43. Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three
T he stunning display of orange, pinks, and reds promised a glorious day for the tourists waking in the town. Nate sat on the sea wall dressed in his crumpled clothes from the day before, his rolled-up trousers damp from walking in the shoreline, contemplating the scene he saw the previous evening. When he’d found the Enchanted Emporium empty, he decided a stroll on the beach would clear his head after the long drive and give him the courage to phone her. His heart leapt when he saw Willow in the distance and plummeted when he recognised Glenn. After witnessing the embrace, he knew sleep would be elusive and dreaded returning to an empty Sand Dale Cottage, so he had walked over the River Esk and climbed the 199 steps. The town fell behind the higher he went. On a bench, he watched the sun set and darkness fall. Lights shone in houses and the soft sound of laughter and chat rose as people returned home from the restaurants and pubs. They were getting on with their lives while his stood still. Any plans he’d made during his journey up the country vanished with that kiss. The kiss he expected to receive was given to someone else, and it was all he saw when he closed his eyes, on an endless loop. The clouds cleared, revealing the stars he never saw in the city. They failed to bring joy, only memories of Willow, teaching him the constellations and their related stories. He should have come back sooner and followed his heart. Instead, it had shattered in two.
He couldn’t hate Glenn. He liked him, and he knew he would care for Willow as she deserved. They had a history, lived close by, and Amber would be happy. They were, after all, a ready-made family.
The fishermen’s chat and laughter while they brought in their catch drifted in the refreshing breeze, and Nate witnessed the hubbub of the smokery processing the famous kippers and shops opening early. Whitby was waking up. He strolled to a small café offering takeaway coffee and then returned to the beach, cradling his hot drink. He doubted he’d ever return to this coastal town and wanted to soak up its atmosphere before he left. A familiar figure strode along the shoreline, her chunky boots leaving distinct marks in the wet sand before they were washed away by the waves. Her hair was longer than before and a vibrant blue instead of red. It compelled him to walk over.
Amber jumped as he approached, her blood draining from her already pale face. He apologised for scaring her, which she shrugged off, gathering her defiant demeanour.
‘I just wasn’t expecting to see you,’ said Amber, swiping strands of hair away from her face before stuffing her hands in her pockets.
‘It was a surprise visit but an enlightening one. How’s college?’ They walked side by side as he listened to vague updates until he couldn’t wait any longer. ‘How’s Willow?’
‘You haven’t seen her?’ Amber scrutinised him, taking in his dishevelled appearance.
‘Not to talk to, but I saw your dad and Willow together last night.’
Amber nodded. ‘They had a celebratory date at Monique’s.’ Her smile confirmed what he suspected. While he’d given Willow his heart in York and she gave him her trust, her heart already belonged to someone else. How had he got it so wrong? It explained why his calls and messages had been rejected. Their night together must have been a mistake, in her eyes at least. A goodbye.
‘How long have they been together?’ Nate asked, unsure whether he wanted the answer, but he needed to know whether he could have done things differently.
Amber paused before delivering the words that punched deep into his soul. ‘Just after Valentine’s Day.
***
The Moors rushed by in a green-and-brown blur. Jealousy and anger urged him to drive faster on the winding roads, descending and ascending the dramatic landscape. He’d trusted her and thought she cared for him. How could he be so stupid? The warning signs were there at Christmas, telling him she and Glenn were more than friends. He should have listened to them.
His brakes screeched, and the car jolted to a stop as a sheep wandered onto the road. It glared at him before continuing to the other side. The shock of a near miss forced him to slow down. He needed to take a break before he hurt himself or someone else, and he needed a drink stronger than his lacklustre coffee. His phone shrilled, and taking it as a sign, he pulled into a layby.
‘Nate Reynolds.’ He answered the number he only vaguely recognised.
‘Mr Reynolds, it’s Joanne Dawson from Parson’s Investigations. I’m just enquiring whether you’ve received our preliminary report you requested on a Mr Rafael Amenábar?’
Nate’s mouth went dry and he clutched the steering wheel tight as he told them he’d read it later and no he didn’t need to hear a recap. It wasn’t his business anymore. He’d forward them to Willow for her to deal with. ‘And also, we’ve found Speedwell Cottage.'
