Twenty-two
Jemma was like a child in a toy shop as she and Hanna walked through the open, ornate gates of Betancourt, and up the half-mile long, sweeping curved drive. She didn’t know what to look at first.
Wide green lawns, mowed to perfection, and with the letter B – for Betancourt – traced out in the centre of each, bordered the drive. The only other greenery between the gates and the house were the rows of shrubs and trees lining the walls surrounding the estate.
‘They were planted to conceal the stonework which you could see from the house,’ said Hanna. ‘I think it’s a shame because the natural stone is beautiful.’
The fa?ade of the house was beautiful too, being impressive but understated, as Jemma had seen from her searches online.
There were imposing double front doors which led into the spacious Great Hall, where a large, stunning chandelier glinted and glowed in the fading early evening sunshine. The house keeper, whom Hanna introduced to Jemma as Tabby, let them in and she seemed extremely friendly. In an odd way, she reminded Jemma of her beloved gran, Esme.
‘I’ll let Griff and Grace know you’re here, Hanna,’ Tabby said.
Clearly the family didn’t believe in being overly formal.
‘This is where the annual, Mistletoe Dance is held,’ Hanna informed her. ‘It’s the event of the year around these parts and everyone wants an invite. All the residents of the village get one and even the invitations are impressive. They’re made from stylish, gold edged and gold embossed, white and green card and people put them on display for months before and after the dance, which is held on Christmas Eve. I’ll show you some photos another time. Refreshments are served in the dining room. As you’ll see, both this Great Hall and the dining room have exceptionally high ceilings and are very grand. Come with me and I’ll show you my favourite room in the house. It’s also Grace’s favourite. Apart from the bedroom she now shares with Griff, of course, and you’ll understand why that’s her favourite when you see him. And I do mean the man, not the room.’ Hanna winked and sighed.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the owners?’ Jemma didn’t want to put a foot wrong and have the tour cancelled.
‘Nah. Griff won’t mind.’
She dashed to the left and Jemma followed her somewhat hesitantly as Hanna threw open a large door and spun around in one of the most beautiful rooms Jemma had seen.
‘This is the morning room, and it looks even better in the mornings, oddly enough. Sunlight filters through the branches of those tall trees close to this side of the house and it literally dances across the pale lemon and white walls. It’s so restful in here isn’t it? It’s as if all your troubles are sucked up the chimney via that intricately carved white marble fireplace.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Jemma said, spinning slowly around to take it all in.
The furniture was mostly antique yew and elm wood, but the exceedingly expensive looking pale lemon sofa and two matching chairs placed in front of the fireplace were clearly modern.
‘As well as The Mistletoe Dance,’ Hanna said, sounding remarkably like a tour guide, ‘there’s an annual Summer Fayre. Most of the stalls are set up on the front lawns, but afternoon tea is taken in the beautiful gardens at the rear of the house. They’re always resplendent and brimming with colour as you’ll soon see.’
‘Hanna?’ a man’s voice called out. ‘Are you stealing the family silver?’
Hanna laughed and yelled back, ‘Yeah. Just give me a minute.’ Then she grinned at Jemma. ‘That’s Griff.’
A moment later a tall, agile, and exceedingly handsome man in his mid to late thirties stood in the doorway and Jemma gasped because he could have stepped out of one of her novels. He had lustrous yet unruly ebony hair, and intense dark eyes, and although Jemma had thought Greg’s smile was dazzling, this man’s took her breath away.
‘Hello, Hanna.’
‘Hi, Griff.’
‘You must be Jemma,’ he said, closing the distance between them in three long and powerful strides. His voice was as gorgeously seductive as the rest of him and his handshake was firm and cool and yet a tingle or two ran up Jemma’s arm. ‘It’s such a pleasure to meet you. My fiancée, Grace, tells me you’re a famous author so I must apologise for my ignorance. I do read a great deal but I haven’t had a chance to read your books. Grace has promised to read a chapter or two to me in bed tonight.’
There was a mischievous glint in those dark eyes and Jemma could picture quite clearly how that would end. This man oozed sex appeal and she was sure his fiancée would enjoy a night of unbridled passion. For a second, Greg Bishop was almost forgotten.
‘Thank you so much for allowing me to join you this evening. Your home is magnificent. I’ve visited several stately homes over the years for research for my novels, and I’m not just saying this, but Betancourt is up there with the best of them. Some are truly over the top but this is grand, imposing and impressive and yet warm and welcoming, and it feels like a home from what I’ve seen so far. You’d better make sure you lock those front doors or I might just try and hide here for ever.’
He raised one brow and the smile on his lips sent a little ripple of warmth through her.
‘We like it. Thank you for saying such kind things about our home. I’m sure Grace, and my brother, Russell, and my father, Archie will agree when I say you are most welcome to visit us any time.’
Jemma beamed at him. ‘You might regret saying that. I’ve come to Betancourt Bay to write the final book in my current series and I’m struggling rather a lot. This house would give me endless inspiration, so you might see me peering through the gates each day.’
