Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
G illian glared out of her bedroom window at the garish disco lights spilling out from inside the manor. They stood out like beacons against the darkness, pulsating in rhythm with the beat of the music — if the cacophony emanating from within could be described as music.
For thirty-five years, every party at the manor had been meticulously planned and overseen by Gillian herself. Hearing laughter from outside — laughter she had no part in — sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. She pressed a hand to her stomach, steadying herself against the bitter reminder of how much had changed.
Glancing at the clock by her bedside, she noted it was two in the morning. Its faint glow illuminated the glass of water beside it. Small ripples moved through the water, mirroring the vibrations she was beginning to feel in her own body.
The sensation intensified, accompanied by a sound overhead — a helicopter, she suspected, a thought which was confirmed by a bright glow of light passing above. She watched as it flew around to the back of the manor and descended behind it. Hopeful it was collecting guests and signified the end of the party, Gillian returned to her bed exhausted, jealous, and alone.
Shoving earplugs into her ears, she fell back onto her pillow and closed her eyes, pushing all thoughts of Viola Berkley aside. With her eyes shut, she could imagine herself being anywhere in the world, but there was only one place she imagined herself to be — her old bedroom.
A few hours later she wrenched her eyes open at the muffled sound of her alarm. She noticed Agatha at the bottom of the bed as she silenced it.
“Was it too noisy over there for you, too, Agatha?” she asked the cat through a yawn as she removed her earplugs.
Agatha peered at her through slitted eyes.
“I’m surprised you weren’t there partying with them, since you practically live there.”
Gillian covered another yawn as the cat closed her eyes. She didn’t have the luxury of drifting back to sleep like her four-legged, part-time houseguest, no matter how much she wished she could. Duty called, so she pulled herself from her warm bed and dressed for church. She would have to skip riding Dudley this morning — she was in no condition for it — and without the parkland to ride through, she had lost her desire for it at the moment.
The church service didn’t help her tiredness. It felt longer than usual, which was always too long, and she almost nodded off twice. Luckily only Bridget appeared to notice, nudging her from her seat beside her.
As the service ended and the usual milling about commenced amongst the villagers, the major approached her.
“Ah, Gillian. I still haven’t heard from that Berkley woman about using her bottom field for the classic car show. Would you have a word with her? Tell her how things are done around here?”
Gillian glared at him. “As you no longer require my services to open the show, I have no reason to be involved. I’m sure you can see my conundrum, Major.”
His face dropped. “Oh! About that… I thought my asking her might persuade her; you know, cajole her into it. You know we’d want nothing more than for you to open it again, Gilly.”
Gillian cringed and shot him a death stare, not only for shortening her name but for trying to flatter Viola Berkley, hoping it would tempt her into opening the show. At least it appeared to have backfired, all credit to the new lady of the manor.
“Good day, Major,” she said with a nod. Having spotted Bridget coming back from the toilets in the adjoining chapter house, it was time to make an escape.
“Are you not going?” Bridget asked as she joined her.
“You must be joking; it would be like using the lavatories in the sandpaper aisle at the DIY store. I’ll wait until I get home.”
Bridget smirked. “Yes, it was a bit. I suppose it cuts costs even more if no one uses it.”
As they left the church, Gillian tried to circumvent the reverend. She was in no mood for him today. Her efforts were to no avail.
“Mrs Carmichael,” he sniffed. “We did discuss you freeing up the front pew last week, did we not?”
“Miss Berkley is not here, nor has she been here for the last few weeks,” Gillian observed. “Nor do we know if she has any intention of being here! Shall we discuss it further if she ever deigns to be here?”
The reverend inclined his head, as if sensing from Gillian’s tone that now wasn’t the time to press her.
Taking that as an agreement, Gillian marched off, closely followed by Bridget.
“Can you believe she hasn’t attended church again? If not for us, the manor pew would have been empty for the first time in—”
“Four hundred years!” Bridget interrupted.
