by Nancy Warren
“Sly? There you are,” a commanding female voice called out.
A woman emerged from the doorway. She was tall, with a high forehead and a determined jaw. Her deep red hair was graying at the sides and cropped short, though it curled a little at the edges, giving her a girlish look. She was wearing gumboots and a worn, dark green jacket that had a few specks of mud clinging to its sleeves. The dog rushed over to her, and she gave him a hearty pat before admonishing him for running off. She straightened and saw me hovering.
“He’s well named,” she said, gesturing to the dog. “He’s a sly one, that’s for sure. Plays to the sound of his own fiddle.”
I laughed. “I’d like to say I found him and brought him back, but it was more like he found me and herded me along.”
“Well, thank you, either way,” she said, smiling wide so that her eyes crinkled. “Aha!” She pointed at the orange ball in my hand. “That blasted ball. We lost it walking the other day, and he wouldn’t settle without it.”
“He found it all by himself,” I admitted. “I was just the chump who threw it for him as many times as he wanted.” Sly stood between us, his mouth open, showing his teeth. I swear he was laughing at me.
The woman caught sight of my kitten and walked forward to greet Gateau. “I see you don’t travel alone.”
Gateau mewed in response.
“She’s a special kind of cat…” I stopped. How could I explain that Gateau, despite freaking out at one, behaved more like a faithful dog than a cat? “She follows me around—a bit like a furry guardian angel.”
As if on cue, Sly ran up to Gateau, panting and wagging his bushy tail. She hissed in response, and disappeared behind my ankles.
“Adorable.” The woman put her hand out. “Susan Bentley. Welcome to Broomewode Farm.”
I introduced myself and Gateau, and explained that I was one of the bakers, here before filming to settle in.
“Well, of course, I could have guessed that,” Susan said. “We’re only a small community. And we don’t get many bright young things around here. They all move to Bath or London the minute they’re old enough.” She smiled wryly. “Then retire back down here. Will you come in for tea? And meet my husband, Arnold.”
My thoughts had stayed on the words We’re only a small community. Susan might not be one of the Champneys, but she was their neighbor. And since she already gave the impression that everybody knew everybody here, maybe she could help me understand more about who Valerie might have been and why the Champneys were so eager to keep me off their property. I was about to accept the tea invitation when the sound of squawking birds came to my ears. I was startled. They sounded panicked, and I immediately thought of foxes and henhouses.
“Oh, Sly,” Susan Bentley said, sounding exasperated. “He will herd the chickens.”
She rushed around the side of the barn, and I followed. Behind the barn was a large enclosure where ten or twelve hens had obviously been happily foraging before the mad herder decided to follow his instincts. Now they were crying out their alarm and running about.
“He won’t do them any harm,” Susan assured me. “I often put the newly-hatched chicks next to him at night to keep warm. He’s that gentle.”
To my amazement, the chickens, in spite of their cries of outrage and flapping wings, were heading into a wire-fenced enclosure that contained a large and new-looking coop. Sly was in his element, racing in circles that grew tighter as he nudged the chickens toward the open gate.
In a big field behind the coop, I could just make out four beehives. This seemed like a real working farm but on a small scale.
Susan shook her head. “I usually leave them out a bit longer, but he’s put them away so nicely now, I’ll leave them and let them out again later.” As the last chicken strutted into the pen, Sly backed away and turned to make sure I was watching. I had the strangest idea he was showing off for me. Or maybe for Gateau, who was washing a paw, completely uninterested in the herding of fowl. Susan closed and latched the gate, and the chickens seemed perfectly content pecking at their food or walking around as though making sure their home was as they’d left it.
As we walked back to the farmhouse, I had to pick my way through some muddy patches. I’d packed a dozen cardigans but no gumboots. Go figure.
Sly had left his orange ball back by the house, and was walking at a steady pace, with his bushy tail wagging happily from side to side like a pendulum.
