Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
TEN WEEKS LATER
G illian walked down the drive towards the manor, a box of china under one arm. It was a huge relief that the sale of the painting had gone smoothly, allowing the contracts to be completed as winter set in. It was the time of year when the building looked most regal; it was often draped in a blanket of snow with the flickering lights of the fires inside casting a warm glow through the windows. Today there was neither snow nor lights, only a quiet stillness.
Her pace slowed as she neared the familiar facade, each step feeling heavier. It loomed larger than ever, its walls holding stories that refused to fade. She had thought she would be ready, but now standing here, on the cusp of entering the life she thought she had left behind forever, uncertainty gripped her.
Agatha followed a few paces behind. Perhaps she was eager to return home without the threat of eviction by an irritable mezzo-soprano. To Viola’s credit, since they had become friends, she appeared to have accepted the cat’s wandering ways, allowing Agatha to come and go as she pleased.
Friends . The word cut through Gillian. She couldn’t even describe them as that anymore. The emptiness inside her served as a daily reminder. The only contact she’d made with Viola since she left was through their solicitors, although she saw her once — or believed she did. On the day of the auction, when she looked around the very crowded room, a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap stood out to her. She was sure it was Viola. Following the auction, there was no sight of either a baseball cap or sunglasses, and there was no Viola.
Turning to see if Agatha was still following, she noticed the cat was retracing her steps back along the path. Something Viola once said came to mind: Our lives have multiple paths, all with multiple destinations, and we can’t walk back along them, only accept the path we have walked. She also admitted later, Maybe we can walk back along a path after all. Looking down at her boots as they crunched into the gravel, Gillian realised she was literally walking back along her path.
The thought of getting the estate back had once felt all-consuming. Viola may have distracted her from those thoughts for a time, but they were always there, lingering under the surface. They lessened over time, as she became used to her new life or at least grew to accept that her return may never happen. The anger that had once resided inside her was no longer there; she was unsure when it had left her.
Unlocking the porch door, she placed the box inside and locked it again. Before going inside, she needed to do something and made her way to the church.
Wending her way through the churchyard she searched for Jonathon’s grave. Having forgotten its precise location, she realised she’d not visited it once since the funeral. She found what she was looking for, though, thanks to the clean headstone standing out like a beacon amongst older ones. Standing beside it, she dangled the keys off her finger, over Jonathon’s grave.
“I got it back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the rustle of the wind. The sound of her words made her recoil.
What was she doing here? Had she really come to gloat over a grave? A pang of nausea rose in her stomach. She took a deep breath, willing it to fade, but the unease lingered. Looking around, she noticed the other graves. Each was carefully tended, adorned with fresh flowers that brought vivid bursts of colour to the grey headstones. Jonathon’s grave was bare, with no flowers, no signs of visitors, only the cold, hard stone and earth.
Her fingers tightened around the keys as she stood there in the silence, wondering what she’d become. Their marriage had been far from perfect, but Jonathon did share Kingsford with her. He’d allowed her to fall in love with it, probably all the while knowing it was the only reason she stayed.
She hadn’t exactly entered the marriage honestly. If anything, she was the one who had manipulated him into believing they were something they weren’t and that a happy future together was possible, all at a time when her love for Hen was so strong and her loss so raw. The need to escape her mother was so present, so urgent, as was her hatred for herself. She had been desperate. Could she blame herself for the actions she had taken? Could anyone? She left the grave feeling empty, a sensation she was growing accustomed to since Viola left.
As she walked back, a dream from the previous night came to her. She was in a rowing boat beside the bank of a lake in the dead of night. Jonathon helped her in and then pushed it away from the bank. She begged for him to pull her back, but he ignored her, so she floated around the lake with no direction and only the light of the moon to guide her. Viola appeared on a bank in the distance, waving at her, beckoning her and telling her to use her oars. When she hadn’t got any closer to the bank despite what felt like a night of rowing, Viola suddenly appeared in the boat beside her and helped her row. By the time she got to the bank, she was alone; Viola and Jonathon were both gone. It had left her in rather a panic when she woke.
Arriving back at the manor, she stepped into the porch, where she removed her coat and boots. It wasn’t her first time there since Viola left. She had gone in to turn on the heating once the temperature dropped. Today was the first time she’d been in, though, since retaking possession of the property.
Picking up the box of china, she made her way to the great hall, where the familiar scent of aged wood hung in the air. It carried traces of Viola too, and while part of her wanted to push it away, another part of her ached for it to linger. The grand piano she had left behind would serve as a permanent reminder of her.
Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor, amplifying the stillness in the cool, draughty air. It was quite the contrast to the warm, intimate, cosy lodge she’d grown fond of. The vastness of the space felt oppressive now; it was something she’d never experienced before, but the void carried a weight. It was all hers, every inch of it, but she was still directionless. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it would be, standing in this grand space with everything she’d ever wanted. She should be feeling more — more excitement, elation, drive. Instead, the same hollow ache resided within.
Everything would feel better after a cup of Earl Grey, and with Bridget due soon, she needed to get a move on. Gillian carried the box to the kitchen, setting it on the smooth marble worktop. As she unpacked the delicate china mugs and teapot, her gaze wandered around the room. Viola’s renovations really were impressive.
Her eye caught the window, where the two of them had enjoyed coffee together. Where she had discovered sapphic romance, a quiet passion that had blossomed over the last few months — not that she had told Viola as much. Exploring these stories was something she would keep private, a place where she would lose herself in worlds that felt foreign yet familiar.
She removed the kettle and filled it with water. Leaving it to boil she made her way to the drawing room and pulled back the curtains. The painting that had always hung above the fireplace was back where it belonged. The thought of Viola rehanging it for her before she left made Gillian smile. It was more suitable for the space than Viola’s choice, not that she regretted her fishing it from the attic — that she would be forever grateful for. She wished she’d been able to thank Viola in a better way and that things could have ended differently between them, not as abruptly as they had done. As she sparked a fire to life in the hearth, a voice echoed from the hall.
“Coo-ee. Anyone home?” Bridget’s head appeared around the drawing room door.
Yes, Gillian was home, but it didn’t feel like she was.
“Come in,” she said. “I’ll fetch some tea.”
Five minutes later she found Bridget nestled in her usual seat as she entered with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sitting opposite her friend, it felt as if the last year hadn’t happened. Except it had. A lid she’d closed tightly enough that it would need a crowbar to open had flown off in Viola’s presence, and Gillian had struggled to put it back on.
Bridget tucked into the biscuits and began to fill her in on the village gossip. Gillian’s attention flickered, her thoughts drifting elsewhere as she struggled to stay engaged in the conversation. She didn’t care that the major had passed out on the village green that morning from too much revelry at the Fox and Hounds last night or that prices were on the up again in the village shop or that a house in the village was for sale. She didn’t care for any of it.
“You get to climb back into your own bed again tonight,” Bridget said, her tone bright but edged with concern.
The comment caught Gillian’s attention, striking a chord against the thoughts she’d been wrestling with. She had considered moving back in or at least spending a night there before they finalised the paperwork, but something held her back. She’d told herself she would wait until it was official and the estate was hers again. With that time finally arriving, something still didn’t feel right.
“Hmm,” she mumbled.
“You don’t sound keen.”
“So much has happened since I last slept there,” Gillian ruminated. “I’m not sure it will feel the same.”
“Did you expect it to, after almost a year away? A lot has changed. You’ve changed; there are probably more changes to come.” Bridget sat back in her seat and stirred her tea. “You know,” she said, setting her spoon on her saucer. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately; about life, I mean. How short it is. You blink, and Christmas is around the corner again, and suddenly you’re wondering if you’ve been living at all.”
Gillian looked up from her cup, her expression guarded but intrigued. “You’re not usually one for philosophical thoughts,” she remarked, trying to keep her voice steady. There was something in Bridget’s words that made her uncomfortable.
“I have my moments.” Bridget shrugged slightly. “You know I envy you. You have the manor back, a chance to start afresh, a whole new direction if you wish. We only get this one shot, don’t we? One life. Seems a waste not to live it honestly, don’t you think?”
Gillian’s smile faltered as a weight pressed on her chest. “I suppose we all make compromises,” she said, her tone more defensive than intended. “It’s part of life.”
Bridget tilted her head, watching her with a knowing look. “Compromises, yes, but not about the big stuff. Not about who we are at our core.” Her tone hardened. “That’s not something we should shrink away from. What’s the point of living if we spend it pretending? Doesn’t that rob us of any real happiness?”
Gillian tensed, crossing her arms, trying to shield herself from the conversation. “Not everything’s that simple. It’s not always about ‘living your truth.’ There are people involved. Expectations. Life is complicated.”
Bridget nodded, her voice softening. “It is. Life is messy, and people… they can be even messier. You can’t bury who you are forever. Not without it eating away at you.”
Gillian’s pulse raced. Was Bridget talking about her? Did she know? No, she couldn’t possibly. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to remain composed. “People don’t simply accept change,” she said quietly, uncertainty creeping into her words.
