Chapter Ten
Despite there being an enormous Christmas tree in the most impressive hall Eloise had ever seen, Midcombe Manor wasn’t overly festive, and even the tree was tastefully done.
Its decorations were old-style and muted, perfectly in keeping with the age of the house.
It was a far cry from the events of yesterday in Honeycombe Bay.
The manor was only a fifteen-minute drive from Honeycombe, and she’d noticed several promising pubs on the way.
She’d have an early dinner at one of them later, after working up an appetite by all the walking she intended to do today.
With the house being situated in an elevated position, it had a private woodland walk down to a secluded beach where, according to the guidebook, the views were spectacular.
The weather was cold and overcast, but she wasn’t going to let that put her off.
Anyway, the gardens, both the walled and the formal ones, were certainly worth taking a look at.
But first, the house itself. Built from honey-coloured stone, with ivy crawling up the outside, it was very pleasing on the eye, and she’d paused on the sweeping drive to admire its grandeur.
Inside was equally impressive, and after she’d gazed at the marble-floored hall, with its magnificent staircase and coat of arms above the Gothic arched doorway, she wandered into the first of the many rooms on display, studying the guidebook and the strategically placed and very tasteful placards along the way.
The manor was larger than she’d expected, and by the time Eloise had marvelled at the last room—which was actually one of the cellar rooms that had been used as a laundry, complete with washtubs, mangles, and wooden scrubbing boards—she was more than ready for a sit-down and a hot drink.
Having had a smaller breakfast this morning (although not by much), she was also ready for a spot of lunch.
A sandwich would do, she decided, as she made her way out of the manor house to the lodge, where the café and the gift shop were located.
The shop came first, since visitors were funnelled through it before they reached the café, and she ended up buying a pretty silk scarf along with some beeswax hand cream which had a Honeycombe Bay label on the front, and a postcard for Hannah.
As Eloise was waiting in the queue for food, the woman in front of her turned around, smiling when she caught Eloise’s eye. “I didn’t think much of the decorations this year,” the woman said, adding, “Very disappointing.”
“Apart from the tree in the hall, I can’t say I noticed any,” Eloise replied. She genuinely hadn’t, being far too busy looking at the gorgeous paintings and antique furniture crammed into every corner.
The woman cried, “Exactly! We come every year, but this year has been a bit of a let-down.”
Eloise didn’t think so. “I’ve rather enjoyed it. The master bedroom with that enormous four-poster is amazing.”
“It certainly is,” the woman agreed.
They continued to chat about the rooms and the exhibits until it was her turn to be served, and Eloise had thoroughly enjoyed sharing her opinion of the manor house with someone, even if the conversation had been brief.
That was one of the drawbacks of visiting places on her own, or watching a film or a play by herself, she lamented—there was no one to talk to about it, and no one to share the experience with.
And with Hannah now having other commitments, Eloise supposed she’d have to get even more used to being on her own.
It was dark by the time Eloise arrived back at Honeycombe Bay, and from the top of the hill she could see the lights of the village below, including the colourful glow emanating from the caves at the far end of the beach.
It was actually rather pretty, she thought, if she ignored the fact it was caused by the impromptu Santa’s grotto.
Taking it easy, she drove along the twisty, narrow road towards Sea View Guest House, tired from her day out and pleasantly full from the evening meal she’d eaten in a rustic pub on the outskirts of Barnstaple.
She’d thoroughly enjoyed herself today and was looking forward to warming herself by the fire in the guest lounge, and a quiet read of her book before bed.
She was busy thinking about what she might do tomorrow when she noticed someone dawdling along the road and slowed to a crawl to pass them, since there was no pavement on this stretch.
As she did so, she recognised her. It was the woman again, with her son.
He was still wearing the yellow coat, the blue hat, and the same red wellies, and as Eloise drew level she saw him lift up his arms in the universal signal used by children everywhere to signify they wanted to be picked up.
Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw his mother lift him up and hoist him onto her hip before disappearing from view into a house.
Eloise wondered whether they’d been down to the village, and if so what did the little boy make of it all.
It was many, many years since she’d viewed the world through the eyes of a child, and she had a flash of envy which she swiftly pushed to the back of her mind.
There was no need to spoil a lovely day with thoughts of the past.