“How long have you had the farm?” I asked, hoping she’d say thirty years or more. I longed to find someone, anyone, who might have known the woman named Valerie. Susan Bentley looked to be around late fifties or early sixties, so she could well have known the young woman who’d lived in the area twenty-six or more years ago.
“About four years,” Susan said, bursting my bubble.
“Only four years?” I replied, hearing how disappointed I sounded.
“Yes. We lived in London. We came down here when my husband retired.”
“I see. It looks like a very active retirement.” I was mostly wondering how to steer the conversation around to Broomewode Hall. And avoid sinking my sneakers into muddy pockets as we crossed the long, green grass.
Susan pointed at the green hills, where sheep were grazing and several little lambs were playfully scampering around. It was an idyllic scene. “Sly really wants to herd the sheep, of course, and they do let him help from time to time, but he’s more of a pet than a working dog.”
I wasn’t sure Sly had got that memo.
“You must try my fruitcake,” she said. It was amazing how people did that. From the moment I got the call that I was one of the contestants, I found that the second I mentioned I’d be on The Great British Baking Contest, everyone had a special cake, pie or loaf they wanted me to taste. “The recipe’s been handed down through my family for generations. Really, I think the secret is the amount of brandy.”
I chuckled, as she’d intended me to. Cake and cooks were close enough, so I moved the conversation toward something I was much more interested in than fruitcake. “I met Katie Donegal, the cook at the manor house, last week. Do you know her?”
“Oh yes, of course I know Katie. She’s worked for the Champneys for years. She broke her arm, poor thing. She really ought to be more careful at her age. I don’t get to chat to her much, we’re both so busy, but I do let her pick gooseberries from our land to make gooseberry jam. She’d have picked the first crop by now if she didn’t have a broken arm. They grow along the wall of the old chapel tower, where they get lots of sun but are protected from the elements. We get gooseberries weeks earlier than everybody else,” she informed me with pride.
In spite of my wish to learn more about Katie and my past, I was also a contestant in a baking show, and our first challenge was to bake a cake cooked with local produce. And here I’d discovered gooseberries ripe weeks earlier than everywhere else?
I could have kissed Sly for bringing me here, slobbery ball and all. “So it’s like a microclimate?”
“Yes, exactly. And this year, the crop is well ahead of season. They’re ready to pick.”
I glanced around looking for a tower and saw it on a hill, behind a stand of trees. It was built of local stone and looked weathered and romantic. “There was an abbey here once with a thriving nunnery. Of course, it was all destroyed in Henry VIII’s time, but the tower remains.”
“It’s so picturesque.”
“I agree. I wish I could paint so I could capture it in different lights and seasons.”
I hoped I could use some of Susan’s produce for tomorrow’s challenge. We knew in advance that the first challenge was going to be to use British produce in a cake. Originally my plan had been to handpick the new crop of strawberries that grew on a farm not too far from Broomewode Hall. But after talking it through with Gina, I realized that would probably be everyone else’s plan, too. At least the strawberry bit. So I needed something that would make me stand out, show that I had some flair and imaginati
on. If I could get Susan to agree to let me at her crop, they’d be so much fresher, not to mention more local, than anything I’d be able to find in the village grocers.
“Susan, I know this might be a cheeky question, but could I make a gooseberry upside-down cake for my challenge this week? It would be so wonderful if you could spare some of your fruit. I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, and I could explain how I’d picked them myself from your land when the cameras were on me. It would be a great talking point. Plus, it might be good for business? Millions of viewers would know about whatever you produce here.”
I stopped and gulped. I was so not getting used to the idea that soon millions of people would know my name and my baking abilities. Or not, as might be the case.
“What a wonderful idea, Poppy,” Susan said, smiling. “We sell our local honey and jams in small batches, but there’s room to grow. You could make us famous. Besides, I know some great facts about gooseberries that you could slip in.” She told me that the gooseberries have grown in Britain since the time of Henry VIII, when they were transported from India on boats. The fruit, as well as being delicious, was also used as a medicine to treat fevers, and in the sixteenth century they were recommended to plague victims. Poor guys. As if the humble gooseberry was going to do them any good. Gooseberries had been used in many Ayurvedic and Unani medicines.
