I refused to let her put me on a guilt trip. I realised that in some ways, it was like the ending of a love affair – a gentle easing, a letting go – painful, but ultimately right for both of us. And even if I left High Weald tomorrow, never to return, it was essential this happened. For I couldn’t go back to where I’d been. And nor must CeCe. I just hoped we could eventually find our way forward to a different and more natural relationship.
Mouse had honoured my request for time to think about what he’d said to me. Every evening after he’d said goodnight to Rory, he would leave by the kitchen door, with a wave and a ‘see you tomorrow’. With Orlando now ensconced in his tiny flat above the bookshop in Tenterden, the evenings began to yawn like an open chasm before me, and I realised that I was just as much a novice at being alone as CeCe was.
Well, I simply had to learn, and even though it was often on the tip of my tongue to ask Mouse to stay on for a beer before he left, I didn’t. Instead, I lit the fire in the drawing room and sat in front of it, reading Flora’s journals and wondering whether I could edit all these detailed years of her life into a book that people would want to read. Yet I was distracted constantly, as my thoughts flew across the lane to Home Farm. And I wondered what Mouse was thinking and doing right now . . .
This tortured, damaged man who had professed to love me.
The question was, did I love him?
Possibly.
But . . . there was also something about me that he didn’t know. And the thought of telling him – of telling anyone – was something I couldn’t contemplate.
‘All ready?’ Orlando asked me, looking wonderful in a newly purchased vintage Edwardian frock coat, complete with a starched collar and a maroon cravat.
‘Yes.’
‘Right then,’ he said as we both gave last glances around the immaculate shop and I proceeded behind him towards the door. I only hoped there would be people outside to watch him cut the red ribbon I’d placed at his insistence across the threshold earlier this morning.
He opened the door and I saw Mouse, Rory and Marguerite, who was standing beside a petite blonde woman I didn’t recognise. Behind them were a group of fascinated passers-by, who halted with their shopping bags, astonished by the sight of Orlando in fancy dress.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to announce the opening of O. Forbes Esquire – Rare Books. And now I shall pass the scissors to the manager of my shop, without whose help I would not be here. Take the scissors,’ he hissed at me, as he all but prodded me in the stomach with them.
‘No, Orlando! It should be you.’
‘Please, Miss Star, you’ve been my lynchpin, whatever a “lynchpin” actually is, and I want you to cut the ribbon.’
‘Okay,’ I sighed.
So, I cut the ribbon and our assembled ‘family’ applauded and cheered loudly, as did the passers-by. People crowded into the shop and a photographer arrived to take more pictures as we all drank champagne.
‘Star, hello.’ Marguerite kissed me on both cheeks. ‘This is Hélène, by the way. She’s the owner of the chateau, and what you might call my significant other.’ She smiled fondly at Hélène, squeezing her hand.
‘I am very ’appy to be ’ere,’ said Hélène in hesitant English.
‘Star speaks perfect French, amongst her other accomplishments,’ Marguerite informed her.
Hélène and I chatted for a while about her chateau near Gigondas, a village in the centre of the glorious Rh?ne Valley, of Marguerite’s marvellous murals, and in general about how marvellous Marguerite was.
‘She tells me that it is you who has made it possible for us to spend some time together,’ Hélène added. ‘Thank you, Star.’
‘Hi,’ said a voice behind me.
‘Hi.’ I turned round and Mouse kissed me formally on both cheeks. Rory stood beside him.
‘What do you think of Orlando’s new shop?’ I asked Rory.
‘I painted a picture of it for him.’
‘And I had it framed. Isn’t it wonderful?’ Mouse said as Rory handed it up to me to admire.
It was a watercolour of the front of the bookshop. ‘Wow, Rory, it’s fantastic,’ I signed to him. ‘He’s so talented,’ I said to Mouse.
‘Isn’t he?’
I heard the genuine pride in his voice. And immediately wanted to cry.
‘Listen . . .’ He bent down to whisper in my ear. ‘Can I take you out tonight? I’m sure the rest of High Weald can fend for themselves for once.’
‘Yes,’ I said without hesitation.
Perhaps it had been the mid-day champagne that had made me answer in the affirmative earlier, I thought grimly as I rifled through my paltry selection of clothing that evening. I had the choice between my two jumpers and a couple of pairs of jeans. Going for the blue jumper, I walked into the kitchen where the occupants of High Weald were still celebrating the opening of the bookshop.
‘Mouse just called to say he’d pick you up from the front door in a few minutes,’ said Orlando.
‘Thanks,’ I said, clocking the smell of burning sausages in the frying pan and instinctively reaching to remove them from the range. There was the sound of a horn beeping from the front of the house.
‘Have a good time,’ Marguerite smirked, Hélène’s arm draped round her shoulder and Rory sat on her knee, contentedly eating a tube of Smarties. ‘And don’t you dare come home before dawn,’ she added. To which the entire kitchen laughed uproariously.
Red-faced, I walked to the front hall and opened the door, feeling like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter.
‘Hi,’ Mouse said, kissing me on both cheeks as I got into the car. He had shaved and, for a brief moment, I felt his smooth skin against mine.
‘Ready to go?’ he said.
‘Sure. Where?’
‘To the local pub. Is that okay? They do great bar food.’
The White Lion was crowded and charming, with a roaring fire in the grate and a heavily beamed ceiling. Mouse ordered a beer for himself and a glass of white wine for me, picked up a couple of menus, then led me to a table in a quiet nook to the side of the main bar.
‘Thanks for coming, I appreciate it,’ he said. ‘I thought we should have a chat about stuff.’
‘Such as?’
‘The fact that Marguerite wants to go and live in France with Hélène. Permanently.’
So, this is a ‘business’ chat, not a ‘date’, I thought.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said yes, of course. Rory is my son, after all. And I’ve got to face my responsibilities. Rory will inherit the title – it passed to me when my uncle died, as they’d only had Marguerite. And ironically, I’ll inherit High Weald if Marguerite dies before me, since she’s forty-three now and unlikely to have any kids. But ultimately, it will eventually be left to Rory.’