Bart must have heard her car pull up, because he appeared at the door to his private rooms when she entered the guest house. Mitch’s motorbike was nowhere in evidence so she assumed he must be out.
“Had a good day?” Bart asked.
“Lovely, thank you,” she replied, stripping off her scarf and coat. “I went to Midcombe Manor. It was very informative.”
“It’s nice there,” he said. “I haven’t been for years, though.”
Eloise had the briefest of thoughts that maybe she could have asked him if he wanted to come with her, but she dismissed the idea instantly.
Theirs was a business transaction. He wasn’t really a friend, no matter how much she enjoyed his company.
Anyway, she had the discomfiting suspicion she might like him more than she ought.
Not only did she have a feeling he wasn’t over the death of his wife, she also guessed her fledgeling attraction to him might be a result of feeling sorry for herself.
It wasn’t exactly envy for Hannah’s newfound happiness that was getting her down; it was regret that she now felt more alone than ever, and she worried she was grasping at any friendly straw.
Stop being so needy, she told herself crossly, and with a polite smile to cover her vexation, she headed for the stairs.
But as she put her foot on the first step, she turned and asked, “Is your other guest back?”
“Not yet.”
“In that case, I might avail myself of the lounge.” She could hear the inviting crackle of the fire, and its warmth was seeping into the hall.
“Avail away,” Bart said, then his expression became sheepish. “I’ve got a confession.”
Eloise raised her eyebrows. Not more Christmas shenanigans, she hoped?
“I did a bit of your jigsaw. Not much. Just a couple of pieces.”
She let out a chuckle. “Is that all? I thought you were going to confess to something far more serious, like putting up a Christmas tree.”
“Never!”
“I’m glad to hear it. You’re forgiven; I don’t expect to complete it before I leave anyway, so the help is welcome. I hate to leave things unfinished.”
It was when Eloise had changed into more comfortable clothes and was enjoying a quiet cup of tea in her room for a minute before she tackled the jigsaw that an idea occurred to her. After finishing her tea and washing out her mug, she went downstairs.
There was no sign of Bart, and the door to his private rooms was closed. Gingerly, she tapped on it, wondering if she was doing the right thing. But it seemed silly for him to be on his own in one room and for her to be on her own in the other, when they could be completing the jigsaw together.
Eloise hovered, feeling inexplicably nervous.
Nervous wasn’t a feeling that bothered her often.
Not now. Not at her age. When she was a child, after her mother had passed away, she’d spent every waking minute feeling nervous, never knowing whether she would be moved to another home and another school at a moment’s notice.
Over the years she’d trained herself not to be, but every so often the feeling would resurface and catch her unawares.
Why was it resurfacing now, she asked herself, but the answer eluded her when the door opened and she saw the polite enquiry on Bart’s face.
“I was wondering,” she said. “Would you like to help me do the jigsaw?”
“Now?”
“Unless you’re busy?”
He glanced over his shoulder, and she followed his gaze. A pair of spectacles sat on a side table next to a gilt-framed photo of a smiling woman, and beside it lay a book. The TV in the corner was off, the drapes were drawn, and lamps lit the room with a soft yellow glow.
“No, I’m not busy,” he said slowly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to work on it on your own?”
“It’s a bit late for that.” Her reply was sharper than she intended. Seeing him tense, she added, “If it isn’t an imposition, I’d like the company.”
His eyes searched her face, and she wilted under his scrutiny. Why had she said that? He must think her pathetic, coming on holiday on her own at Christmas, then craving the company of a man she’d only just met.
“Never mind,” she snapped, turning away.
“Wait.”
Eloise hesitated.
“Would you like a Baileys?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“I’ve got a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream. I can’t drink it all myself.”
It was her turn to scrutinise him. “I thought you weren’t doing Christmas?”
“I’m not, but you said you enjoy a Baileys, so…”
She was touched he’d remembered. “I’d love a glass.”
“Before we start, do you mind if I put some music on?”
“Jazz?” she guessed, with a teasing wrinkle of her nose.
“I have other kinds, you know,” he replied huffily, but he had a twinkle in his eye as he said it.
“Such as?”
Bart opened his mouth, then closed it again, and she realised he was blushing.