02 - Down the Garden Path Read online

  He was handing me flowers, and I hid my face in them. The door was closing and we were standing like actors in a bad play on the hearth rug. Ah, now he was speaking his lines. Telling me that he had wanted to give me time to grow up, to be sure of my feelings. He was taking something out of his coat pocket, a small velvet box, handing it to me with what would have been a pretty fair display of reticence if I hadn’t known him so well, if I hadn’t been able to read confidence in the tilt of his chin and the way his hands moved.

  Not so fast, Harry darling. I told him that, having aged considerably since we had last met, my eyesight was failing. Excusing myself, I went over to my bureau, picked up a magnifying glass, came slowly back to the rug, opened up the box, and through the lens examined what was inside. A pearl and cinnamon diamond ring. How had Harry known I had always loved that ring when I gazed at it through the window of the village antique shop?

  “It’s lovely,” I whispered, looking up at him, but he was staring at the magnifying glass.

  I tried to make words come out of my throat, to tell him that I had only been teasing. But he wouldn’t have believed me.

  “I’m sorry I disturbed your busy evening,” he drawled. Looking pointedly at my smudged nails, he turned about and left.

  For three hours I sat in a corner, a sodden lump, biting my wretched nails and alternately plotting how I could get even. Years of emotional reconstruction down the drain. London wiped out. And, come to think of it—this with a ferocious sniff—apart from Angus Hunt and The Heritage I loathed London. I was a country girl, and as Angus would say, “What I wouldna’ gi’ reet noo for green stillness and dreaming church spires.” And Dad ... and grumpy, bullying Fergy, and the new puppy ...

  The telephone buzzed exactly as it would have done in a bad play. A play where the heroine had forgotten not only her lines but the part she was supposed to play. Harry, ringing to ... ? I fell over the sofa reaching for the phone. It was Dad on the line. And now my heart pounded from fear. Dad never used the phone by choice; he was afraid of the instrument. What was wrong? Nothing. Dad said he was ringing to impart some good news, and he was making a wonderful attempt at sounding chipper.

  The bishop had deemed that at sixty-plus Dad was ready for semi-retirement, and had arranged for him to move to a village even smaller than Kings Ransome, in Devon. Yes, it was a bit of a wrench but Fergy, bless her, was going, too. She was already cleaning out cupboards and packing to beat Pickford’s. I could hear her voice in the background. “What? Let Vicar go off into the back of beyond to face the good Lord only knows how many deprivated spinsters? I knows me duty when I sees it!”

  And I knew mine: home. I could almost taste Fergy’s treacle pudding. The next day I gave Mr. Hunt notice, and he was kind enough to say he would miss my deplorable typing and poisonous coffee. On parting, a week later, he handed me the lady’s silver pocket watch he was wearing, and at my protestations that I couldn’t take it, blew out his gigantic cheeks, shook back his mane of hair, and stumped away from me muttering, “Nothing, nothing but late nineteenth-century rubbish.” That was the last I saw of him, for a while.

  Those weeks at the vicarage, taking down and packing up, were both happy and sad. Memories came flocking back. On the day the Joyful Sounds were to come for their final meeting, I knew I couldn’t stand to be in the house with them, so I went on an excursion trip to Stratford with a stopover at Flaxby Meade. This was another small village like a hundred others—softly green with its string of thatched cottages, a hint of past villainy in the glimpse of its stocks, and—a pottery. The Monk’s Pottery by name.

  It was all meant. I would not go down to Devon with Dad and Fergy at the end of the week. I had another journey to make before I joined them. A journey back into the past. My past.

  “Dig up an old grave, and you’ll find maggots,” Fergy had always warned. It started to rain as I got out of the coach back at Kings Ransome; it rained for several straight days, but I forgot to count them. I was too caught up with planning how I could make my truce with Harry.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  The petulant part of me would have liked to think that in rejecting me Harry’s life had been blighted. But in some ways he had done rather well for himself. As he had told me in his letter, Fortune had smiled on him the previous year in the timely death of his Uncle Victor, aged ninety-two and of miserly habits. Harry had been able to abandon agricultural sales and purchase some land where he could raise horses.

