‘You call me if you need me,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he ran down the steps. ‘But if I were you, I’d spend the night with Mrs Goodyear. Don’t let the boys stay here.’
Lyn stared after him for a moment then she turned to Tom, scolding, as she pulled off his jacket. He had spotted the car on the table and stood on tiptoe to reach up and get it. ‘That’s Georgie’s toy,’ he said conversationally as she straightened his jumper and reached it over for him before she turned towards the kitchen range. ‘Tom play with Georgie’s car.’
‘We must ring your parents later, Luke.’ Joss was sitting with him at the huge scrubbed table in the farmhouse which had been her mother’s last home. They had eaten a wonderful meal, cooked by Paul, washed down with a rough, thick country wine and they were both feeling sleepy and more rested than they had for a long time.
‘I am glad that I persuaded you to leave your hotel and come here to stay.’ He was spooning thick coffee grounds into the cafetière. ‘You both look better already.’ He gave his slow, charming smile. ‘Of course, you may ring whoever you like. I wish you had the children with you.’ He shook his head. ‘How Laura would have loved to know that she had grandchildren. Now, while you drink your coffee I shall bring for you Laura’s things.’ He hesitated. ‘I do not want you to be sad, Jocelyn. Are you sure you want these things?’
She was peeling an apple with a small fruit knife. ‘I would love to have them, Paul.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘It sounds strange when I already have so much that was my mother’s at Belheddon, but none of it seems personal; it consists of all the stuff she didn’t want; the things she was prepared to abandon. Apart from a work basket and the things in her desk there is nothing that was close to her.’
He frowned. ‘What is a work basket?’
‘Sewing.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He let out a guffaw of laughter. ‘She hated sewing. Not even a button. I did all the buttons! I’m surprised she didn’t put it in the garbage!’
‘So.’ Joss shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands in an unconscious imitation of his wonderful Gallic gestures. ‘What did she love?’
‘She loved books. She read and read. She loved poetry. She loved art. That was of course how we met. But there were things she hated. Strange things.’ He shook his head. ‘She hated flowers – especially roses – ’
‘Roses?’ Joss tensed.
‘Roses.’ He did not notice the sharpening of her tone. ‘She detested roses. She said the greniers – the attics – at Belheddon always smelled of roses. I could not understand why she disliked them so much. Roses are beautiful things; their smell is –’ he searched visibly for a word and found it with a kiss of his finger tips, ‘incroyable.’
Joss glanced at Luke. ‘I can understand. The roses at Belheddon are not like other people’s roses.’ She gave a small sad smile. ‘Poor Mother.’
The men left her with the suitcase full of letters and books and the leather box full of more of Laura’s jewellery, planning to walk across the fields and down to the river. Settling down alone on the hearth rug in front of a gentle, sweet smelling fire of apple logs Joss sat for a long time gazing into the flames, hugging her legs, her chin resting on her knees. She felt closer to her mother here than she had at any time at Belheddon. It was a nice feeling; warm, protective. Safe.
It was almost with reluctance that at last she reached into the box and began to sort through the papers. There were loads of letters – all from strangers – none of special interest though all showed how much her mother was loved – and several demonstrated how she was missed by friends back in England. None however came from the village of Belheddon, she noticed, remembering how Mary Sutton had complained how Laura had never written; no one mentioned the life she had abandoned in East Anglia.
At the bottom of the box she found two notebooks she did recognise. The same make that Laura had used for her diaries and commonplace books at home. They were full of closely written notes. The same mixture as before. Poems, interesting snippets and diary entries. She settled herself more comfortably, leaning back against one of the chairs and pulling a cushion down behind her head as she started to read.
I had a dream last night about the old days. I woke in a cold sweat and lay there shaking, praying I had not
awakened Paul. Then I wished I had. I snuggled against him for comfort, but he did not stir. Bless him, he needs his sleep. An earthquake would not awaken him.
And two days later.
The dream came again. He is looking for me. I could see him searching the house, slowly, unhappily. He is lost and lonely. Dear sweet God, am I never to be free of this? I thought of speaking to Monsieur le curé, but I don’t want to breath His name aloud out here. This is too special a place and surely he can’t reach me any more. Not in France!
Joss looked up for a moment. So He – it – had a name. She read on; at the beginning of the second book came a revelation.
I wonder whether I should write to John Cornish and ask him to tear up the will; to leave the house straight to charity. How would anyone at Belheddon know what I had done? Here he can only reach me in my dreams and I cannot tolerate the thought of Jocelyn learning of her good fortune and going in all innocence into the trap. There will be no danger to her, of course. He will love her. But should she ever have children. What then? If only I could talk to Paul but I want nothing to spoil our relationship, not even the mention of the name …