‘Please don’t do that. Come up to the house. Tabby will let you in if we’re not here. My father, Archie is often pottering in the garden or with his chickens. My brother, Russell is presently in London. He won’t be here until later this month. But this house is large enough for us not to be in each other’s way. For example, I have no idea where my beautiful fiancée is right now.’
‘I’m here, darling.’
A very pretty woman appeared at the door and the look she and Griff exchanged made it clear how much in love they were.
‘This is, Grace, Jemma.’ He held out his hand and Grace took it in hers, once again looking at Griff with so much love it tugged at Jemma’s heart.
‘Hello, Jemma. I’m so excited to meet you. I adore your books. And I love the TV series. Hi Hanna.’ She gave Hanna a friendly wave. ‘Shall we sit in the garden? It’s such a gorgeous evening and rain is forecast for tomorrow so we’d better make the most of it.’
‘Absolutely’ said Hanna. ‘I would kill for a glass of wine.’
‘No need,’ Griff said. ‘There’s a glass with your name on waiting in the garden.’
‘That’s exactly what you said,’ Jemma glanced from Hanna to Griff and back again, surprised they had used the same words.
Grace laughed. ‘That’s because there is an actual glass with Hanna’s name on. We bought it for her as a little thank you, gift.’
Griff and Grace led the way, still holding hands.
The rear gardens of Betancourt were even more impressive than the front. The gardens were enclosed by similar shrubs and trees to the ones at the front. The lawns weren’t as manicured and were dotted here and there with more shrubs and trees. On each side was a copse of trees and there was a formal knot garden in the centre. There was also a rose garden, a kitchen garden to the left and a wildflower garden to the right.
A raised terrace ran the width of the house and York stone steps led down to a broad path that zig-zagged down the centre of the garden, as far as the eye could see. Then there was a large lake with an impressively grand fountain the water of which shot high into the air. Beyond the lake were the cliffs and below them, the sandy beach of Betancourt Bay, and the sea. A pair of black, ornate iron gates, like the set at the front, sat to one side of the garden at the edge of the cliff, and steps led down to the beach.
The view from the terrace was breathtaking.
‘You can see the coast of France,’ said Grace as they sat around a large table, on extremely comfortable chairs with padded cushions.
‘I would never tire of this view,’ Jemma said.
‘It’s stunning, isn’t it?’ said Hanna.
‘That’s Locke Isle,’ said Griff, pointing to the island that seemed to be floating like a cloud.
Hanna grinned. ‘Shall we take bets on how long it is before Grace tells Jemma her favourite story?’
‘No time,’ said Grace, grinning back. ‘There’s a story I’ve always loved above all others,’ she said. ‘Legend has it that the Lockes and the Betancourts were once sworn enemies. Lord Locke, as he was before he lost his title and later his head, had three sons but only one daughter, called Elizabeth, who fell in love with a son of the then Baron Betancourt. But the fathers hated each other and forbade the union. Desperate and in love, Grifforde Betancourt, the Baron’s eldest son, and the namesake of my own darling fiancé here, took a boat to the island one dark night and Elizabeth Locke met him on the sands. They planned to return to the mainland and then to elope, but the weather turned suddenly, as it often does in this part of the English Channel, and a storm swept in with massive waves when they were halfway across. It cast the lovers into the bitterly cold sea. Grifforde’s younger brother was on his way home from a night in a tavern in Folkestone with some friends and as they reached Lookout Point, they heard Grifforde and Elizabeth call out to one another. They didn’t know the couple were in the water until one of them spotted the lovers floundering beneath the full moon. Grifforde and Elizabeth managed to find each other in the swell but the waves and currents were too strong for them. They clung to one another and kissed before the sea dragged them down to the depths and to their deaths.’
‘A cheery tale,’ said Hanna, taking a sip of the wine Griff had poured. Her glass did indeed have her name etched into it.
‘It’s said that you can hear the lovers calling to one another when there are storms and the wind is in the right direction,’ Grace added.
‘That’s such a romantic tale,’ Jemma said. ‘I wish I could use it in my book. I … I don’t suppose I could, could I?’
Griff shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. My friend, Ward Locke of Locke Isle won’t mind, and I have no objection. Unless Grace has.’
Grace shook her head. ‘No! I think it would be wonderful to see it in your book. I realise you’d change the names, of course.’
‘Please don’t let it be Ambrose who drowns.’ Hanna sat bolt upright. ‘I know I said I’d like him to find a woman he would be willing to die for, but I don’t want him to drown.’
‘Ambrose wouldn’t drown,’ said Grace. ‘Would he, Jemma? He’s too strong and powerful for that.’
‘The sea is far more powerful than you might think,’ said Griff. ‘My ancestor wasn’t the first to drown in that channel between here and Locke Isle and he wasn’t the last either. But on a jollier note. We’ll show you the rest of the house after supper, Jemma.’
‘Oh, thank you! I can feel my inspiration returning. And I’m not saying that to be polite. This beautiful house seems to be sending me good vibes.’