Chapter 13
Lunch up at Feywood was a quiet affair that day. Sylvia was away in Oxford again, Rousseau was working, and Will was at some boring conference on estate management, so it was just the three sisters who gathered together some bits from the kitchen and sat down at the big, faded table in there to eat, rather than bothering with the dining room.
‘Where’s Léo today?’ asked Martha, sawing wonkily at a cucumber with a blunt knife.
‘Here, give me that.’ Juliet took both items from her, discarded the knife for something sharper and began slicing efficiently, while Martha redirected her efforts to buttering bread. ‘I don’t know, last I saw of him he was drinking wine and looking sadly at some article on his tablet.’
‘Maybe it’s his femme mariée again,’ said Frankie. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘No.’
In fact, Juliet had noticed some of the photographs, but something stopped her telling Frankie about them. She would only want to rush off and try to find the article, and it felt intrusive somehow, to be scrabbling around for salacious details.
‘We all should have tried harder at school with French. Who knew it would have come in so useful? That’s very good cucumber-cutting, by the way, Juliet. Been taking lessons from the charming chef?’
Juliet looked down at her handiwork in surprise. It was rather good. Maybe being around the cookery school so much was beginning to rub off, but she didn’t welcome Frankie’s lazily snide comments.
‘Oh, shut up, Frank. You could always try doing something other than waiting for me and Martha to fill your plate.’
‘I don’t mind, girls, I’m too much in love to eat.’
She immediately countered this comment by breaking off a large hunk of cheese to go with her crackers and perfectly sliced cucumber.
‘Ooh, Frankie, who is it?’
Martha’s eyes lit up. For someone so hopeless with men, thought Juliet, Martha was irrepressibly romantic.
‘Haven’t you noticed? It’s Will, our gorgeous estate manager, of course.’
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, then she tried to compose herself.
‘Oh… that’s… that’s lovely news. I hadn’t realised. Well… erm… great, good luck.’
She produced a smile, then busied herself with some leftover quiche. Juliet glared at her sisters in turn. Frankie could be cruel at times, lolling in her chair and grinning at her older sister’s crestfallen face.
‘Frankie, give it a rest. Martha, of course she’s not in love with Will, and he’s certainly not in love with her. He’s got far more sense than that. She’s winding you up.’
Martha raised her gentle face to look at her sisters with renewed hope.
‘Really? Wonderful! Erm, I mean, that is, I would have been happy for you, but I’m not sure you’re really a perfect match…’
She trailed off, reddening.
‘There, there, big sis.’ Frankie patted Martha’s hand. ‘I know he’s your dream man, I wouldn’t do that to you. But I wish you’d get on and tell him, rather than mooning around. It’s been two years now.’
‘I…did you know as well, Juliet?’
‘You might as well paint it on the side of the house, it’s that obvious.’
Juliet felt sorry for Martha but was glad of the distraction.
‘Oh no! Do you think he knows too?’
Her cheeks were now aflame, and tears had risen in her eyes. Frankie stretched and yawned, then took pity, as she always did.
‘Nah, he won’t have noticed. He’s far too busy counting bricks in old stone walls and helping wickle hedgehogs find a cosy bush to snuggle down in. You should tell him, though.’
‘I couldn’t! I mean – oh! I just couldn’t.’
‘Why the hell not? It’s the twenty-first century, you don’t need to sit around with your smelling salts waiting for him to come and sweep you off your feet.’
The idle bickering carried on like this for the next twenty minutes or so and, to Juliet’s relief, they did not return to the subject of Léo. She walked back down to the stable block, wondering if he would be in the kitchen, but when she pushed the door open, the room was empty. The tablet lay discarded on the table amongst a debris of crumbs and an empty wine glass and bottle. She was tempted to turn it on, just to have another quick glance at the page he had been reading, but remembered firstly that her French was appalling, so she would learn no more anyway, and secondly how kind he had been yesterday during the photos and teaching her how to taste the food with the wine, and she felt disinclined to pry. Instead, she went upstairs and pushed open the door to her little studio. In the short time she had been living there, it had become ‘home’ more comprehensively than anywhere she had ever lived, including Feywood itself. She wandered over to the kettle and made a cup of herbal tea, something she thought she would never do, but which she found oddly empowering, as if she was making a positive decision to take care of herself. Then she sat down and switched on her computer. It was time to tackle those photos.