  This equine passion of his had been the one thing about Harry that had not quite thrilled me. I only like the kind of animals I can take to bed with me. Wickersley—Harry always did think he had a way with words—lay about six miles from Kings Ransome. And that distance was the reason we had not so far collided with each other. Vera had not moved with him to his new abode, but neither had she remained in her old one. She now chose to divide her time between a cottage in Wales, also courtesy of Uncle Victor, and her sister living in Devon, not far from where Dad would be.

  The day I went to see Harry, I was alone in the vicarage. Dad and Fergy had left the day before and the new incumbent would not be arriving for a month. What to wear took some thought. I had already realized that in reestablishing a relationship with Harry I must appeal to his memory of the innocent golden days of our friendship before passion reared. And I wasn’t sure I had a platonic-looking dress in my wardrobe. But there it was, right at the back. Black. The longer length had been in when I was thirteen and I had worn this when accompanying Dad to funerals. Wearing it, my unruly hair pinned on top of my head, I felt that I was the very epitome of the Victorian governess. Or would be if I sucked in my chest. I never wore makeup because it made my face blotchy, so I didn’t have to bother fussing. A tuck of stray curl here and there and I was off.

  I took a bus to within a mile of Harry’s place and walked the rest of the way down a lane made narrower than need be by the wild honeysuckle hedges burgeoning on each side. Something else burgeoned over my right shoulder with heart-stopping suddenness; the head of a very large horse shaking out yards of tongue.

  Gulping down a scream I whispered, “Nice horsie.” Blackie must be a clue that I was close to my destination. A sign cutely marked “Private—Trespassers will be Persecuted” appeared. And I beheld a vista of field inhabited by groupings of horses—russet, cream, and black—shading themselves from the midday sun under gently spreading oak trees.

  Harry’s house stood on a small knoll. It was a converted labourer’s cottage with an ornate brass plate on the black-hinged white front door saying, “Tradesman’s Entrance— Others Round Back.” After a friendly rap or two fetched no response, I opened the door and stepped inside. Vera and Harry had never stood on ceremony in the old days and I had to psych myself into believing the old days could be resurrected. I called out to Harry but there was no answer. The house, being small, had no hall. I found myself in a pleasant sitting room, a good portion taken up with a corner staircase and long stone fireplace. The room did not appear cramped because the walls and woodwork were painted white and the furniture was of natural pine or upholstered in oatmeal and sage-green tweeds. For several minutes I wandered about the room, peering out the windows at the front and the back. Harry must be with his horses, feeding them probably. The thought of even a bag of hay made me feel ravenous.

  I opened a door next to the sideboard, leading, I hoped, to the kitchen. I wondered if preparing lunch for Harry might not be an ideal way of breaking the ice between us and getting back on the old footing. I had received the worst marks in the history of my school in domestic science but I could certainly butter bread and open a can of corned beef.

  I was right. That door did lead to the kitchen, but as I entered my plans received a check. On the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of sherry and a bowl of fruit, stood a golden-crusted meat pie covered in plastic wrap. My, my! How the landed gentry do live. Harry must have a woman come in mornings to do for him. I filled the kettle, went to get
out some crockery from the cupboards, and then noticed that some had been left out on the pale orange Formica. I took a glimpse at Mr. Hunt’s watch, strung true governess fashion from my belt and tucked into my skirt pocket. I wished Harry would come.

  Some of my bravado was deserting me, but he was so necessary to my plans. I could not let the memory of that terrible last meeting completely intimidate me. My hands felt sticky and I had to fight the urge to bite my nails. I drew a deep breath, causing a slight rip in one of the side seams of my bodice, but otherwise I felt better. Hmm! Perhaps a quick poke around the house ... Unwise. It was often unwise to ignore Fergy’s golden rules. “Don’t poke your nose through other people’s keyholes. You may get it stuck.”

