carmichael. Viola wouldn’t put anything beyond her abilities.
Until she heard otherwise, she decided that Gillian was likely to be bi or pansexual and that she herself would assume nothing concrete. Knowing Gillian, though, Viola didn’t think she would be into labels. The woman had spent most of her life pretending to be someone else; she likely didn’t know who she was anyway. It didn’t stop Viola from feeling like Gillian’s eyes were hungry for something more than lunch when they were inside the outfitters. She had stared so intently at her that she felt like she was being undressed.
Who knew, though? Maybe Gillian really liked tweed.
“The rain has stopped. I’d better check on Dudley,” Gillian said, draining her cup and stepping off her stool. “Thanks for the coffee. It doesn’t compare to Earl Grey, yet it was perfectly palatable.”
“Noted. I’ll get some in… for next time.”
Gillian’s smile was unmistakable despite her attempts to hide it as she made her way through to the back hall. It may have arisen, though, from the mention of Earl Grey rather than the potential for a future invitation.
The towel on the radiator reminded Viola of their earlier moment when she had patted it against Gillian’s wet chest. She cringed as she replayed it in her mind, wondering what she’d been thinking. The truth was, she hadn’t thought at all. She was caught up in the heat of the moment. Her gaze had inadvertently lingered on Gillian’s chest, and in a momentary lapse, she had reached out to dry it without fully considering the situation. Their brief eye contact, followed by her quick retreat, only added to her unease.
Watching Gillian slip into her shoes, Viola couldn’t help wondering how she had perceived the gesture. She had seemed at ease when entering the kitchen, and no awkwardness had followed.
Pushing the thoughts aside as Gillian headed to the door, Viola realised she would be gone in a moment. “Could I come with you? I haven’t managed to look around the stables, and I’d like to meet Dudley. Properly, anyway.”
Viola blushed a little as she recalled the altercation with Gillian at the stables following her unexpected planning meeting.
“Of course,” Gillian replied as she picked up a bag of what looked like carrots beside the door.
Viola hadn’t noticed it before, being too distracted by Gillian and the rain. Slipping into her boots, she asked, “Why do you have a bag of carrots?”
“They’re for Dudley. Mrs Hawkins from the village shop occasionally has some past their best. He’s not as fussy as her customers.”
“I made the mistake of nipping in the shop the other day.” Viola chuckled as she held the back door open for Gillian.
“Mistake?”
“Oh, everyone was perfectly nice; it’s just a few customers conducted a loud conversation with the woman behind the counter about the manor summer ball.”
“The villagers aren’t very subtle, especially when it comes to anything important to them,” Gillian said as she led them around the side of the manor. “Bridget mentioned this morning that people were asking.”
“Does it mean that much to people?” Viola asked, her tone full of curiosity and concern.
“It’s the event of the yea — was the event of the year, I mean,” Gillian replied, her voice trailing off as she corrected herself with a hint of frustration.
Viola caught the solemn look on Gillian’s face. She didn’t want people to miss out on something meaningful to them. She also couldn’t face organising it. “Is there nowhere else it can be held?” she asked, trying to offer a practical solution.
Gillian sighed, her gaze dropping to the crunchy gravel underfoot. “There is nowhere spacious enough, and I don’t think it would have quite the same feel were it not to be held at the manor. It’s more than a location; it’s about the tradition and the memories tied to it.”
Viola nodded; she could understand that.
“The last party I organised was a bit unruly,” she said, sticking her hands into her pockets.
“So I heard. A summer ball has a better class of attendees. It’s all very civilised.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start with a ball.”
“Is that the issue, organising it? You aren’t opposed to the concept?”
“I’m not opposed to the idea of anything if people ask rather than demand or assume.” Viola noticed Gillian tilting her head in acknowledgement as they walked along the path towards the stable. “I only threw the housewarming party to feel less lonely. It didn’t exactly require much organising. I asked Mrs Johnson to put on a buffet and order drinks; a friend was the DJ. I put the word out to some friends and acquaintances, and they put the word out to theirs, it seems. You heard the rest.”
“There is far more planning than that required for a ball, and anyway, I thought you came here for a bit of peace.”
“There is a difference between peace and loneliness.”
“They’ve always been much the same to me,” Gillian replied softly. “Until recent weeks anyway.”
