Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
A wave of nausea hit Gillian’s stomach as soon as she woke the next morning. She’d hoped the lack of sleep from the previous night would have seen her off to a deep sleep, but instead she’d tossed and turned, playing over her altercation with Viola.
She couldn’t blame the woman for buying the manor; it was Jonathon’s fault it was on the market. She also couldn’t blame her for not meeting the standards required of her. Not everyone was born for the role the way she was.
A pang of regret sat inside her too. She hadn’t intended to make the woman cry. It had pained her to witness it, and it had weighed on her since. She may have had a firmness about her, but she hoped she never strayed into heartlessness as Viola had suggested.
Offering comfort didn’t come naturally to Gillian. Emotions were an unknown territory for her, and the idea of reaching out felt foreign and uncomfortable. A stiff upper lip was her motto, a shield against raw emotions. It hadn’t stopped her wanting to offer solace to ease the woman’s suffering, though. The unfamiliarity of the urge confused her, and the instinct to retreat had won out in the end.
There had been something attractive about Viola in that moment of vulnerability. Something was captivating about the woman, full stop. Was it her strength and determination to fulfil the vision of her late mother despite how raw her grief must be? It couldn’t be anything else; she wouldn’t let it be anything else. Gillian simply admired strength wherever she saw it.
In the past, Gillian had grappled with grief. It was a suffocating shadow that had threatened to consume her when death took away her soulmate in her late teens. The pain was relentless, a constant ache that left her hollow inside. She was given no emotional help from the person she needed it from the most — her mother.
In her darkest moments, Gillian found a flicker of resilience inside her, a stubbornness to endure. Endure she did, but she was never the same again. She packed her identity away and pushed herself forward, set on building a new life and a new relationship with grief. She had vowed never to let it pull her down again. With little affection for her late husband, his loss had been bearable. The loss of the manor and the added magnetism of the woman who owned it, however, were beginning to lift the lid on a hard-won battle from the past.
With Bridget due for elevenses, she needed to buck up her ideas, yet her body was failing her. Whatever dark cloud weighed on her brain was weighing over her body too. Removing her silk pyjamas, she scrutinised her slender frame in the mirror with a critical eye for its traitorous imperfections. Who would even want her body with all its ridges and furrows, marked by the passage of time and the trials of life? Would it ever find fulfilment from what it desired? Could she even allow it to? Shaking her head, she breathed out hard, pushing the thoughts away as she dressed.
Her darkened state must have remained with her, for by the time Bridget arrived later that morning, it was the first thing she commented on.
“You look rather glum today,” she said, not even clearing the front door. “Are you coming down with something?”
“Sit yourself down,” Gillian said, directing her to the sitting room. “I’ll make the tea, and then I can fill you in.”
She needed to prepare better for answering the front door. When Bramingham was around to answer it, she had had a few moments to ready herself, slipping on a hostess’s face and looking ready to welcome whoever entered. It was a skill acquired over the years. She may have felt born for her role, but she had been ill-prepared for it in the early days. Her mother-in-law was well versed in being lady of the manor and had taught her well. She learned quickly, driven by the fear of being looked down on in Jonathon’s social circles.
“I had another run-in with Viola Berkley,” Gillian admitted as she placed a tea tray on the table in front of Bridget a few minutes later. “It left a rather bad taste in one’s mouth.”
“Oh, Gillian,” Bridget said as she took a cup and saucer of steaming hot tea. “You two should really try to get along; you are neighbours, after all. Why don’t you go over and apologise? Clear the air.”
“Apologise?” Gillian choked out. “That’s a bit extreme. I said nothing that didn’t need saying. I’m not even sure it was me who made her cry. She appeared contemplative when I got there.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes. “And at that point, you decided to raise your issue? She has just lost her mother.”
Gillian squirmed under Bridget’s scrutiny, struggling to justify her actions even to herself.
“What was your problem anyway? The party?” Bridget’s question lingered, her eyes fixed on Gillian, whose expression at the mere mention of the word must have given her away. “Was it the noise or the fact you weren’t invited?” Bridget took a sip of her tea before adding, “For what it’s worth, she didn’t seem to be having a good time.”
“It’s not about the party,” Gillian replied, thankful her friend didn’t push for an answer to her second question.
Did she feel snubbed by the lack of an invitation or put out that the woman invited Bridget? Either way, she didn’t appreciate the reminder that Bridget had attended. Or that her approach to the situation may have been less than considerate. She always prided herself on her consideration for others. When it came to Viola Berkley, though, she struggled.