As ever, work helped the dust storm in Juliet’s brain to settle, and after an hour and a half, she pushed back her chair and sighed in satisfaction. Although many of the photos hadn’t worked, the most problematic being the ones she had taken in the kitchen garden, some of the others gave her a great rush of pride. The close-ups of Léo’s hands working the dough and chopping onions and herbs were almost perfect and would enhance the website, along with her drawings, which she would be able to finish soon once she had completed some other, paid, commissions. She felt shy looking at the portraits. When she was taking them, she had had the detachment of a surgeon, checking light levels, working out the shadows and angles with absorption. But now that she looked at the finished photographs, Léo gazing into the lens with calmness, confidence and humour, his personality fizzed off the screen and she felt as if she could reach out and touch him. This alone made her feel all hot and cold, and she returned to some compositions of oil bottles on the windowsill for a while, before returning to the portraits. Unfortunately for poor Juliet, the effect hadn’t worn off. His warm, brown-eyed gaze held just the slightest hint of sexiness, with a definite invitation teasing her. Even in the more serious shots, his lips curled upwards, with a natural inclination towards joy and fun. Her clever lighting had picked up the tawny highlights in his thick hair and shadowed his face flatteringly. Not, she had to admit, that he needed much help. He was a very handsome man, but not in a bland, polished way; not, she thought, like Toby with his sculpted hair and pampered skin. No, Léo had the look of someone who had lived; not dissipated, just well-adventured. Despite her reservations about him – partly because he was a man and therefore not to be trusted, but also because of the magazine article which was unfair, she knew, because none of them had understood enough French to know what was going on – when she looked at these honest portraits, she saw a kind, friendly, open face. It was a shame about the bossiness, she reflected, but maybe she shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that this made him controlling. She could decide that once she knew him a bit better.
Juliet knew only too well how it felt to be misunderstood, or labelled as something you knew wasn’t ‘you’, to the extent where everyone else seemed to believe it, and you doubted the tiny remaining nugget of certainty deep inside.
The screen had now become a swirling mass of colours as the screensaver kicked in, but Juliet didn’t nudge the mouse or tap a key to bring it back to life. She stared at it meditatively for a few moments, letting these thoughts wash across her brain and take form. Yesterday’s proximity to that most masculine of men, his calm authority when he had guided her to eat mindfully, his gorgeous eyes gazing into hers, albeit through a camera lens, had unsettled her. She had, she mused, believed her own publicity for too long and her confused push-me-pull-you reaction to Léo was a far cry from the cool, impervious ice-queen image she had cultivated for so long. It’s bloody Feywood, it does this to you. How can I be anyone but myself here, and how can I allow that when it caused me so much pain for so long? An image of Juliet’s mother flicked into her head, of her scorn at her middle daughter’s developing talents and interests and her mocking criticism and sudden, unexpected rages which had driven Juliet up several different pathways before she left altogether, only to realise years later that she still wasn’t allowing herself to be, well, herself. How ironic that it was being back at Feywood that was finally bringing about the softening she had secretly craved. The ice queen melts, she thought to herself, and laughed.
Juliet didn’t see Léo for the rest of that day. She didn’t go up to the house for supper, preferring to eat some of her village store treats in front of the TV. She would have to get some more comfortable clothes, she thought to herself as she once again pulled on the only soft joggers and sweatshirt she had; this new lifestyle didn’t really call for tight waistbands and sharp tailoring.
The next day, after breakfasting in her pyjamas whilst taking in the glorious golden morning view and wondering how difficult it would be to capture on camera, she dressed quickly and set out to look for Léo. She hadn’t heard him downstairs, but on passing through the kitchen noticed that everything from the previous day had been tidied up, and the tablet removed. She had a brief twinge of regret that she hadn’t looked at the webpage when she had the opportunity, but remembered her new resolve to let Léo show her who he was, and not second-guess or jump to conclusions. She found him in the kitchen garden, tying up some sort of plant to conical bamboo structures.
