Chapter 16
Chapter 16
The bridge that spanned the River Milver’s receding waters had passed inspection, so Dan was able to cross from Milver St. Mary to Little Milver and connect with the road he preferred. Despite the likelihood of holiday traffic in Bruton, popularized and glamorized by an influx of celebrities and politicians, he stuck to the familiar A359, heading towards Frome.
Did Ellie have morning-after regrets about what happened last night on the terrace? He definitely didn’t. As a classical piece flowed from the speakers, he recalled running his fingers through her auburn hair, and the feel of her soft lips moving against his. He’d discovered the texture of her skin and the contours of the figure concealed by a long-sleeved navy and white striped shirt and a pair of dark blue trousers.
She pressed the control on the touchscreen and increased the volume. “Chopin’s mazurka in D major. I know it from dancing in Les Sylphides. So did Nijinsky and Pavlova and Karsavina, when they were with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes.” Her hands darted in various directions, and she angled her head from side to side. When the music faded, she lowered the sound and continued, “City International revived it when I was a member of the corps. It was my debut as soloist, when we repeated it for a gala performance. In Brussels, I was paired with Rafe Lawrence for the opening pas de trois, and the pas de deux in the waltz section before the finale. By far the best partner I ever had.”
Until this moment, her affectionate tone when referring to the former male star hadn’t troubled him. Overnight, Dan had developed a startling degree of possessiveness. He reminded himself that at Ellie had disavowed any off-stage partnership with the director of British Ballet. But she was seeing him six days a week. It wasn’t unheard of for a lengthy professional alliance to ripen into something more.
“There’s no plot,” she continued, “or characterization. One male poet and twenty-three sylphs in long, Romantic-era tutus. Flowers in our hair, tiny fairy wings attached to our backs. Many picturesque tableaux—static poses—by the soloists and the corps. It’s about half an hour long. The choreography is simple, with focus on the movements of the head and arms and hands and feet. Not a favorite among show-offs who want to impress with their technique.”
“Sounds familiar. I must’ve seen it.”
“You’re probably thinking of La Sylphide, a story ballet. Men in tartans and kilts and a witchy woman who casts spells. A wedding procession at the end.”
“That’s the one. I saw it with my dad and his lady friend.”
“He has one? How long have they been together?”
“Four years. They met at the Chelsea Flower Show. Pamela Ames is head of public relations for a building society that sponsored one of the important display gardens. He sees her whenever he’s in London. They attend plays and concerts. And ballets.”
“He’s got a title, so he must manage acres and acres of countryside property. Like Martin.”
After a shake of his head, Dan explained, “Nominally he’s partner in a firm of solicitors based in Bristol, primarily serving as a legal consultant on certain types of cases. As for land, my Wheeler ancestors spent generations acquiring large tracts of it. The house I grew up in was on the estate, and Dad and I moved from there to Tayer Court while my grandparents were still living. After he inherited, he reduced his holdings, selling off the majority of the tenant farms and houses. Part of the proceeds went into an income-generating trust that pays for my brother’s care. Dad’s preferred occupation, rose breeding and cultivation, isn’t at all profitable. Hannah’s mother, the garden guru Wendy Edney, filmed an episode of her television series at Tayer Court. You’ll find it on ServeFlix.”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“That you’re a former professional dancer embarking on a career as an actress. I didn’t mention that you’re also an excellent kisser.”
She responded with a soft laugh. “Takes one to know one.”
“The darkness and the starlight emboldened me. And your head resting against my arm. I assure you what happened after that was . . . meaningful.”
“For me as well.” Her hand moved across the center console to settle on his forearm. “I want that dinner date. And Barbara Stanwyck in Lady of Burlesque.”
“I’ll check whether it’s available on one of the streaming platforms. What was Martin saying to you when I was telling Richard goodbye?”
“He apologized for not having time to show me around the factory where the organic rapeseed oil was produced.” Hannah had sent them off with three bubble-wrapped bottles, stowed in the Jaguar’s boot.
“We did accomplish a great deal over a short period. I compiled all my research into a document he’ll hand out to the property owners and tenants at the community meeting. They’re desperate for guidance about making insurance claims for repairs to residences or businesses.”
“Additional hardship for people in dire straits.”
“It requires meticulous record-keeping. They’ll have to provide photographs of flood damage to loss adjusters, in addition to various types of documentation—purchase receipts, copies of bills of sale, product warrantees. In some cases, temporary accommodation is required, before and during restoration, with reimbursement of costs, if that’s included in the policy terms.”
“When a crisis shatters normality,” she said reflectively, “the complexities are overwhelming. Before and after my husband’s funeral, I wanted to be left alone. But I had to meet with a lawyer and trust officers. The minister of his parents’ church. My grief counselor. In retrospect, I sympathize with them, having to deal with a twenty-year-old zombie. I was disoriented. Detached—from myself and everybody else. Awake most of the night. Sleepwalking through the days and weeks and months.”