Viola stole a glance at Gillian and noticed a smile twitching at the corners of her lips. What did Gillian mean by that? Was she insinuating that since they were spending more time together, she felt at peace but not lonely? Viola’s heart squeezed until she realised it couldn’t be that. As desperate as she was to ask, she refrained. She was happy to push Gillian in some respects; that comment, however, felt too personal to intrude on. Instead, she decided on something she knew would bring an even bigger smile to the woman’s face.
“If I agree to a ball, would you organise it? It’s way beyond me, and I can’t help thinking the role of lady of the manor is far more suited to you than me anyway.”
Gillian’s eyes shimmered as they approached Dudley, whose head was poking out of his stall door.
“It is. I mean, it’s all I’m qualified and equipped for, and I’d like my job back.”
“Is that a yes then?” Viola clarified.
“Yes,” Gillian answered, her eyes crinkling as a smile swept across her face.
It made Viola’s heart squeeze again. What was that?
Gillian turned away from Viola, putting her attention back on Dudley. Viola suspected she didn’t want her to see the joy on her face. The woman seemed intent on hiding all her emotions, even the good ones.
“Are you sure it’s not too late to organise everything? Summer is practically here.”
“Not for me. I can organise a ball in my sleep.”
Viola believed that. She copied Gillian in how she touched the bridge of Dudley’s nose. Not having grown up around horses, she was unfamiliar with them and found them a little intimidating.
Dudley appeared gentle enough, though, and she watched in awe as he rubbed his muzzle affectionately against Gillian’s shoulder. He seemed enamoured with her, and Viola found herself beginning to feel the same way.
“There’s just the four stalls?” Viola asked, taking them in and immediately noticing they looked a bit worse for wear. She hadn’t paid them much attention when she chewed Gillian’s ear off about the planning officer.
“Yes. You could hire the others out and make an income. The structure needs a bit of work first, though.”
“How lax of the previous owner,” Viola teased.
Gillian narrowed her eyes at her and then smiled. “There is good money to be made from livery. Jonathon was never in favour of it. It was part of my plan for the estate when he died. There’s room for eight stalls if you convert the garages. Subject to planning, of course.”
“I wouldn’t wish to upset the neighbours; they are very sensitive to change,” Viola said with a playful twitch of her head.
“Ha,” Gillian retorted, pulling two carrots from the bag, which she placed at her feet to stop Dudley nosing further into it. “Here.”
Viola took the carrot Gillian offered and watched as she fed hers to Dudley.
“Keep a flat palm as much as you can. If you offer up fingers, they’ll likely be eaten. Not on purpose, I might add.” Gillian placed an arm under the horse’s neck and pressed herself to the side of his head. “Dudley wouldn’t hurt a fly intentionally. Would you, boy?”
The horse spotted the carrot in Viola’s hand and pushed forward, making her take a step back.
“It’s okay,” Gillian assured her, stepping behind her.
She could feel Gillian’s hands press lightly onto her shoulders and encourage her forward.
“Lay your palm flat and offer it to him.” Gillian was so close it sounded as if she was whispering into her ear, making Viola almost forget to breathe.
Gillian gently guided her arm towards Dudley, who leaned down and pulled the carrot into his mouth with his soft, furry lips. It tickled Viola’s hand, causing her to smile.
“Is Dudley safe, or is the stable liable to fall down and injure him?” she asked as Gillian stepped back from her and around to Dudley’s side. “I wouldn’t want to find myself in court for being neglectful.”
“He’s fine. I wouldn’t home him in an unsafe environment for convenience.”
“Of course, sorry,” Viola replied sheepishly, realising too late what she must have insinuated.
Gillian looked down and scuffed her shoes against the cobbles. “I don’t think I’ve properly expressed how grateful I am that you’ve let me keep Dudley here.”
“You could repay me with lessons,” Viola suggested cheekily.
“Riding lessons?” Gillian glanced up, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Yes. I’ve always wanted to learn to ride, and as you can see, I need to become a little more comfortable around horses.”
“I’m sure I can help you with that.”
Their eyes met across Dudley, and a shared smile formed between them. Viola wondered if she was the only one who could feel a spark of excitement in her core.
“I should get back. Before the heavens open again,” Viola nodded at a dark cloud moving overhead. She stroked Dudley’s nose. “It was nice to meet you, Dudley. I hope we see more of each other.”
As Viola walked away, Gillian’s voice called out.
“I’ll be in touch soon… about arrangements for the ball. And your lessons.”
Viola turned and walked backwards slowly. “I look forward to it.”
Very much so .