Chapter 50
SPRING 1921
A whole year had passed and Olivia Davenport was the talk of the small village in Suffolk where she lived, and not for the first time. Nine years ago, the gossip had centred around her tragic orphan status and the newsworthy nature of her parents’ deaths, but now, the scandal of a young woman, only just twenty-two, returning to her family home, Windy Acres, alone had been sufficient to fan the flames of local gossip. And then, when the curious young lady began to indulge her whimsical side by building the most outrageous treehouse in the gardens, and adding a large circular tower to the front of the property and painting the render pink, of all things, the tittle-tattle really took off. There were even rumours that she had asked a cabinet maker to make her a throne upholstered in red velvet with Princess Cordelia embroidered into the fabric. That was the whisper that made her smile the most – because it was true.
She was an eccentric. An oddity. And far from upsetting her, it made her happy. She found she didn’t mind the intrusion into her private life as much as she thought she would. Her publisher was delighted with all the attention she attracted and actively encouraged her quirkiness, because the newspapers and journals lapped it up. Olivia found that becoming a dotty spinster at such a young age was no bad thing. She had a lifetime ahead of her where she could do what she liked and people would just roll their eyes and say, Oh, that’s so like Miss Davenport – such a queer fish, but a likeable one . If just one young girl read about her in the Girls’ Own Paper and decided to follow her heart, embrace her imagination, be brave or step outside society’s ridiculous boundaries, then she’d achieved something worth far more than the healthy royalty cheques that were now dropping through her letterbox at regular intervals.
Cynthia had been heartbroken to see her leave, until the older woman was told that she was welcome to stay with Olivia whenever she liked. Purchasing a second motor car and enjoying the hedonism that the decade was chasing, Lady Fairchild found she was hardly ever at Merriford Manor at all. Benji was also accepting of Olivia’s decision and had, as she predicted, fallen in love with the outspoken twin sister of one of his school chums. It wouldn’t last, mainly because his mother disapproved, but it was a start.
Her debut fantasy novel had been a huge success, with her second book looking to outsell the first. Her way had been lit by women who’d written similar stories, like Mary Shelley and Jane Webb-Loudon, and her publisher played on the fact that her father was Jasper Davenport, and used one author to sell the other. She was proud to be associated with him and to continue his legacy, even though her stories were far more wild than his had ever been.
The questions she asked in her work were not ‘what if the prince married the chambermaid?’ but ‘what if there were creatures living amongst us on this planet that had come from Mars?’ and ‘what if someone really could become invisible?’ She even had an encouraging letter from H.G.Wells himself. Science fiction was not to everyone’s taste, but then, nor were female novelists – however good their books proved to be. She was content to make a living from her imagination and spend her days doing something she loved. Olivia accepted that she may only ever find love in her vivid dreams or vicariously through the heroes and heroines she created on her brand-new, black Remington typewriter.
The books were such a triumph that she was invited to do a series of public talks across East Anglia, and the first stop was the printers and stationers, Jarrold and Sons, in Norwich.
The weather was frustratingly changeable that day but it had not deterred the eager audience listening to her read from The Starbound Woman . She was well received, always having had a talent for the dramatic, and a small group of enthusiastic young women gathered around her afterwards – full of gushing questions and lauding her with praise.
As she gathered up her papers, someone approached the table she was seated at and slid a copy of her book in front of her.
‘Can you sign this one for me, please, miss?’
Without looking up, and half-listening to the ladies to her left, she opened it to the title page.
‘Of course. I can add a dedication, if you like? What would you like me to say?’
She dipped her pen into the glass bottle of ink on the table before her and hovered it above the page.
‘Well, now, if you could put something like: “To the stubborn idiot who mayn’t properly understand me, but who read my books and decided that whilst such a vivid imagination may well be in need of medical investigation, by God, does it offer an escape from life”. In retrospect, that’s a bit wordy. Let’s keep it simple: “To the stupid idiot begging for a second chance…”’
Her eyes travelled up the long, lithe body before her, taking in the empty sleeve and finally coming to rest on the damaged face.
‘They’ve been talking about you in the servants’ hall for months,’ he said, shrugging. ‘One of the housemaids, Freda, has been following your success since you left Merriford. She showed me an article about your treehouse and the tower that you’ve added at Windy Acres. You’re totally off your rocker but, I guess what I’m saying is, I’d rather live with you in your crazy, fantasy world, than alone in mine.’
It had taken a lot, she realised, for him to come. There were already whispers in the room and one child had pointed to his face and said in a startled voice, ‘Mummy, where has that man’s eye gone?’ And it was never easy to admit when you were wrong, especially for a stubborn man like him.
There was a cough from her publisher, probably anxious to wrap the event up and get home to his wife. Dark clouds had moved overhead and the interior of the store was suddenly gloomy, but Olivia’s heart had never held so much sunshine.
‘Miss Davenport?’ the man prompted, and she realised she’d been frozen like a fool for several seconds.
‘Of course.’ Her cheeks coloured and she returned her focus to the page and began to write.
To the man I’ve loved since I was thirteen years old.
Thank you for finding your way back to me.