“Bridget, do you think I’m heartless?” Bridget’s floppy jaw and gaping mouth said everything, leading Gillian to add with some mild trepidation, “You can be honest.”
“Really?”
Gillian nodded and braced herself.
“I guess at times you can be”—Bridget’s eyes flickered around the room, avoiding contact with Gillian’s—“a little insensitive to others.”
She was about to react, but noticing a hint of regret on Bridget’s face, she took a deep breath instead — only to hear Bridget continuing on.
“If you tried a different approach, you would get a different reaction. You tend to bulldoze and—”
Gillian raised her hand to stop her. “That’s enough honesty for today; thank you, Bridget.” She’d heard more than she needed. She wasn’t even sure why she was discussing it with her — perhaps hoping it would ease some of her guilt — but it wasn’t working. If anything, it only made her feel worse.
Bridget was right in one respect: If she and Viola were going to be neighbours, then they needed to find a way to get along. Despite her irritation at seeing the younger woman possess everything Gillian longed to reclaim, she felt an inexplicable draw to her. With a curiosity she could barely admit to herself, she had started watching Viola’s performances on YouTube, finding herself completely immersed in them. She reasoned with herself, attributing her fascination to the captivating voice of the singer, who possessed a knack for drawing in her audience. Shaking thoughts of Viola away, she focused on her guest and their plans for this year’s flower show.
When they had finished their tea and laid out plans, Bridget excused herself. She was due to play bridge after lunch with Louisa and Elouise, a tradition the three of them and Gillian had in the past upheld every week. Since losing the manor, though, Gillian refused to host the game in her pokey lodge. There wasn’t enough space for a table, and she’d be damned if she was playing at the kitchen table. The fewer people who saw the less-than-ideal conditions of her current living situation, the better.
Even though Louisa and Elouise offered to host up at Kingsford House, Gillian couldn’t face the humiliation of playing in someone else’s home. She was a hostess; it was her role. She didn’t know how to be a guest. Bridget had informed her they made up a fourth by having Louisa persuade their cleaner to play, so she assumed she wasn’t even missed.
Feeling the need for a walk and fresh air to lift her mood, Gillian devoured a quick lunch and headed out. She allowed her feet to carry her wherever they pleased. If she happened to bump into Viola along the way, then so be it.
Her feet led her to what had become a familiar route through the village to the church and back to the bench overlooking the estate. A place that held memories of peace, and echoes of unresolved emotions. She sat, unsure exactly what she was doing there yet unable to resist the pull that drew her to it. Was part of her hoping to find Viola after all?
Viola stared out the kitchen window at Gillian Carmichael as the heat from her mug warmed her hands. It was the third afternoon in a row that she’d parked herself on the bench since their previous meeting.
Taking a sip of coffee, she contemplated whether she’d been too harsh in snapping at the woman when all she’d said was that she knew grief. Everyone dealt with it differently, so who was Viola to judge and measure that? It wasn’t comparable to her feelings of loss, nor should it be. People processed it in their own unique way.
Her phone vibrated on the worktop, interrupting her thoughts. The illuminated screen read Caroline . Viola picked up, grateful for the distraction.
“Sorry I haven’t checked in,” Caroline said immediately. “I’ve been up to my lady balls at work. How was the party? I’ll make the next one, I promise.”
Viola sighed. “Not sure there will be a next one.”
Caroline tetched. “That bad?”
“Let’s say it did little to lift my spirits.”
“Sorry to hear that. What are you up to today?”
“At this exact moment, I’m watching Gillian Carmichael sitting on a bench in my garden.”
A confused-sounding Caroline questioned her further. “Can she do that?”
“Technically, yes. As it’s on the public footpath that crosses my land, she has every right to sit there.”
Viola wondered if she only had a right to pass through her land and not sit there for hours.
“And why is she there?” Caroline asked.
“I’m trying to figure that out myself. Last time we spoke, she…” Viola trailed off, catching herself before admitting that Gillian had brought her to tears. That wasn’t entirely accurate, though; those tears had already been brimming before their conversation. All Gillian had done was give her a push over the edge. “We didn’t exactly see eye to eye,” she finished lamely.
Viola caught sight of the handkerchief Gillian gave her, now sitting on the worktop clean and folded, ready to be returned. She briefly contemplated stuffing it through Gillian’s letterbox and never speaking to her again.
“Maybe she wants to apologise?” Caroline suggested. “For whatever it was you didn’t see eye to eye on.”
“Mark her territory, more like,” Viola said, turning her attention back to Gillian, who hadn’t moved an inch since she’d appeared there half an hour ago.