Bridget leaned forward, her tone steady and unyielding. “Just because you don’t accept change doesn’t mean others don’t.”
Gillian glared at her, speechless.
Bridget took a sip of tea and then started up again. “I know that hiding pieces of yourself, the most important pieces, will slowly break you down. You wake up one day wondering how you ended up living a life that doesn’t even feel like yours.” She paused. “I mean… that’s how I’m sure people would feel if they were living a lie.” Bridget stood and reached for the teapot. “I’ll fetch us some more tea.”
Living a lie. The words caught Gillian unawares, tightening her chest as Bridget left the room. Her gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. She’d never considered herself a liar, certainly not in the way she conducted herself. Was any part of her life not a lie? The thought lingered, unsettling her, as she replayed the moments where she’d tucked away her truth, piece by piece; hiding the part of herself that scared her most.
The past months with Viola had been when she felt most true to herself and happiest. Since Viola had left, she’d gone through the motions, keeping herself busy — anything to avoid the quiet moments when her thoughts crept in. She hoped the more noise she made, the less she’d hear her heart breaking. Yet no matter how many tasks she took on, no matter how loud her world became, it didn’t stop her from feeling it. The ache was always there, lingering beneath every distraction, reminding her some things couldn’t be drowned out.
Now she was alone, truly alone in her core. She’d felt alone most of her life; even if she never was — she was always surrounded by people — it was her choice to emotionally isolate herself. Choosing solitude was easier; it was a form of control. Now, with loneliness thrust upon her, it felt different. Stifling, even suffocating. There was always Bridget, her constant companion. Was that enough when someone who made her feel whole, visible, and complete was out there?
Viola was always unapologetically herself, and she thrived because of it. Gillian wondered what that kind of freedom must feel like — how liberating it would be to live without fear of judgement. Viola once feared that judgement, too, until she was outed. Her story was splashed across tabloids and dissected in the public eye, only to be forgotten a day or two later when some other scandal emerged to entertain the masses.
Her thoughts wandered back to the dressing room, to the moment she couldn’t resist and had kissed Viola. Tingles rushed through her as she let herself relive it — the feel of Viola’s soft lips against hers, the taste, the undeniable pull of desire between them.
As quickly as she allowed it, she forced the memory away, and with it, a wave of nausea swept over her. The unsettled feeling lingered, leaving her unsteady. It was a sense of being out of sync with herself, as though something inside her was shifting and she wasn’t sure how to set it right again.
It was a feeling she’d only experienced twice before: when she lost Hen and the manor. She knew Hen would never return; the manor, however, was back in her hands. Viola’s words sank through her: You can have your material possessions back, and everything important to you — including your title. I hope they make you happy. She didn’t feel happy; only thoughts of Viola gave her any surge of happiness, and now she was on the other side of the world.
Although Gillian had regained her identity as lady of the manor, she wasn’t feeling the peace it once brought her. It didn’t give her the strength she once felt either. Did happiness not reside in bricks and mortar — or in her case sandstone and mortar — as she once thought?
The manor was now an empty shell full of echoes of happier times. If it wasn’t being enjoyed, having memories made inside it, what was the point of it? It wasn’t a family home anymore; it hadn’t been for decades. It was a meeting space and a good one at that. She needed to make something out of it, let it breathe, and let herself breathe. She recalled Viola saying Kingsford was suffocating her. Had they been suffocating each other? She loved it dearly. The estate was part of her; it ran through her blood. Maybe it was time for a different relationship with it.
Having walked back along the path to the manor, she didn’t feel she’d arrived at the place she had left. Was she walking along a new path to a previous destination, one that was unchanged, unlike her? Was she in fact not wilting without Kingsford, as she had once feared, and instead metamorphosing?
As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she had changed during her time in the lodge, and all her attempts to forget about Viola had failed too. The lodge and the manor were full of memories of her, as was her heart. She had fallen for the mezzo-soprano, and nothing felt right now that she was gone.
“Are you okay?” Bridget asked, as she re-entered the room and set the teapot down on the table.
“Yes. We have work to do, Bridget, you and I.”
Bridget’s eyes lit up instantly. “We do?”
“We’ll organise a New Year’s Eve party for the village, the first event of many to come for ‘Kingsford Manor Estate’. Now there are funds, I want to pay you for everything you do and give you a title. ‘Events manager’ suit you?”
“Great, and what about you?”
Gillian paused, then answered with a newfound resolve, “I don’t need a title.”