***
At a crossroads, Nate turned right down a nondescript lane far away from the main through road and a chill passed through him, reminiscent of his introduction to the Emporium and its homicidal matchmaking ghost. Not that it did much use, Mrs Marley and Vincent should have focused on someone closer to home and his heart wouldn’t be hurting as much. His life would have continued as before, the office, networking and, well, not Rebecca, she’d still have had an affair with Jamie, but he might not have reacted the same, raged instead of giving his blessing and help. Love had touched him, and he couldn’t stand in his brother’s way. And he was doing it again. Willow, like Rebecca, had made her choice.
‘Recalculating. Recalculating,’ screamed the usually calm voice of his sat nav.
‘I’m in the middle of nowhere, now is not the bloody time for you to bloody recalculate.’
Maybe he should turn around, back to a familiar road, and continue home. Willow had waited this long to find Speedwell Cottage; a few hours wouldn’t matter. He could forward the details to her as a final farewell. But after all her enthusiasm, he needed to see this place that had captured her dreams and heart. The place she called home. He switched off the sat nav, checking his phone which had no signal and was unresponsive, meaning he had to follow his instinct.
Unlike the stark landscape he’d left, trees lined both sides, the canopy forming a verdant tunnel, providing a welcome dappled shade from the blazing sun. He approached a single-track stone bridge rising over a rambling stream Joanne Dawson described in her call. He was close to the mythical place. A flash of vibrant blue and orange streaked past his windscreen. A kingfisher. Encouraged him further. Even if he didn’t find the cottage, Parson's did say there was a village nearby and he could fuel up and dose up on caffeine. The narrow road twisted and turned back on itself, before opening up to moorland and fields. A tractor approached, forcing Nate into a layby. Over the lichen-covered stone wall, he saw it in the distance. A squat tree with a distinctive swept canopy he recognised from Willow’s photo. He’d found Grandma Jax’s.
A mile later, he pulled down a dusty track. The car bumped and jolted with every pothole forcing him to question his wisdom at his detour, but there it was. The abandoned low stone cottage of Willow’s dreams. It even had the traditional, much sought-out rose climbing above the front door in full bloom.
He parked the car and walked to the house. Left to nature, the front garden resembled a meadow, an explosion of colour and a hive of activity with butterflies and other insects. The windowpanes set in the thick walls were intact and there was no sign of vandalism, much to his surprise. He peeked inside to see the shadows of the basic furniture hidden under cloths. No one had lived here for years. Whoever Willow saw moving in hadn’t stayed despite the building’s potential for a family home. The stunning secluded location with the Moors rising in the background and front alone would attract buyers. Maybe it housed more sinister ghosts than Old Percy.
Nate turned the corner of the house. The overgrown garden and brambles formed a narrow walkway over the cracked path. He cursed as thorns snagged his trousers and scratched his legs. He ploughed on. It was a larger property than the photo suggested, each generation adding extra rooms for their requirements. Ivy grew up this side of the house, covering any windows. A whistle alerted him to a presence ahead. What did he expect? A house owned by a witch was bound to have a ghost, maybe Grandma Jax, but did he really want to meet one? He began to retreat. The brambles had settled across the path, blocking his way. He had no choice but to continue forward. The bright sunlight blinded him as he entered a walled garden, conjuring up memories of Willow’s yard at the Emporium. She’d love this. Flagstone paths formed sections devoted to vegetable plots, espalier fruit trees grew up the red brick wall, and there was a knot garden for the herbs. It was perfect, too perfect. Where were the weeds and brambles?
Were some ghosts capable of gardening?
Snip, snip, snip.
He followed the sound of secateurs shaping a hedge. The man looked down from his stepladder on hearing Nate’s footsteps. In his mid-twenties, with a tan from working outside and blonde hair suited to a surfer, he was no ghost.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asked with a local burr and scrutinised Nate from head to toe.
‘Sorry I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here,’ Nate said, unsure how to explain his presence. Should he admit Willow’s search? No, it was her story to tell. ‘I was just passing by. Saw the property with its stunning views and I thought …’
‘You’d trespass onto the land.’
‘No. Not at all. I—’
‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m only kiddin’. You don’t look like a squatter. Anyhow, if you were, it wouldn’t like it. Not one bit. Some have tried.’ The man placed his secateurs into a sheath attached to his belt and climbed down the ladder.