“Afraid she’ll pee up the bench?”
Viola scrunched her face. “Eww.” Over Caroline’s laughter, she added, “You’re probably not wrong, though. I wouldn’t put it past her to mark everything she thought was hers. Which is basically anything that is now mine.”
“Then go and reclaim your bench.”
She thought back to the plaque she had seen on it and pulled her lips to one side. “I’m not sure it’s mine to reclaim.”
“It’s on your land and therefore your property. If she wanted it, she should have taken it when she moved out.”
Caroline made a good point. Why hadn’t Gillian done that? There would be room enough in her small garden for it.
“Perhaps it wasn’t only the bench that meant something to her, but also its position,” Viola pondered.
“Yes. Not satisfied with crossing your property, she wanted to sit down and enjoy the view.” Viola hummed in thought as Caroline continued, “Sounds to me like she’s trying to get your attention.”
“What?” Viola’s forehead furrowed. “Why on earth would she want my attention?”
“Maybe she fancies you.” Caroline chuckled.
Viola spat out a laugh. “Gillian Carmichael is as straight as they come. In every respect. The only reason she’d want my attention is to tell me everything I’m doing wrong as lady of the manor.”
Her gaze landed on the enormous box of expensive chocolates from the major. Even after she’d agreed to let him use her field for the classic car show, he was still bestowing her with gifts, eager to persuade her to open the event. Her latest and most emphatic refusal must have done the trick; he hadn’t bothered her since. At least Gillian talked to her straight; she wasn’t a suck-up. It was refreshing. She didn’t care who Viola was; she treated her like anyone else—maybe even worse than anyone else.
“You know, of all the people I’ve met since I’ve been here, Gillian is the only one who hasn’t sucked up to me,” she observed. “In fact, she’s been actively hostile.”
“I fear you will have to get along if you’re neighbours,” Caroline stated. “I’m sorry, I must fly; I have a meeting with a rising pop star in an hour. I’ll impatiently await my invite to your new digs.”
“Oh, yes, of course, you must come,” Viola urged, realising it was remiss of her not to have invited her to the manor already. “Let me know some dates; it’s not like I’m busy here.”
“I’ll put my assistant right on it. Perhaps you can invite Gillian to dine with us. I find it’s always better to dine with the enemy.”
Viola let out an agreeable hum, even she wasn’t entirely sure anymore that Gillian was the enemy.
Having put Caroline’s mind at ease that she was okay and more or less keeping herself distracted, her eyes fell back to the bench. Gillian was still there and still didn’t appear to have moved. Curiosity got the better of Viola, enough to pull on a jumper and head outside.
As she approached the bench, she noticed that Gillian was now seated almost sideways, with one leg resting on the seat and her elbow propped on the back. A flutter of something stirred in Viola’s stomach at the sight of the woman. She took a deep breath to steady herself as she arrived.
“Mind if I sit?” she enquired, her tone polite.
“Be my guest,” Gillian replied, gesturing to the space beside her. “Even though it’s your property.”
Viola hesitated, then replied, “I feel this bench might belong to you, though.” Noticing Gillian’s glance at the shiny, gold plaque screwed to it, she asked, “Who was Henrietta, if you don’t mind me asking?”
It took a moment for Gillian to answer, and when she did, a deep breath was behind it. “A friend.”
Viola recognised the distant gaze in Gillian’s eye, the subtle tremble in her voice, and the flicker of tenderness on her face as a smile curved the edges of her lips. She sensed that Henrietta had been something more — yet that couldn’t be true.
“I’m sorry if I suggested the other day that you didn’t know grief. I can see now that you do.”
Gillian looked down and placed her hands together in her lap.
“I may not grieve for my husband… but I have grieved for others. I’ve learned enough to know that if you let it, grief will eat you alive.”
“It doesn’t always come for us when someone close dies, does it? You can be sure the guilt at the lack of it follows, though.”
A simple nod was all Gillian offered.
Viola decided to continue, hoping that sharing something personal might make her open up a bit. “When my dad died some years ago, I couldn’t mourn his loss. It was no loss, only relief. He was an alcoholic. He’d turn up at concerts where I was performing and demand access to my dressing room. I let him in. At least he was contained there; otherwise he would make more of a nuisance of himself elsewhere. Most of the time he would pass out on the sofa. Other times he could get violent, demanding money. I always refused. I wasn’t going to be party to his problem. I offered to pay for clinics where he could get himself sober; he showed no interest.”
“And where was your mother during this?” Gillian demanded, speaking up at last.
Viola blinked, surprised by the sharp edge in her voice.
