Chapter 5
Cyril helped his mother and then Ruby out of the car.
Ruby adjusted her hat from the breezy drive, staring at the moss-covered home blending itself into the trees, shrubs, and vines before them. “I was just out this way. Violet took us to—”
She’d stopped midway through her sentence and Cy lifted his brow. “To what?” he asked.
“Oh.” She glanced back at the main road and then off in the distance. She smiled at him. “Just for a drive. You know how she loves her Rover.”
Cy had heard a ridiculous rumor that Miss Whittemore of Kinthwaite had given her car a man’s name. Now that he thought on it, it might be true.
Rather than comment on Violet Whittemore’s automobile or her predilection for driving it, he focused on the task at hand.
He joined his mother in studying the roof and its twin chimneys visible from the tree-covered drive.
He would have studied the rest of the house, but it was difficult to make it all out in the overgrowth.
His stomach sank. If first impressions held any weight, this was not the property they’d hoped it was.
“Oh my,” his mother breathed.
“It’s quite … mossy,” he said.
His mother reached for his arm, holding his coat sleeve. “I remember being here,” she said, her voice a reverent hush. “As a little girl. Oh, it’s lovely.”
Cy swung his gaze back to the house and blinked. He tipped his head to the side and squinted.
“I never connected the memory of this cottage to Sir Winston,” Mama continued. “It had nearly become a figment of my imagination instead of a memory, but it’s real. And here in the heart of Dorking.”
Cy looked at his mother and she glanced in his direction, then read his baffled expression more thoroughly.
“Oh, don’t look at me so, Cyril. Yes, it’s overgrown and we’ve no idea what condition the home is in, but you must admit, it has a fairy-tale quality to it.”
The sound of a creek trickled nearby, and the arched railing of a stone bridge emerged from mounds of ivy to the far right.
A sort of folly rose beyond that, currently swallowed by wisteria in full bloom.
The rest of the house’s structure appeared in three sections: the main wide house of two stories in the center, meeting perpendicularly on the left with what might have been a ballroom or barn wing; it was hard to say.
On the other end of the main house, a lower section molded itself into a dip in the property, with gabled windows on the roof and a central chimney.
Likely a kitchen and servants’ quarters.
The entire house seemed to sink into the surrounding property, which rose gently before and aft.
He nodded. “Perhaps we shall find a witch inside, disguised as an old hag and offering us suspicious apples.”
At that moment, the arched front door opened and a robust woman in a white apron and cap beamed at them as she hustled toward them, clutching her blue skirts.
“Welcome, oh, welcome to Pimms Mill! We’ve had your note, and we can’t be more pleased.
” She reached them and dipped a curtsy. “I be Mrs. Turner, but you be callin’ me Hazel.
Mr. Turner is seeing that the property be ready for your inspection.
Our son, Lowell, he’s in the barn but’ll return shortly.
We’ve cows, you see, and chickens and pigs.
We’ve a mule, but no horses. But a sound stable block!
The top fields be let, as yet, to Mr. Fuller, our statesman neighbor to the west, for his sheep, but he be diversifying his own property and is a-givin’ up his lease next month.
We’ve fruit trees enough to make our own jams and such.
Much of the land has sat—resting, as Sir Winston put it.
Likely, he let ’em sit on account it’s just the three of us to work ’em.
Eight acres, in all, but you’ve likely learned that already.
Our Lowell has recently become engaged to a lovely girl from Wotton.
I do love a spring wedding. But he be after his own farm, you see, and the girl’s father has a tidy situation for them.
The mill, o’ course, is no longer in use, the wheel long gone, but Sir Winston had the millhouse made up into a lovely master’s quarters with its very own study and library.
’Tis a shame he never used it. Six family bedrooms above the main house.
We’ve a-runnin’ water and electricity! And Sir Winston be ever so thoughtful in installing plumbed indoor, er, privies.
And a creek from the Tillingbourne feeds our pond!
We’ve lovely fish. Do you fish, Mr. Burke?
” Her eyes grew large. “Oh! I’m rattling on and you’ve not yet had a word, not even for proper-like introductions.
Forgive me, sir.” The woman then watched them, pressing her lips together as if containing any further words from escaping.