  Facing me as I reached the top of the staircase was a closed door. And, as my hand turned the knob and thrust it open an awareness came that I was making a mistake. A look at the rumpled bed confirmed the feeling. It sprang, not from the fact that tidy Harry had not made his bed, but that the mound of green candlewick bedspread was moving. Something below its surface squirmed like an underwater swimmer, wriggled, kicked, and came up gasping, laughing for air.

  “Harry, I’m sorry I fell asleep. You did say you wouldn’t be long ...” it breathed huskily, and then stopped. All I could see was a stormy mass of black hair and a flash of large dark eyes. The sheet was covering up her mouth. But I could see enough. This ... this creature personified my idea of female beauty.

  Taking quick shallow breaths and with my eyes locked with those of the lady of the harem I told myself there was a bright side to this—Harry could have been in bed with her. Should I have found them locked together like Siamese twins, I would have died. As it was ... I must remember I had come to urge Harry to be my accomplice ... nothing more.

  “Good morning,” said the hussy. “Don’t you think we should introduce ourselves?”

  Twisting my hands behind my back I lifted my chin and tried to force my lips into a superior smirk, but it was hard when they kept quivering.

  “Come on,” came that marvellous breathy voice. “You must be someone very close to Harry to make free with his house. What are you, his sister? His mother?” She was laughing at me! And Fergy thought I was born to be a wicked brazen thing!

  I unfroze. Leaning forward I gave the bedspread a jerk, which sent her backwards against the pillows. This creature rated meat pie, sherry, and fruit, did she? All I had ever got were burnt bangers and stale cakes! “His mother!” I hissed. “I’m his wife, you poor deluded fool. When I think of what I have suffered with all his women, I wonder I don’t throw myself in the nearest river.” I ground my teeth. “And I would in a minute, if it weren’t for the little ones. Six of them I have downstairs, crying for their daddy.”

  With that I walked with noble tread to the door. That should fix her! But the muffled sound of her throaty laughter followed me downstairs. Slamming the kitchen door I leaned up against it, blinking. Behind me I thought I heard another door open and close. Return of Lord Harry Heartthrob? No. At least not by way of the front door, because at that moment he came in through the one next to the pantry. Head down, he was pulling out a bottle of cream and a packet of cheese from a brown paper bag.

  “What did I tell you? Mrs. O’Leary was only too pleased to oblige with ...” He looked up. “Tessa!” The bag, cream, and cheese all slipped and he made an automatic clutch at them. “This is so—unexpected.” What was unexpected was the look in his eyes.

  He was pleased to see me. Nothing could disguise the delight in his dark blue gaze before it travelled furtively to the door which had edged open when I moved away from it. Through the gap he would have a good view of the staircase.

  “Well, isn’t this nice. I have a guest.” His hearty tone was an attempt to reach the upper regions and warn the other guest to dress before descending. A waste. The bird had already flown. A calm settled over me, bred of a mixture of amusement and sadness.

  I pointed at the pie. “You seem to have been expecting another guest. Harry, I’m sorry, my stopping by like this was a real cheek. I shouldn’t have walked in without your being here.”

  His eyes changed, became enigmatic. “Contrary to rumour, bachelors don’t all exist off diets of bread and dripping and marmalade sandwiches. I really do rather well for myself. You will stay for lunch, won’t you? We’ll celebrate with some wine. I can’t believe you’re here, Tess. That last time I saw you ... I’m afraid I rather went off the deep end....”

  “Forget that. I want us to be friends, Harry.”

  “Friends.” He paused, looked away from me, then back again. “Yes, I suppose.... You do look splendid, but then—look, I’m sorry, I drank an ocean of coffee this morning, and if I don’t hit the loo ...”

  He fled through into the sitting room and leapt up the stairs four at a time. Seconds later he came bounding halfway down again, pausing, eyes narrowed. Suddenly he grinned. “I should have known,” he said. Leaning back against the staircase wall, he folded his lean brown arms. Marvellous how in the faded blue jeans with the rip above the knee he still managed to look like a model from a Horse and Hound magazine. His lip curled. “What did you do with her? Bury her in the cellar?”