Phew. I was going to have to write all that down. All that info would make a great talking point if I managed to get one of the hosts to ask the right questions.
“Tell you what,” Susan carried on, “I’ll throw in some fresh farm eggs too, from our chickens. In spite of being herded by Sly, the chickens are so happy here, roaming outside, eating healthy organic food, that the eggs taste much better than anything you’d get in the supermarkets. The yolks are creamy and a delightful orange color.”
I thanked her profusely, but she just smiled and shook her head. “I’ve also got a new batch of honey from our bees. Would that be of any use? Not to brag, but our bees are pretty superior too. They are spoiled for choice round here, what with our lavender bushes. Plus they can feast on the elderflower, roses—not to mention our fruit trees. You have to try the honey. It’s rich and mellow.”
“That would amazing. And so generous of you. This competition is so tough. If a happy hen or contented bee can give me the upper hand, then I’ll take it.”
“It’s a pleasure. We sell our products mostly through gift shops and farmers’ markets. It’s mainly a hobby, at the moment, but it helps pay the bills.”
“You seem like you’ve always farmed.”
She gave a short laugh and shook her head. “Arnold, my husband, was the one who wanted this farm. We moved here from London after his health began to deteriorate from sixteen-hour days working in the city. They work you to the bone in those ghastly places. It wasn’t until we moved here and he got stung that he discovered he was allergic. He has an EpiPen, of course. But after a few too many close calls, he’s cautious. Perhaps overly cautious, but I do sympathize.” She sighed. “Still, it’s meant more work for me.”
Susan blushed and stopped talking. No matter how long I’d spent living in England, I couldn’t get used to how proper the British were. They seemed to be embarrassed by the sharing of any small personal detail. I gently smiled at her in a way that I hoped said Look, don’t worry, we all over-share without actually having to say it. Maybe she didn’t get to talk to that many people during the day, what with all her farm chores.
Susan seemed to gather herself and ran a hand through her red hair. “Let me fetch you the eggs and honey. Meanwhile, you can go pick as many gooseberries as you need—just leave a few for Katie so that she can make jam—if the poor thing can, with one arm out of action.”
Ding ding ding! For the second time that day, I could’ve thrown my arms around Susan. Without knowing it, she’d given me the perfect excuse to go back to Broomewode Hall. I told her I’d pick some extra gooseberries for Katie and deliver them myself. She seemed delighted with the idea. I felt like Susan was my new guardian angel.
She even gave me two straw baskets to collect the berries in. One for me and one for Katie.
Talk about a productive outing. I now had fresh local fruit for my challenge tomorrow and the perfect excuse to visit Broomewode Hall.
Things were definitely looking up.
Chapter 4
Following Susan’s directions, Gateau and I continued our extended walking tour of the farm. I could see why the Bentleys had chosen this place to escape from the fast-paced chaos of London life. Surrounding us were majestic oak trees, their trunks gnarled by time, and tall, willowy ash trees, delicately covered with creeping vines. Orchards of fruit trees and vines and in the distance the sheep, like so many clouds in a green sky.
If the events of last weekend weren’t still so fresh in my mind, this place would be totally idyllic. The sun warmed my back, and there was a gentle breeze that cooled my cheeks as I braced the uphill climb. Even still, I felt sweat gather at the base of my neck. I’d spent too much time testing cake recipes recently and too little on the treadmill.
The old tower was made of the same golden stone as the farm and manor but had obviously been beaten up by time and weather. Parts were crumbling and streaked with dirt. Patches of green showed where plants had taken hold in the most unlikely places. Maybe this had been part of a nunnery, but I felt that there was also something romantic about it. I imagined it was where lovers had met in secret, maybe if their families didn’t agree on the match or if they wanted to steal a kiss and fumble. Gateau sprinted ahead. I realized she was chasing a butterfly. My heart melted; she might be my familiar, but she was still a playful kitty.