‘What do you mean?’
‘This place tends t’look after itself. The reason it’s not been vandalised or owt. It’s protected by its reputation.’
‘Which is?’ Nothing would surprise Nate now. Seven months ago, he would have laughed at the idea of spooks, spells, and magic, but a lot had changed, which brought him back to her—Willow. He needed to tell her about this sooner or later. She might not want him, but he owed her this. Maybe this was the way back to her heart? Jealousy twisted in his gut. No, she had made her decision, Amber was clear about that. He had to let her go.
‘It is a witch’s place—has been for generations, centuries. These gardens are wonderful—herbs and plants you see no more but are ideal for herbal remedies and the like. Got spells on it, I reckon, don’t you feel it? It’s just waiting. The air zings with anticipation when a visitor approaches, then shrinks in disappointment. M’dad thinks I’m mad, but he never listened to Grandad’s insane ramblings. He knows all about this place. Milly, my sister, reckons he was sweet on the old lady who owned it. Always doing odd jobs for her. We’ve kinda taken over for a while.’
Nate tried to feel what the lad had said, but nothing. Willow would feel it—she had said something similar about the Enchanted Emporium. ‘Grandma Jax,’ he mumbled.
‘Yeah. Jax—that was her name. How do you know? Not exactly from these parts, are you?’ the gardener said.
‘I think I know a friend of her family.’
‘Jax’s? Really? Grandad would love to talk to you.’ He looked at his phone. ‘You’re not heading off, are you? He’ll be in the pub this evening if he can escape the old bird. It’d make his day to speak to you.’
‘I guess I could. If I can find somewhere to stay.’ Nate had nothing better to do, and the more information he had the better before he contacted Willow, and a drink would be welcome to clear his head.
‘There’s always the Old Ram in the village. He’ll be open tonight. Give me a mo.’
He strode away with his phone clutched to his ear. He returned in minutes. ‘Milly’s reserved you a room. She works there sometimes. It’s nowt fancy, but we’ll make sure Grandad’s there tonight. He loves a good natter, especially if he’s given a pint.’
‘Why are you so helpful? I could be a property developer for all you know.’
‘Milly and I love this place. We know it better than most and you’re the first person who hasn’t made it groan in disappointment.'
***
The gardener wasn’t joking about the pub’s accommodation’s lack of opulence. Milly greeted him as he parked his car and guided him up the creaky stairs to the attic.
‘Sorry. It’s tiny, but it’s tourist season, so the other rooms are fully booked. Jez says you knew Jax. She’s a legend round here. Gramps will be thrilled to meet you.’ Like her brother, Milly dressed as if she was ready to catch some waves.
‘I know someone who knew her.’ To his mortification, his stomach growled loudly, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since saying farewell to the honeymooners, a lifetime ago.
‘Pop down to the bar when you’re ready and I’ll rummage you up a bacon butty or something. You sound hungry and a friend of Jax’s is a friend of ours.’ The door closed after her, shrinking the room further. The Old Ram was a quaint timber-framed building which had served the villagers of the picturesque Mexenby for centuries. With its low ceilings and sloping floors, it wasn’t designed for anyone with Nate’s height, and the pitched roof gave little space for any furniture beyond a single bed, a chest of drawers, and table and chair under the dormer window. At least it was clean, and he could stoop for one night. Once he spoke to Jez’s grandad and emailed Willow, he’d head home. He doubted he would see Yorkshire again. It was time to let her live her life and begin his.
The Old Ram was packed when Nate entered that evening. He weaved his way to the bar and was met by a booming voice belonging to a short, balding man with his stomach straining against his shirt. He shook Nate’s hand in a firm grip.
‘You must be Nate. Our Milly’s told us all about you. I’m the Ram’s landlord, Arnold Leeson, but you can call me Arnie. Harry’s over there near the hearth, with the old Jack Russell. He likes this pint.’ He pointed to the pump of strong local ale. ‘Do you want one too? And the dog is rather partial to ready-salted crisps. Shall I add them to your tab?’
‘Better had. Do you do other food?’ Hours had passed since Milly’s doorstopper sandwich and Nate would need to line his stomach if he was drinking Harry’s favourite tipple. Arnie gave him the menu and Nate’s mouth watered with anticipation of proper food. ‘I’ll have a steak pie and chips, please. Does Harry …?’