  “Don’t be silly.” I looked up at him. Was he angry? Was it possible that he really cared about that woman? Was he realizing now that my nose was undignified and that the way my mouth tilted downwards at the corners was not wistful but bizarre? “What a fuss,” I said, brazening the situation out. “Your friend was extremely inhospitable to me. I believe she left by the front door as you came in the back.”

  “You haven’t lost your entrancing nerve.” Harry leaned over the bannister rail and clasped his hands to his chest a la the Balcony Scene, panting down at me, “Tessa, Tessa! Have you perchance come here to beg me to make renewed application for your hand, now that your father the vicar is forcing you into a loveless union with some elderly widower?”

  “I told you, I want us to be friends.”

  “Your wish is my command.” Harry swung nimbly over the rail and landed almost noiselessly at my feet. “I will convey your apologies to my—friend, when next we meet. Now, let’s eat.”

  I flounced after him into the kitchen, where with Spartan efficiency Harry readied lunch. The cheese, cream, a cut loaf, and a packet of butter got tossed on to the table and he stabbed a knife into the pie. “Don’t need a plate, do you?” He hurtled some cutlery in front of where I sat at the table. “Here’s your serviette.” Seizing a piece of paper towel he made to tuck it down the neck of my dress, but I flipped it away and spread it demurely on my lap.

  “Sorry,” he leered. “The baser side of my nature momentarily ascended. Eat up, you wicked temptress, you.”

  That disarming way of his was most unfair. I could not stay angry with him but perhaps that wasn’t all bad. Perhaps it meant I really had outgrown being in love with him. “Speaking of wickedness”—I toyed with my fork—”I have decided finally to do something meaningful with my existence. I’m taking up a life of crime. And my reason for being here is to ask you—delightful rogue that you are—to be my accomplice.”

  “I failed Greek at school.” Harry moved back to the table with a pot of tea.

  “Okay: translation. I am going to stage a crime with me as the victim and you, hopefully, as the perpetrator.”

  “Are you on something?” He leaned forward solicitously, raised one of my eyelids and appeared to study the pupil. “Apparently not, so the only other explanation is that you have been consorting with some very strange characters. I’m surprised at you. A vicar’s daughter should be above all shady activity.”

  “That is the whole point.” I leaned my elbows on the table and trusted my wistful look was in evidence. “I am not by rights a vicar’s daughter. I am in reality a nameless nobody who doesn’t even have a proper birthday.”

  Harry leaned back in his chair. “So tell me, what’s the crime? Do you want me to kidnap half the population of the U.K. between the ages of thi
rty-five and sixty and hold them hostage until one of them confesses to being your long-lost mother? Let it go, Tessa. You’ve had wonderful parents. Do you plan to disown them when you find the real thing? And have you ever considered that perhaps you are being a little greedy? One father, one mother is the general rule. Hold on a minute ... are you asking me to break into some welfare office or courthouse—wherever adoption papers are stored—and sneak your file out under my raincoat? No, that can’t be it, because you said something about me villain, you victim. Right?”

  “Right. And you wouldn’t do any good trying to filch my records because I already know that officially I didn’t exist before arriving at the vicarage. But you are kind of on the right track. This does concern my search for my origins.” I pushed my cup towards him and he refilled it. “Thanks.” I took a sip and hoped that I could get through my explanations without Harry thinking I had lost all touch with reality.

  “Last week I went on a day coach trip to Stratford.”

  “A bit touristy but harmless.”

  “Stratford is only relevant because it explains why I happened to be in Flaxby Meade, which is ...”

  “Quaint. But minus the Bard to give its thatched cottages and sloping green meadows substance. Actually, it does happen to be the birthplace of...”

  “Will you please stop interrupting! Such a jolly little group we were—I don’t remember when I last saw a heartier throng of middle-aged women in grey berets and navy blue blazers. We broke our journey for morning coffee at a wizened little Tudor cafe just inside Flaxby Meade. Nothing exceptional about the place except the really terrific Chelsea buns, but it was while we sitting at the tables with their blue-and-white-check cloths that something momentous happened. The coach driver was taken deathly ill.”