“I remember.” The accident on the river had occurred nearly a decade and a half ago, and if he let himself remember, it felt like it happened yesterday. “I experienced all of that.”
Folding a granola bar wrapper in half, she asked, “Does Brian spend time with your father at Tayer Court?”
“He becomes agitated if his routine is disrupted. When he had his appendix out, the brief stay in a Bristol hospital was hard for him. But his case manager isn’t entirely opposed.”
“I hope it works out.”
“I’m taking you to the house to meet Dad and have a look round. Before I drive to Harding Hall, I’ll deliver you to the hotel. I did request a superior room, but they couldn’t guarantee it would be available at such short notice.”
“I’ve never spent the night in a real castle. Wherever they put me, I’ll be satisfied.”
At Alveston he left the main road, thereby avoiding the larger town of Thornbury. Proceeding northwards, he entered territory where his Dimery ancestors had raised crops and livestock as tenants of his Wheeler forbears. He saw nothing like the devastation that plagued the Milver Vale, although the recent deluge had pushed mud onto the tarmac here and there and raised the height of a brook dividing one field from another. He proceeded along a tunnel of hedgerows thick with white hawthorn blossom.
Sunlight bathed Tayer Court’s stone facade and front lawn. A circular bed contained roses and purple lilac blooms, offering a hint of the glorious displays elsewhere on the property.
He switched off the engine. Realizing he hadn’t yet informed Ellie about an important individual, he told her, “Sandra, our housekeeper, who also cooks for Dad, is probably still here. She and her husband live in a bungalow down the lane. Don’t be surprised when she calls me Daniel—nobody else does. Dad will be with his roses, taking advantage of the fine weather.”
He left the driver’s seat and went to the boot to remove his wheeled suitcase. Ellie picked up one of the bottles of oil.
Smiling down at her, he said, “It’s been ages since I brought somebody here.”
“A girl, you mean?”
He nodded. “And never an American one.”
“I promise I’ll be good.”
He released the handle of his case. His palm cupped her chin, and he leaned in for a kiss. As she swayed towards him, circling his waist with her slender ballerina arms, he whispered, “When we’re alone, you can be as naughty as you like.”
Hearing the crunch of gravel, they both turned.
“You missed lunch,” his father said.
As Ellie stepped away, Dan responded, “When I rang, I didn’t know exactly when we’d leave Stanwell. And I tried to avoid the major roadways and heavy holiday traffic. That slowed our progress.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Lowery.”
“I’m Ellie.” With her free hand she pushed up her sunglasses, revealing her eyes.
Dan was disappointed that Dad didn’t invite her to call him Terry.
She held out the gift. “Milver Vale cold-pressed rapeseed oil. Lady Milverston asked us to bring it to you.”
“How is Hannah?” He directed this question at Dan.
“In joyful expectation of delivering a daughter at year’s end.”
“Splendid.” He led them to the front door and opened it, allowing Ellie to enter first.
Dan added, “And frustrated by Martin’s futile attempts to stop her from working so hard.”
Sandra stood in the hall, beaming. When she tried to take his case, he clung to it.
“Meet my patient friend Ellie, who never complained about traveling every back road from South Somerset to South Gloucestershire.”
“No reason to,” said Ellie, brightly. “Such lovely scenery.”
“Fine day for a drive,” the older woman agreed. “Smooth going, I reckon, in that swish motor of his. Leave your case, Daniel, and come to the kitchen. You must be famished.”
Bashing his Panama hat against his thigh, Dad said, “I’m off to the glasshouse.”
“I lured Ellie here with promises of a garden tour.”
“Oh. Well, yes. Certainly.”
“Food first,” Sandra insisted. “Then the roses.”
“You know where to find me,” said his father, halfway out the door.
Bees darted from campanulas to columbines and buzzed deep within the tubular flowers of the spiky foxgloves. Dan’s mother had taught him the names in the distant days when she’d snipped blossoms with her secateurs and placed them in the trug he carried for her.
Ellie, silent and attentive, listened to descriptions of centuries-old roses, budded but not blooming. Dan perceived that his parent was talking at her, not to her, in a voice that was a shade less than warm. They followed a stone wall of uncertain age, partly obscured by flowering rose canes underplanted with perennials. Broad steps led to the sunken garden, where two men weeded borders crammed with Dad’s creations, all of them blooming. In the center was the round pond with a fountain that had proved irresistibly tempting to Dan and his younger brother on hot summer days.
“The varieties I produce,” Dad said, “are grown off-site until mature enough for sale.” He pointed at a trio of leafy shrubs, flowering profusely. “TC37, my latest and most promising cultivar.”
Leaning over, Ellie pressed her nose against the pink petals and inhaled. “Amazing fragrance. Like strong perfume.”