Gillian lifted an eyebrow at her friend. “More than four hundred years, Bridget. I’m surprised we couldn’t feel all the Carmichaels turning beneath us in the crypt. The major has been on at me about the classic car show. For someone who hasn’t been here long, Miss Berkley has caused a lot of disruption. She needs to understand her duties if she’s to be lady of the manor.”
Gillian covered a yawn with her gloved hand as they approached the gate.
“You sound like you need to go back to bed,” Bridget stated.
“Mmm,” Gillian agreed. “Did the party not keep you awake all night?”
“No, I left around eleven.”
Stopping dead in her tracks, Gillian growled out, “You… attended her party?”
Bridget kept walking, oblivious at first; then she slowed and turned back when she noticed Gillian wasn’t beside her. “Yes. I was surprised not to see you there. Although I suppose you and Viola didn’t exactly hit it off, did you? There were quite a few famous people there. I had a lovely chat with one of the Spice Girls. Not sure which one, though.”
“Anyone else from the village there?” Gillian sniffed. “Actually, I don’t wish to know.”
Bridget bit her lip and replied softly, “Should I not have gone? Is it considered sleeping with the enemy?”
“You’re fifty-four, Bridget. You don’t need my permission to attend a party.” Gillian felt like adding that it was exactly like sleeping with the enemy but refrained. Bridget was free to do whatever she chose to do; she just wished she wasn’t getting quite so friendly with that damn Berkley woman.
“In that case, I had a great time,” Bridget said with a grin. “The music level was more suited to the younger generations, but Mrs Johnson put on a wonderful spread as usual.”
Gillian shuddered at the thought of what had gone on inside her beloved manor house. Full of drunk and drugged-up riffraff in all likelihood. “They were respecting the building, weren’t they?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh yes, but — ” Bridget hesitated.
“But what?”
“I accidentally walked in on two people getting rather into it on one of your old Chesterfields.”
Gillian’s hand went straight to her mouth. She regretted ever leaving the sofas there. If only the lodge was bigger, she could have taken them with her. She should have found the money to put everything into storage to save it getting soiled.
“You should see her new kitchen,” Bridget continued.
“I don’t want to know.”
“It’s beautiful,” Bridget said, a smile forming on her face.
“I said I don’t want to know,” Gillian sniffed.
Bridget looked down. “Sorry, Gillian.”
“You know she had the gall to come and lecture me in the garden the other day? Accused me of nosing in her skip.”
Bridget laughed. “Are you telling me you didn’t?”
“Once doesn’t count. I happened to notice the kitchen fireplace was in it.”
“You hated that fireplace!” Bridget protested. “Your mother-in-law put that in during the seventies.”
“That’s not the point,” Gillian stated. “She’s throwing away the nation’s heritage.”
Bridget laughed. “She’s doing it a service. There’s a much nicer one in its place now. It’s far more in keeping with the building.”
Gillian scowled and chewed at her lip. “I’ll walk back through the estate today. Alone.”
She was quite done hearing about the party and her house being torn apart. It broke her heart. Why had she not left instead of moving herself in full view of the place she wanted to be? She was torturing herself. When she had decided to move into the lodge, it was with the naive idea that, somehow, she would get the manor back. The more time passed, though, the more she realised it was unlikely to happen. Changes were being made to her house — it would always be hers in her heart — and she couldn’t do anything about it. The person making those changes wasn’t even living up to the role she’d taken on. Did the woman not realise she was taking on a job, not simply buying a house?
Waving goodbye to Bridget, Gillian opened the gate onto the footpath that crossed the estate. She needed to clear her head, and there was only one place she could do that properly: on her bench. As she steadily climbed the small incline and it came into view, to her horror she could see it was already taken.
Viola leaned back against the bench and closed her eyes, filling her lungs with the spring air. It didn’t make her feel better, even with the soothing scent of blossoms filling the air; her worries still lingered as much as her headache. She’d only drunk three glasses of wine at the party, but combined with the noise and lack of sleep, it was enough to give her that hangover feeling.
Her thoughts of the previous night churned inside her, refusing to be swept away by the tranquillity of her idyllic surroundings. The laughter and chatter around her felt hollow, unable to fill the void left by the absence of her mum.