Cyril’s mother shot him a speaking glance, as if to say, “Here is your witch?” Then she stepped forward. “Thank you for the happy welcome, Hazel. I am Mrs. Burke, and this is my eldest son, Mr. Cyril Burke, and my daughter, Miss Ruby Burke. I must say, we are very curious about Pimms Mill.”
Hazel had bobbed a quick curtsy at each name and clasped her hands. “Rightly so, mum. Like as curious as we be about you.”
Cy hid a grin at the woman’s candor. “Were you in contact with Sir Winston?”
“Aye, though not regular-like. He was a bit of an eccentric, God bless him. But every year he sent a letter and one of his men ’round to see things here at Pimms be in order and assuring us that we’d always have a place here.
” To that, she lifted her chin a bit and met Cy’s gaze. A bit of a challenge there.
His mother noticed. “We are very pleased to know you and your family are here, Hazel. For all we could guess, the place was empty and neglected.”
Cy glanced around at the current untidy state of the yard but held his tongue.
The woman drew herself up tall with a smile. “Well, we’ve done our best, haven’t we?” She wrung her hands, then lifted her skirts again, moving away from them. “I imagine you’d like to see everything, and then we’ll have tea.”
Ruby leaned toward him. “Don’t eat the apples,” she murmured, and he bit back a laugh.
Y
An hour later, Cyril sat at an ancient desk in the main house study, where Mr. Turner kept up the ledgers.
The tour had been eye-opening. The Turners took pride in maintaining Pimms Mill, that much was obvious.
What was also obvious was that it hadn’t been enough.
At least to Cyril’s observations. The roof needed repairing, the “resting” fields were waist deep in grasses and weeds, and the “pond” needed clearing, so thick it was with green, which likely meant that the drainage section of the creek also needed work.
The water from the pipes was brown and would be, he sensed, an expensive fix.
Perhaps even a new well was needed. But the millhouse—the building he’d thought was a barn—was airy, light, and modern, and would make comfortable quarters.
Indeed, it had been the surprise of the tour, next to finding old millstones in various places on the property, one centered by an old marble cherub encircled by an herb garden planted in its groove.
He sat back in the chair, which creaked with the movement.
After perusing the ledgers, it had become clear that letting the upper fields was the only income on the property.
Though Sir Winston’s trust provided a living for the Turner family, the property would lose money if it were to house an additional family of any size, with any accompanying horses.
Taxes alone would have to come from the Burke family.
Not what he’d hoped for, but better than what he’d expected, surely.
Of course, Pimms Mill had charmed his mother.
He’d not seen her eyes alight like this in an age.
Her exploration of the house and gardens was nothing short of delightful to witness and gave him a glimpse of what she might have been like as a young woman.
Even now, below his window, he could hear the animated conversation between his mother, his sister, and Mrs. Turner.
Taking that and the caretakers’ futures into consideration, he knew selling the property was out of the question.
That left him with the following options:
One, letting the cottage, which would mean making the repairs necessary for comfortable habitation by prospective renters soon and accruing debt from those repairs.
Two, finding another farmer to let the grazing fields to cover taxes and allowing the Turner family to continue as they had, leaky roofs and all.
Or three, moving into the cottage and systematically making what repairs he could himself—putting his brothers to work, of course—making the most of the obviously fertile fields, and adding it to the Burke legacy.
Which, quite honestly, was the only option, because it was the moral thing to do and showed respect for his mother’s great-great-uncle’s wishes. Family.
One didn’t live to one hundred and four often, and without a great deal of time to consider what to do with one’s possessions.
With that, Pimms Mill was added to the top of the list of reasons why Cyril Burke would be seeking employment.
And packing his things at Oakleigh.
Y
Benjamin Henry Burke, though not especially tall, had the body of a middleweight boxer and would have been an imposing figure if not for an easy grin, a penchant for marshmallows, and a weakness for holding babies.
Cyril stared, unfocused, in the direction his father now lay in his bed in the room his parents shared.
They’d returned to find Oscar worried and the doctor summoned.
Dr. Kerr held the end of his stethoscope to Father’s chest, and Mother rinsed a cloth in cool water for Father’s head, though his teeth chattered.