by Katie Ginger
The drive ended in a turning circle, in the middle of which was a massive stone vase overflowing with flowers. Hetty parked just down from the front door. As she climbed out of the car her eyes remained fixed on the house. It was utterly beautiful and perfectly situated in the middle of the overgrown ornate topiary that formed the formal gardens. They clearly weren’t paying a gardener right now.
Being of a practical nature, Hetty could well see that as lovely as the place was, the heating bills alone would be astronomical. Would it really be wonderful to live somewhere like this, she thought, or more trouble than it was worth? Before her mind could answer, she spied the name sticker from the business forum just about holding on to her shirt and pulled it off, screwing it into a ball and stuffing it in her jeans pocket. Hetty suddenly wished she’d worn a skirt or shorts as the sun beat down on the backs of her legs. Though June had been a bit patchy, the sun had shone relentlessly since the beginning of July, causing hot, sticky days and long, frustratingly sleepless nights. Taking a deep breath and swapping her sunglasses back to normal glasses, Hetty rolled her shoulders and readied herself to face John Thornhill.
The deep stone steps that led to the front door were of the same grey as the house and seemed smooth, almost soft, worn by time and the feet that had trodden them over the years. A sense of history imparted with every step and Hetty was curious to know how long the Thornhills had owned the house. Picking up the heavy iron knocker on the large wooden door, a sudden rush of nerves swamped her normally confident demeanour. It was too late to go back now though, she thought, glancing back at the car. She’d committed herself at the forum and here she was on John Thornhill’s doorstep. Hetty reminded herself that her business needed this boost, and as steely determination rose up, she tapped three times, hearing the deep bass note resonate around her.
Chapter 3
John sighed with relief when he heard the loud knock echo through the hall; the delivery was finally here. At least one thing was going right this morning. So far today he’d had another final demand, a row with his brother, Felix, over the best way to raise funds for the roof repairs, his mother was almost packing her bags, so utterly terrified of losing her home, and his dad – well, his dad had been pruning in the garden since 6 a.m. A completely unhelpful task and one he was performing with increasing regularity as a way of avoiding the mess he’d got the family into.
John ran a hand through his short dark hair, then down his chin, feeling the neat, trimmed beard beneath his fingertips. As the silent house filled with the echo of the knock, he made his way from the study to the front door in time to see Jaz, his PA, running down the stairs faster than a whippet to get there before him. Her black hair was tied in a tight high ponytail and bobbed as she descended. When he’d been her age, he’d had energy too.
‘You beat me to it,’ he said with a grin, his deep voice echoing almost as loud as the heavy lion-shaped knocker on the front door. She returned his smile with one of her own.
‘I’m surprised you left the study. I thought you’d be waiting for that call from Christie’s. Do you want me to ring them for you and chase them once I’ve dealt with this? Oh, and don’t forget you’ve got Mr Stevens ringing at ten about that Ming vase. It might be best if I ring Christie’s so you don’t get stuck on another call.’
John was struck by his assistant’s bright eyes and impressive organisation skills. He couldn’t remember now how he’d managed to run his antiques business on his own. As it had grown, he’d found the admin side too much to handle but had resisted needing an assistant. He found it hard to delegate and give up control. Considering how reticent he’d originally been to hire someone, particularly someone so young, Jaz Simmons had more than proved herself capable. She’d been 24 when he’d hired her. Now, two years later, he had no idea what he’d do without her. ‘If you could, that’d be great. I’ve still got fifteen minutes before Stevens though, which should be enough time to deal with this delivery.’ Jaz took a step back, leaving John to answer.
Turning the handle, he pulled open the heavy oak door, beautifully weathered by time. At moments like this, the magnificence and history of the house would grab him, and he’d feel the hard work was all worthwhile. He shouldn’t ever forget how much that meant to his family even though it was often the case that his ideas and the hours of work all came to nothing.
Expecting to see a middle-aged man in overalls delivering a large wooden crate, John was surprised to be faced with an attractive woman wearing a dark red shirt tucked into tight jeans and with pink ballet pumps on her small feet. Her pale blonde hair was cut short, which suited her gamine face which was made all the more attractive by a cute pair of spectacles. Momentarily lost for words – not a state of affairs he was used to and one that put him on his guard – he barked, ‘How did you get in?’
However, the beautiful woman before him didn’t seem in the least bit offended as she brushed her hair over her ear. ‘The gates were open, Mr Thornhill. I was quite surprised myself; I know you usually keep them shut, but I’m taking it as a sign.’
The gates were normally kept firmly shut so people didn’t just randomly decide to visit the house. They used to be left unlocked all the time but then visitors would come and knock on the front door, asking to look around like their home was in some kind of estate agent’s open-house session. His mother used to be terrified and over the years had become increasingly jumpy at the sound of a rat-a-tat-tat and would run upstairs like a frightened rabbit. Still, he didn’t welcome this interruption to his day. ‘A sign of what?’
Smiling, she replied confidently, ‘You’ll find out if you let me inside.’