Here’s to a shared lifetime of adventure.
She rolled the blotter over the ink and looked up at him.
‘Wondered if you had any jobs going at Windy Acres,’ Tanner said, awkwardly retrieving the novel and clutching it to his chest with his only hand.
‘No, but I have a vacancy for a husband; if you feel you might be suitable, then please do consider applying. Send me a list of your attributes and any relevant qualifications and I will give it some thought and get back to you.’
‘I’m pretty certain that’s the second marriage proposal I’ve had from you, Miss Davenport. Did you not know it is usual for the man to propose?’
‘Oh, I’ve never been one for worrying about the rules.’ She batted his comment away with a lazy hand. ‘Who cares for convention?’
‘I used to, but not so much any more…’
He smiled then and his whole face changed in a heartbeat. She saw in him at that moment all the joy that she’d felt Seth impart through the wall. There. There was the man she’d fallen in love with.
He’d been inside Tanner all along.
* * *
Three days later, somewhere not of this world, but of a world very much like it, a young lady sat in her favourite window seat at Windy Acres and looked out over a garden bursting with green shoots, the drooping heads of violet bluebells, and the lemon-yellow trumpets of the daffodils.
It had been a particularly trying year. A dark secret had been uncovered in her former fiancé’s past, and he was now serving an eight-year gaol sentence for manslaughter after the rather forward yet fascinating Seth Tanner, the former sweetheart of the victim, had exposed the crime.
That particular young man had been on the periphery of her life for many years, but only stepped from the shadows after the war. His ridiculous romantic advances had come out of nowhere, along with his impertinent but resolute conviction that she was not living her best life. He had insisted that she should be writing and travelling, and she knew that without his encouragement, she would not have picked up her pen in the last few months. Perhaps she should have mentioned his strange behaviour to her father’s oldest friend, Sir Hugo, but she didn’t wish the man ill. There was something about him… something that intrigued her, put fire in her belly and made her heart race. He had a ready smile and a cheery disposition. But could she really trust her judgement after being so wrong about Ernest?
She gathered up the loose sheets of paper on her lap and placed them on a small tripod table that was to her left, returning her focus to the garden. The pages were notes for a novel that she’d been playing about with. Mr Tanner had been quite correct to assert that she had story-writing in her veins, only she was not sure what she wanted to write about yet. If he had been correct about that, she pondered, looking out at the small honeysuckle bush he’d given her the previous year, what else had that astute young man been right about?
Her father entered the room and wandered over to her, kissing the top of her head and glancing at the papers by her side.
‘What are you up to?’ he asked, peering at the top page. ‘Giving your old father a run for his money?’
‘Just ideas.’
‘But you’re a girl,’ he teased. ‘I’m not really sure you’re up to such a serious undertaking. Besides, I don’t want to lose my best editor.’
‘Oh, you’re so terribly old-fashioned. Girls are just as good as boys at most things, and better at some.’
He scooped up her papers and began to flick through them.
‘Daddy?’ she said, after a pause. He looked up from her words. ‘Would you do something for me?’
‘Of course, if it’s in my power to do so.’
‘Would you offer Mr Tanner a gardening job here? The young man who exposed Mr Dunn and saved me from a terrible fate? Johnson will retire next year and Mummy so adores her roses.’
‘Not sure Fairchild will appreciate me stealing his staff, and I think it’s highly unlikely the young man would want the job anyway. Why would he leave the impressive grounds of a large estate like Merriford for our more modest acreage in Suffolk?’
The thing of it was, she hadn’t been able to get Mr Tanner out of her mind. He was a handsome lad, to be sure, if a little rough around the edges, but he seemed to carry with him such joy, when so many who returned from the war had lost theirs in the mud-filled trenches of countries far across the sea. She still didn’t understand what had prompted his trip across two counties to visit her on that spring day, but it was flattering, and she regretted her cold dismissal of him after the trial.
Olivia had bumped into Howard Fairchild through mutual friends a few weeks ago. He’d not long returned from a grand European adventure, and had a shy French girl on his arm and a skip in his step. At one time, she’d thought the heir to Merriford Manor had taken a shine to her, but in his darkest hour, he’d fallen for a woman who’d tended to him in a field hospital. Olivia, however, could only ever think of him as the annoying prankster of her occasional visits to see Sir Hugo during her childhood. Besides, the thought of becoming another cold and distant Lady Fairchild, swanning about the house looking decorative but touching no one, certainly did not appeal to her.
‘Tanner’s a solid chap,’ Howard had confirmed. ‘Went from dour-faced misery to extraordinarily jovial fellow after he returned from the war. Our head gardener rather rates him and says he’s a man who is going places…’
‘Please, Daddy, for me?’ Olivia appealed to her father with wide eyes.
Jasper Davenport nodded.
If he comes, I will know, she thought. And then we shall have all the time in the world to get to know each other.
Olivia curled her legs under her bottom and studied her reflection in the windowpane. Two Olivia Davenports, she mused. One sitting heartsore but determined, in the window seat, and another, staring back at her – somehow more confident and at peace.
She smiled and her reflection smiled back.
* * *