‘I’ll bring two over. Just don’t tell the old bird. She wouldn’t like it. Keeps putting him on a diet. If you can’t eat what you fancy when you’re as old as Harry, what’s the point?’ Harry’s wife sounded a right dragon.
Harry sat in the corner with the tatty terrier sitting in the seat next to him. Nate took the opposite chair, sliding the beer over.
‘Cheers, lad,’ Harry said raising his glass. The foamed head of ale formed a white moustache on his wrinkled skin. ‘Our Jez said you were sniffing about old Jax’s place but more importantly said you were a friend of the family.’ Harry studied him over his glasses. ‘Who exactly do you know?’
The resemblance to Jez and Milly was uncanny. They shared the same ocean-blue eyes, though Harry’s peered through extensive wrinkles, his story etched in the grooves. Nate hesitated. It was Willow’s story to tell.
‘I’m not sure. My friend may have nothing to do with the place. Maybe if I know more about the property and the lady who lived there, I could tell you if it fits together. It’s just a hunch. That’s all.’ He cringed at the word friend . It didn’t cover his emotions for her.
‘Mexenby likes people with hunches. It makes life easier—as long as people follow them. It’s a strange place, but nowt so strange as Jax’s place. Never called by its correct name of Speedwell Cottage now. Rumours of witchcraft have plagued it for years. Centuries. But instead of ostracising the persecuted women, we accepted them as our own.
‘Of course, there were always some who feared them but in the main they were part of the community, if on the edge. Called wise women by some, we all knew they were more than wise. Witches. No doubt about it, lad. All of them. It helped the lady of Mexenby Hall was one. Instead of priest holes, it’s rumoured the manor has a witch one. And used to hide from the Witchfinder himself.’
Harry took a slurp of his pint and a mouthful of his pie. Nate let the old man talk, amazed by all he had to say. No wonder Willow felt at home here.
‘Sad times when Old Jax died. She was strange, aloof, and kept herself to herself, but in times of need, she was always there. Her son died before her—a car crash. Was never the same after that, but he had a daughter. A wee bairn she was. Slight and shy, as if she would blow away in the wind, but she flourished when she came to stay in the summers. ’Twas the highlight of Jax’s year. Shame her mother remarried. The visits dwindled to nothing. Never saw her again. It broke Jax’s heart. She did always say to me; "She’ll come back.” That’s why me and my family continued to look after the place long after we stopped being paid. Can’t do much but have tried to keep it ready for her if she did. I’d hate to think of Jax as the last Mexenby Witch. Many here feel vulnerable without one.’
‘Well, I don’t think Jax was the last.’ Nate placed his empty glass on the table and grinned. ‘I believe my friend Willow is Jax’s granddaughter.’
Harry’s face lit up. He clasped Nate’s hands.
‘You know Willow. Oh my, you’ve found her. Arnie, he knows Willow,’ the old man shouted across the pub. Many stopped and turned to stare at Nate as a hush fell across the room. Arnie came over.
‘Really. You know her?’ Arnie said. Nate’s nod was rewarded with a forceful slap on the table and a declaration there would be no tab to pay, and the next round for all was on the house. ‘Do you think she’ll come back?’
‘She remembers being there as a kid and always wanted to come back. She dreams of this place, longs for it. It’s in her blood.’
‘Then you need to bring her home,’ Harry said.
‘She found it once, but then it disappeared.’
Harry laughed. ‘Mexenby has a habit of that. It’s like Yorkshire’s own Brigadoon. It’s the witch thing, I’m sure. They hid it from danger so often, remnants of the spells still work today. Sometimes in our favour, mostly not—it plays havoc with the postal service and sat nav.’
‘Just like the Enchanted Emporium. When she was here, she saw people were moving in—it broke her heart.’
‘People have tried renting it, but they never stay long. The house isn’t for them.’
‘Yet it’s never come on the market? She’s scoured house retail sites and estate agents hoping they’ll give a clue of its whereabouts. She’s desperate to buy it. And come home.’
‘Buy it?’ Harry looked puzzled. ‘Why would she do that? She owns the bloody place.’