‘Morning.’
‘Ah, good morning, Juliet.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘These are some beans I am trying to grow. The plants seem to shoot out fast all over the place, but there isn’t a single sign of a bean yet. Please can you help me? Just hold that piece of string there… bon! It is done, thank you. What brings you out here? More photos?’
‘Well, actually, the photos I took out here didn’t go well, but I’m pleased with the others. I’ve got some more work to do on them and then I’ll show you. No, it was something else I wanted to ask you about.’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, yes, I actually wanted your help with something. Something for the village.’
‘Of course, I will help you if I can. As long as it does not involve singing. I do not sing well.’
Juliet laughed with surprise.
‘No, not singing! Absolutely not. No, it’s something much more up your street actually – baking.’
‘That’s more like it. Are we going to enter something in the famous village fete scone-making competition? I have heard a lot about this, it sounds extremely competitive.’
‘No, not that, I wouldn’t dare. Agnes reigns supreme over the scone competition, and I certainly don’t want to get on the wrong side of her by entering, let alone winning, with a professional chef to help me. No, this is just making bread. Well, sort of.’
Léo narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
‘Sort of? Go on…’
‘There is a celebration coming up in a few weeks’ time called Lammas – lots of English villages mark it.’
‘Okay…I haven’t heard of it. Lammas?’
‘That’s right, it means ‘loaf mass’ and is a sort of early harvest festival. It celebrates the first wheat harvest of the season, I think. Something like that. Anyway, we always took a loaf down to the church when we were children – well, I did. It was sort of my thing. I bumped into the vicar yesterday, and he’s asked me to revive the tradition.’
‘It sounds wonderful. In France we have celebrations for the grape harvest, with plenty of wine, of course.’
‘Of course. I’m afraid there’s no booze at this one, but the bread is fun. It’s traditional to make it into interesting shapes. I always just made a plait, but owls and corn sheaves are popular.’
‘You want to make bread in the shape of an owl?’
Juliet snorted with laughter at Léo’s bemused face.
‘It wouldn’t have to be an owl, but I thought it might be fun if it was. I mean, if you don’t think you’re up to it, then that’s fine, I’m sure I can do it on my own.’
Juliet wasn’t sure of anything of the sort and would really rather not present the vicar with a burnt lump of rock-hard bread on Lammas, which was all she was confident of producing by herself. But she suspected that needling Léo with a challenge might be her quickest path to getting some help. She was right.
‘Non, Juliet, of course I will help you. An owl it will be! Your vicar will be delighted, and you will learn to bake bread.’
‘Steady on, I wasn’t really thinking about a lesson.’
‘Ah, non? Perhaps you thought you would sit and celebrate the grape harvest with a nice glass of something while I knead, and shape, and bake, hmm?’
‘It’s like the story of the Little Red Hen!’ said Juliet in delight.
‘Hen?’
‘Yes! You know – the hen keeps asking everyone to help her make the bread, but no one will, so she does everything herself and then she eats it herself too.’
‘Okay, so you see the benefit of working together then.’
Juliet screwed up her face.
‘Well, not really, because this bread is going to the church…but I will help you,’ she added graciously.
Léo looked at her as if he wasn’t sure whether to feel amused or appalled. She smirked at him, for once enjoying playing up to her image as a spoilt princess. His confusion just added to her merriment, but she decided to put him out of his misery.
‘Oh, come on, I’m joking. I’m very grateful for your help, I’d be absolutely hopeless doing it on my own.’
Léo threw his hands to his face.
‘Merde! Caught out again by the English straight face. I never know when you are joking. Okay, okay, we will make your owl bread together. It will be magnificent.’
‘I hope so, the vicar has terrifyingly high standards. We don’t want a repeat of what happened in 2009.’
Juliet shook her head sorrowfully and gazed at the ground.
‘What did happen in…Oh, wait, I am being joked with again, right?’