“My grower and I expect it to perform well in rose trials. He currently has five hundred grafted plants ready for introduction. After that lot sells out, he’ll maintain a reserve list for next year’s stock. He means to offer over a thousand in subsequent seasons. If you care to see how new roses are made, come with me.”
In the glasshouse, grow lights were positioned above long tables. Ellie paused to study the identifying labels of specimens that were segregated by container size.
“All my hybrids come from seed produced by rose hips. Fewer than half the ones I plant will germinate. Seedlings remain in their pots until the root structure is established enough for transporting to the rose fields where they mature.”
An adjacent glass-sided shed held several evergreen bonsai trees undergoing rehabilitation. Herbs and annual flowers and vegetables had been transferred to the borders or the kitchen garden, their next stop. Dad showed off rows of ripening strawberry beds and the fruit cage. Gesturing towards the orchard, he expressed hopes for a decent crop of cherries, peaches, apricots, apples, and pears. With pride he pointed out the two giant yew trees, hundreds of years old, shading a ruin that formerly served as a place of worship for the manorial household.
Hoarse chittering drew Dan’s gaze to a magnolia. He counted three dark-feathered birds clinging to the branches, carrying on a conversation. “That sounds like Jack.”
“I saw him this morning. The biggest in the flock, and the boldest. He leads the others when they’re foraging in the lawn to feed their young. There’s a group of nestlings in a crevice in the old chapel wall, clamoring for food.” His father moved towards the tree, calling, “Jackie, Jackie, Jackie. Come down, Jackie.” A bird soared down to the ground and waddled over. “That’s him.”
“A crow?” Ellie asked.
“Jackdaw,” Dan answered, “smallest member of the corvid family. In times past, people would take a baby bird from the nest before it fledged, to keep as a pet—a practice that’s now illegal. The species is notable for its ability to mimic the human voice. My brother Brian and I taught one to talk back to us, or so we believed. This Jack will eat from your hand.”
“I wish we had food. What does he like?”
“Anything he’s offered. Keep him in sight while I’ll get a few morsels from the kitchen.”
Best to leave her alone with Dad, he decided. Perhaps if I’m out of the way, he’ll loosen up enough to show the typical Sir Terence charm.
Sandra, muttering in exasperation, was installing a fresh bin liner.
He crossed to the worktop and opened the biscuit tin. “Ellie wants to feed Jack.” He removed a digestive.
“I’m about to go home, but I needed to speak to you when Terry wasn’t around to hear. You’ll be seeing Brian?”
“After I take Ellie to the castle.” Noting the worry in her face, dread surfaced. “Is something wrong with him?”
“It’s to do with Lady Lucinda.”
When he unclenched his teeth, he asked, “What about her?”
“She contacted Harding Hall’s chief administrator. Nerys, Brian’s physical therapist, mentioned it when I was over there a few days ago. I’m no blood relation, so she couldn’t say much. If you want to know more, you might ask Dr. Daventry. Or Brian’s case manager.”
“I wonder why Dad didn’t tell me.”
Sandra shook her graying head. “You know how he is about her. But I couldn’t let you go over there and find out the way I did. She might get in touch with you.”
“She wouldn’t know how,” he retorted.
“You’re a top executive at an important London firm. The office phone number is on the website. Email addresses, too.”
With better understanding of his father’s moodiness, he returned to the magnolia tree where Ellie waited for him.
“Sorry I took so long. Is Dad chasing after Jack?”
“He went back to the big greenhouse. I’m keeping my eyes on your bird.” She pointed to a dark shape on a lower branch.
“Hold out your hand.” He broke the digestive into pieces and placed several in her open palm. “Lean down and show it to him. Call his name.”
“Look, Jackie. Here’s a cookie. A biscuit.”
“Keep your hand cupped. That’s right.” He tossed crumbs on the ground.
The jackdaw swooped over and greedily nibbled them. He cocked his glossy head, inspecting the tidbit Ellie held. Hopping up, he landed on her hand long enough to seize it. Setting it on the grass, he pecked away.
Dan held up his phone. “Might I take photos? To show Brian.”
“Sure.” When she held out another remnant, the bird approached.
He captured numerous images of Ellie and the bird together, and individually, and shot video. When every speck of biscuit was consumed, he said, “Sandra had to leave, but I’m capable of brewing a cup of tea. If you’re so inclined.”
She gave him a long look. “I think we’d better go.”
“Let me show you the house. It won’t take long.” He wanted to see her there. He hoped she would like it. “This tour will be considerably less detailed than Martin’s.”
While she admired the beamed ceilings of the primary sitting room and the dining room, and the Carrara marble mantels, questions tumbled about in his mind. Why, after over a decade of blatant disinterest and complete silence, had his mother contacted Dr. Daventry? Was she contemplating a visit? She had no right or authority to interfere in arrangements for Brian’s care. Dad was his legal guardian.