“My parents split up when I was in my late teens. I’d left home at that point anyway. They only stayed together that long for me.” Viola let out a sigh. “I wish they hadn’t bothered. Mum met someone and remarried; Dad sank into a hole of self-pity, lost his job, and started drinking. I don’t think she realised how far he had fallen, even though I tried to tell her.”
“Sometimes we can only see the truth with our own eyes,” Gillian said, her earlier sharpness replaced with a calm, reflective tone.
Viola looked at her and smiled. “Yes, we do… and she did when he was hit by a bus, having walked in front of one in a drunken stupor. She came to the hospital to support me. It was a little too late; he never regained consciousness. Like I said, all I felt was relief that he had died. She could see it and realised how bad things were… how much she’d let me down.”
“What happened after that?” Gillian asked with curiosity in her eyes.
“I pushed her away and focused on work. It stayed that way for a long time. She would reach out to my agent occasionally to make contact. I continued to ignore her. In my early thirties, I got in with a bad crowd and ended up abusing alcohol myself. Like father, like daughter, I guess, although on a much different scale. I never fell as deep. You would have thought I would avoid it, yet in a way, I was drawn to it. I was in a downward spiral.” Viola shrugged. “I thought it held the answers, but all it did was affect my performances.”
Viola wasn’t sure why she was telling Gillian about her past. She’d spent a lifetime keeping things in, only sharing them with Caroline and her mum. A gut feeling reassured her that Gillian wasn’t the type of person who would broadcast something shared in a private moment. She struck her as the type of woman who kept a lot inside and cared deeply about what others thought.
“My agent at the time wasn’t happy and threatened to drop me if I didn’t pull myself together. He arranged — without my consent — a meeting with my mum. I thought I was meeting him for coffee, and instead, she was there. My mum’s husband had not long passed away, and she wasn’t in a great state herself. Over time, though, we became a strength for each other. I was something else for her to focus on, and she gradually sorted me out.”
Gillian scoffed. “I hope you dropped the agent.”
“I did. I have a great one now. Caroline is supportive. She encouraged me to come here and take some time out.”
“Not too long, I hope?”
“Is that a compliment of my work, or are you sick of me already?”
Gillian’s face dropped.
Viola nudged her playfully. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer that.”
Hearing Gillian’s sigh of relief brought a smile to Viola as they sat in silence, taking in the serenity of the estate. The woman was a bit of an enigma. Viola realised she was enjoying her company — even if she wasn’t saying much, which was a first. In their previous exchanges, Viola had been hissed at, growled at, and shouted at, but something about the bench — or the estate itself — seemed to disarm Gillian, maybe even soothe her.
“I’m sorry,” Gillian suddenly said. “All that can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” Viola replied, surprised to hear words of sympathy from her. “As you see, I survived.”
“I’m sorry about your mother too.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t grieve mine,” Gillian said so quietly that Viola wondered if she knew she’d spoken the words.
Viola hesitated to probe deeper. She was unsure how the woman would react, and part of her didn’t want Gillian to leave. Despite the curiosity burning inside her, she decided to change direction.
“Can I ask why you didn’t take this bench with you? I’m not saying you should have,” Viola added quickly, not wishing to get Gillian’s back up by being misunderstood. “I’m asking if you’ll share with me why. Is it the view?”
“It belongs here,” Gillian replied softly. “Like many things.”
“Like you?”
Gillian’s face twitched, making Viola wonder if she might have pushed her too far.
“You’re not just grieving a building, are you? You lost a lot more.”
“I’ve lost everything,” Gillian said, her voice carrying a hardened edge. It softened slightly as she continued, “It isn’t the first time, and I don’t expect it will be the last.”
Viola wondered if she was referring to Henrietta.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss. Even if I’m partly responsible for it.”
Gillian stood, leaving Viola angry at herself for taking the conversation too far.
“Someone else would have bought it,” Gillian answered begrudgingly. “I can hardly hold you responsible. I’m… I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel like you are.”
Too surprised to respond to Gillian’s apology, Viola hesitated before asking, “Will you be back tomorrow?” careful not to sound accusatory.
“Will you be calling the police if I am?” Gillian asked, her words laced with a hint of defiance.
Viola laughed out loud at Gillian’s suggestion. “No, I thought it might be nice to continue this conversation; that’s all.”
“Possibly,” Gillian replied, her hardened face softening again, almost into a smile. “I may be washing my hair.”
Viola couldn’t refrain a smirk as Gillian headed down the path to the church. She also couldn’t stop herself admiring her backside as she went.