She could engage in the superficiality of small talk and lose herself in the rhythm of the music, yet deep down, the loneliness persisted. A silent ache echoed in the depths of her soul. Amidst the crowd, she felt isolated, trapped in a bubble of grief while the world carried on around her.
With a tired sigh, Viola opened her moist eyes, only for them to fall on Gillian Carmichael. She was marching towards her in a fitted tweed blazer and navy trousers that hugged her figure with infuriating elegance. What did that woman want now?
Viola groaned internally as she realised there may be some strong words coming about last night’s noise levels. Perhaps by some miracle, she was coming to apologise for sticking her nose in with the planning department. She groaned again when she realised how hot she found Gillian in tweed.
“You weren’t at church again,” Gillian accused her, taking the seat beside her on the bench.
Again? Someone’s keeping count. She wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or stalked.
“Why would I be at church? I’m not religious,” Viola replied flatly. So much for tweed. She was annoyed with the woman after only one sentence had left her mouth.
“What has religion got to do with it? I’m not religious either; none of us are. If pressed, you would find the reverend isn’t either. Church is not about religion — well, not in a small village like this, it isn’t.”
“Forgive me if I always assumed it to be so. What is it about then?”
“It’s about community.”
Viola raised an eyebrow. “Community?”
“Yes. It’s more of a social club than anything, especially for an ageing population like Kingsford. It brings the villagers together once a week. They can talk about what ails them, how they need help fixing something, that the shop is stocking a new brand of cereal. It is the wheelhouse of any small village.”
Viola was dying to point out that it sounded like the only reason Gillian was going was for the latest gossip, but she didn’t have the strength.
“It allows us to care for each other,” Gillian continued, hardly drawing breath, “and provide when one of our own is in need. What if none of us bothered to attend?” She shook her head in disgust as she added, “The manor has never failed to be represented in more than four hundred years. It’s tradition. Your absence is breaking down the very fabric of society.”
Viola had been accused of a few things over the years; breaking down the fabric of society was certainly a new one.
She blew out an exaggerated sigh. “And there was me hoping you were coming to apologise.”
“For what?” Gillian barked. “What reason would I have to come to you to apologise?”
“For sticking your nose into my business,” Viola insisted, wondering if the woman was being deliberately obtuse or if she’d forgotten their previous altercation.
Gillian stuck her nose in the air. “The Kingsford Estate is everyone’s business. It’s our business when you don’t clean out the lake and it clogs up and runs into the village. It’s our business when you let dead wood hang off trees over the lanes and it hits our vehicles.” Turning to Viola, her tone hardened. “Being lady of the manor involves more than parting with money to buy a building. It’s a way of life. A privilege. A role. You have a duty—”
“I am sick of hearing about my duty,” Viola replied sternly, wishing she could shout at the woman yet unable to summon the effort it would take. “How I need to open this or organise that and give my property over for some event.”
“Now look.”
“No, you look,” Viola snapped, sick of the woman’s rudeness.
Gillian pulled herself back, as if it was the first time someone had ever stood up to her.
“I don’t care that you were once lady of the manor or whatever,” Viola replied, anger rippling through her voice. “No one has asked me; they’ve told me. This is my estate, and I won’t have people telling me what I should be doing with it. What are you even doing here? This is private property. You old-guard elites think you are entitled to swan about wherever you like. You don’t own Kingsford anymore; it’s mine.” Taking a quick breath, she added, “Can’t I have any peace?”
“This is a public footpath,” Gillian was quick to reply.
Fuck . Viola was at a loss for words. How did she not know that? Her solicitor had mentioned one. She’d assumed it was somewhere else on the estate, not practically leading past her house.
“And as for peace,” Gillian continued, “I assumed that would be the last thing on your mind considering the number of people in attendance last night and the level of noise you were making. Helicopters circling in the small hours, keeping us all awake. No consideration for the villagers.”