She let a naughty smile creep across her face.
‘I’m afraid so.’
The next few weeks passed uneventfully for Juliet. She finished the photos for the cookery school website, including the difficult kitchen garden shots of Léo and a terrific daylong session with Sylvia. She had become concerned by her aunt’s repeated absences, and thought she had been looking pale and tired, but as the shoot went so well and Sylvia seemed upbeat and chatty, Juliet decided not to ask any questions. After all, she hated being grilled about her private life and was sure that her aunt would open up to her in good time if, indeed, she needed to. She had also decided to take some pictures of the house itself, but each time she examined them in high resolution on the screen, she felt more depressed.
‘Poor old Feywood,’ she murmured, looking at them. ‘It’d take more than some Vaseline on the lens to cast you in a flattering light.’
She wondered if Rousseau had noticed half of what her camera showed up, or if he was just focused on fixing the roof and windows. The photos showed brickwork that urgently needed repointing, floorboards riddled with woodworm, damp creeping through the ceilings and ivy taking over the ancient guttering. Juliet had tried to draw a heavy velvet curtain that was pulled over a little-used window behind the stairs, and it had fallen to dust in her hands. The electrics and heating were unpredictable, and they often resorted to expensive plug-in heaters in the winter. The only thing that worked properly was the upstairs plumbing, which had been fixed as an emergency about five years ago. You could always be guaranteed a good, hot shower, but never knew if you’d be washing up downstairs in cold water. It was amazing to call a house of such history and character home, but Juliet knew that they all had to be a lot less romantic and a lot more pragmatic about it if they wanted to keep it, let alone have paying guests staying. It was all very well giggling together when you got showered with plaster at the dinner table if someone walked across the room overhead, but people would expect luxury – and working radiators – when they had finished a day in the cookery school.
Juliet had finished several commissions for editors in London, one of which, in particular, had paid handsomely, so she felt justified in taking some time to work on her floral art. Her sisters were also busy. Frankie seemed obsessed with the new boyfriend, but nobody had met him yet; rather, she would go away for several days at a time looking gorgeous and bouncing with excitement on her departures but returning more withdrawn and with dark circles etched under her eyes. Only once had Juliet commented:
‘Frank, you look like you’ve been up for three nights in a row. Glad to see the new man has some stamina.’
‘Shut up, I’ve got work to do.’
It was an uncharacteristically brusque reply from the normally expansive Frankie, and Juliet hadn’t commented again but noted that Frankie wasn’t doing much work and was more likely to be found in bed until lunchtime and mooching around aimlessly in the afternoons. Martha was too distracted by organising their mother’s memorial event to be much help, so Juliet filed Frankie away with Sylvia, resolving to keep an eye on her but not pry where it wouldn’t be welcome. Who would have thought it?I’m becoming quite the family woman. I’ll be checking to make sure Dad’s taking his vitamins next. But with Lammas on the horizon, her attention was soon stretched even further.
‘Juliet, what do you think about adding olives to the bread? An olive branch is a Bible symbol after all.’
‘Juliet, do you think the vicar would mind if we used French flour? I know it’s not quite in keeping, but it makes a superior loaf.’
‘Juliet, I was wondering what sort of owl would be most suitable? I have been researching them and a barn owl is so typical, but a snowy owl so beautiful. What do you think?’
‘Honestly, Léo, I think you’re overthinking all of this. Can’t we just mix together a bit of flour and water, squidge it up, make a sort of owllike shape and bung it in the oven?’
He looked at her as if she had suggested opening a tin of beans for the king.
‘No, Juliet, we cannot. I have been reading about your Lammas, and it is a wonderful and very old festival. I have spoken to Father Benedict, who is most keen that the celebrations should be expanded over the next few years, and sees this year as the perfect time to launch that plan. Our owl is to be the centrepiece in the church, it must earn that place. So please, stop grumbling at me with your squidging and bunging, and help me think about how to achieve perfection.’
A single arched eyebrow was Juliet’s only response, but the call to perfection appealed to her, and that evening she began sketching owls, wondering just how wise she had been to ask for Léo’s help.