I followed Gateau and found the crop of gooseberries at the base of the tower. Through some lucky chance, a few low stone walls had survived on this warm, south side of the tower. The trees blocked any harsh winds, and the stone trapped heat. No wonder the gooseberries were miles ahead of the rest of their kind. I bet you could grow melons and grapes in here.
The crop was more plentiful than I could have hoped. I’d never had the pleasure of foraging gooseberries myself before, and I was surprised at how beautiful the plants were. The oval fruits were a vivid green, patterned with thin white lines and nestled among bundles of small palm-shaped leaves. I put my tote bag on top of a solid bit of wall and began to pick the berries. They were perfectly ripe, firm to the touch. I could tell they’d be juicy and perfect for my cake. And for Katie, too. I would be a jam heroine.
It was soothing work. The odd bee buzzed by, and birds sang. The sunshine felt pleasantly warm, and my mind drifted to tomorrow as I pictured my cake turning out brilliantly.
I put one full basket on the wall beside my tote and started filling the second. I probably had enough, but it wouldn’t hurt to have extras in case I made any silly mistakes on baking day. I didn’t want to end up scorching my syrup and not being able to make it a second time.
Not that I was planning to scorch my syrup. Where did that even come from?
I went back to picking fruit, focusing on the slightly green and spicy scent, their sun-warm plumpness as I chose the ripest berries.
Almost in the distance I heard a vague rumbling sound, but it barely registered. And then I heard a dog barking. It sounded hysterical and very close. I glanced up to find Sly racing toward me, head down in herding mode. I looked around in surprise. Had the chickens escaped? And then he was on me, head butting my legs, nipping at my heels.
I jumped in shock. “Ow.” Did he think I was one of his sheep? He barked, and before he could nip me again, I ran, him chasing me with determination until I turned around and faced him. “Sly! What are you—” I was interrupted by a crash. A huge slab of stone had fallen from the top of the tower. As stone hit stone, small pebbles bounced. It landed exactly where I’d been standing. Half the bush was smashed, and the edge of a wicker handle was all I could see of the second basket I’d been filling.
Sly began
to bark at the fallen stone, running toward it and back again as though giving it a piece of his mind.
As for me, I sank down to the ground, my back against the wall, and stared. I didn’t want to be overdramatic, but I was certain that if Sly hadn’t herded me away, I’d have suffered the same fate as that basket.
Sly came over to where I sat, too stunned to move, and nudged me with his nose. I patted him, noticing my hands were shaking. We both stared at the flattened gooseberries. “Well, that’s one way to make jam,” I said. And not my preferred method.
My heart was beating so fast, I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. Where the heck were my witchy powers when I needed them most? Like when a giant slab of stone was about to crush me?
Sly leaned into me as I stroked his lovely long nose, and then Gateau walked daintily along the top of the wall until she reached me, then jumped down and settled on my other side. I stroked them both, happily sandwiched between my animal guardians.
But Sly didn’t stick around for any more compliments. He put his head to one side, and the ruff on his neck rose. With a low growl, he ran around the side of the tower and began barking again. Gateau climbed onto my lap and began licking my hands like she was trying to lick my wounds away. The dog, however, kept barking. “All right, all right,” I muttered, slowly getting to my feet. “I’m coming. Don’t bark the rest of the building down.”
I followed the sound around the base of the tower and found Sly on the other side, sniffing at what looked to be the entrance. I peered into the dark and saw the beginning of a spiral stone staircase. Sly stopped sniffing and started barking again. I heard shouting. I turned and saw Susan running up the hill toward me. “Don’t go in there. It’s not safe.”
A spurt of laughter escaped me, another symptom of shock, as there was nothing funny about a near miss with death. “Neither is picking gooseberries,” I replied and led her around to where the stone had fallen.