The main appeal of the party had been to piss off Gillian, yet in the cold light of day and with her head aching, Viola was regretting the party even more. Pissing off Gillian was one thing; having to deal with a pissed-off Gillian was another. The mild hangover was making her feel worse about everything. It always amplified her fears and anxieties, which was part of the reason her mum had stepped in all those years ago and helped her out. She’d stopped her partying, her excessive drinking, and put her on the right path. Her mum hadn’t been gone long, and already she’d slipped back into bad habits.
Viola felt her eyes begin to sting, and she pushed the thoughts away. Crying in front of Gillian Carmichael was not on the agenda. She’d never hear the end of it. Thankfully Gillian started up again, her vitriol providing a surprisingly welcome distraction.
“Why even come to the countryside if you intend to make noises like that? It should be kept in the city. True peace is found in the morning birdsong or giving a neighbour a lift to the hospital or having one’s cook prepare a meal for someone in need. Even in collecting the fruit from the estate and making preserves for the villagers and throwing them a civilised ball once a year to give them something to look forward to. Holding a jumble sale so others might enjoy items we have lost our love for, or a book club to encourage reading and stave off loneliness and boredom.. You youngsters have no idea what it is to be old. I wouldn’t presume to understand it myself, of course, but I see it when I care to look.”
The woman was baffling. She seemed to genuinely care about the community — provided she was the one in control. Gillian had devoted her life to a role she believed was intrinsically linked to ownership of the manor. Losing her home meant losing the identity and status she’d spent years cultivating. Viola couldn’t see how a building could define a person’s worth, let alone their status in society. Gillian, however, clearly did, and clung to what she’d lost with a conviction Viola would never comprehend.
“If you must know, it was a present to my late mum.”
Gillian frowned. “Late…?”
“Yes.” Viola took in a deep breath. As she let it out, she added, “She died suddenly, two weeks after I bought Kingsford for her.”
Silence hung in the air until Gillian finally spoke. “It was never your intention to live here?”
Viola shook her head. “Not full-time.”
“Why not put it back up for sale then?” Gillian pressed.
“I’d paid deposits and contracted work to be carried out. She may have only visited twice, but Mum had a strong vision for Kingsford, and I wanted to make that happen, despite her not being here to enjoy it.” Gillian’s face appeared to curl at the mention of changes being made, which annoyed Viola further. “Now you see why I am here. When, really, I would rather be anywhere else,” she added firmly.
“I know grief,” Gillian said, nodding her agreement.
Anger and sadness pushed their way forward inside of Viola. “What do you know about it?” The words erupted sharply from her lips. “Your husband died a few months ago, and you appear to grieve only for your damn manor. Isn’t that a little heartless?” Viola’s eyes filled with warm, unbidden tears, and she made no effort to hide them. She was tired of hiding behind a facade of strength, and it would do Gillian Carmichael good to see what effect her cruelty could have on someone. Viola sniffed as she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Then Gillian did something Viola wouldn’t have expected. Reaching into her pocket, she extracted a cotton handkerchief and handed it to Viola. Surprised though she was, Viola took it and wiped her eyes, noticing the letters GC embroidered onto one corner. Who even used handkerchiefs these days, let alone embroidered ones? As her eyes cleared a little, Viola noticed Gillian’s hands were twitching and her body fidgeting in her seat.
“I’ll… erm…” Gillian mumbled and then stood.
Viola watched in surprise as the woman hesitated, her words trailing off into an awkward silence as their eyes locked. Her gaze lingered on Viola, a little too long for her comfort, the crackling tension causing her to hold her breath and her heart to pound in her chest. It was as if Gillian was studying every detail and imperfection until she finally turned and walked away.
Viola’s eyes followed the infuriating woman as she strode down the path. Noticing a hint of jasmine coming from the handkerchief, she placed it under her nose. Inhaling deeply, she smiled as a sense of calm washed over her from the pleasant scent — the scent of Gillian.
Although she was grateful for the gesture, she couldn’t help feeling a little apprehensive at the prospect of facing Gillian again to return the handkerchief. The thought of seeing the woman again filled her with even more conflicting feelings, even a hint of longing. She quickly tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and pushed all thoughts of Gillian Carmichael from her mind.