A light warmth rose in him that he put down to the heat of the day. This woman probably just wanted a donation to some local charity event or other and they had nothing to give, even if they wanted to. The do-gooders they normally met were little old ladies with grey hair, not attractive self-assured women. He glanced around hoping to be saved by his delivery driver and the sun shone on his face making him hot. ‘Listen, you can’t just drive onto private land, this is trespassing.’
‘Oh, hush, don’t be so dramatic,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m not doing anything of the kind. I’ve come to speak to you, Mr Thornhill.’
Taken aback, John tried to regain control of the conversation. ‘How exactly can I help you?’
‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ The woman thrust out a hand. ‘Good morning, Mr Thornhill. My name’s Hetty Colman and I have a business proposition for you.’
‘Really?’ Slightly amused but also conscious of the time and the calls he was expecting, not to mention the chaotic morning he’d endured so far, he scowled. He didn’t have time for a ‘proposition’ that would inevitably be for a charity bake sale or some such local event. ‘I don’t have time right now, but if you’d like to make an appointment with my assistant, I’d be happy to speak to you another time.’
Disappointment and annoyance flashed over her features, but Miss Colman, it seemed, was not to be deterred. Her hand dropped back down to her side and he realised in his flustered state he hadn’t taken it. A wave of embarrassment hit him. ‘I’m afraid time is of the essence, Mr Thornhill and I’ll only take a moment of your day.’ She edged a little closer to the door, which irritated him even though the sparkling confidence in her eyes made him hesitate.
‘I’m very sorry, Miss Colman.’ He really didn’t have time for this now. ‘Another time.’ John backed away from the door, leaving Jaz to speak to her, but the woman didn’t move. Normally he’d consider it an admirable quality, but not today.
‘What I’m proposing,’ Hetty called out to him, ‘could be of great financial benefit to you, just as much as me, Mr Thornhill. And I’ve heard that’s something you require right now. I really would prefer to speak to you, rather than your assistant, if that’s at all possible.’
The words ‘great financial benefit’ and ‘heard’ stopped him in his tracks and he turned, feeling his hackles rise.
Had the town been gossiping about his family and their situation again? It was true that thanks to his father’s obsession with French vineyards, the family fortune had been lost and, as a result, most of the paintings and anything made of precious metal had been sold to try to claw back some much-needed funds. Where they’d been removed from walls leaving squares of bright wallpaper, the rooms now looked bereft and sorry. Damp was creeping in everywhere, creating corners full of black mould and a general smell of dust. Now the roof of the east wing needed repairing, and some of the tapestries were in danger of being lost forever because they couldn’t afford a conservator. The place was already re-mortgaged to the hilt and the chance of repaying anything other than a token amount that wouldn’t even touch the interest was remote.
At 44, and with his own business going well, he should have been enjoying life. Maybe finding time for love and having a family, like Felix. Instead, half his time was spent researching possible income streams to raise money for the house, but with his mother against opening to the general public, and Felix always suggesting some outlandish scheme or other, it was proving virtually impossible.
Jaz was attempting to mollify the bossy woman, who from her polite, but dogged expression, wasn’t having any of it, and he only had twelve minutes now until his ten o’clock call. Jaz’s voice was harsh. ‘Miss Colman, I assure you, as Mr Thornhill’s assistant I’m quite capable of dealing with anything to do with his affairs.’ Jaz flicked her ponytail over her shoulder, something she did, he’d noticed, when she was asserting her authority.
‘I’m sure you can, Miss …?’
‘Simmons.’
‘Miss Simmons.’ Miss Colman’s voice was warm and friendly, not patronising, he noticed, just assured. ‘But I really would prefer to speak to Mr Thornhill directly.’
‘As Mr Thornhill has already explained, he has business to attend to this morning. But I can help you. Or we can arrange a more convenient time.’
‘Miss Simmons—’
Jaz’s voice took on a steely edge and for a second this battle of wills was far too close to call. ‘Miss Colman, as I’ve already explained Mr Thornhill—’
‘Mr Thornhill hasn’t actually gone anywhere, Miss Simmons. I can see him quite clearly hiding in the hallway over there.’ The woman pointed to him and met his gaze. ‘So I can only assume he is in fact, still interested in what I have to say. Aren’t you, Mr Thornhill?’ She tipped her head slightly as she said his name and John turned away, hiding the smile that was pulling up the corner of his mouth.
He checked his watch and without quite knowing why, found himself saying, ‘I can give you five minutes. Follow me into the study.’
From the set of Jaz’s shoulders, she was a little cross that he’d given in, but she stood aside to let Miss Hetty Colman enter Thornhill Hall. Jaz’s eyes followed her as she walked into the house, the soles of her shoes tapping lightly on the tiled floor.
John stepped back and motioned for Hetty to go through to the study. It was, he felt, the grandest and least tatty room in the house these days. And for some reason, he didn’t want Hetty Colman thinking badly of him or his home. Hetty peered around, taking in the décor, and John followed her gaze, appraising his own home once more.
Three of the four walls were lined with books: great old-fashioned tomes with green, brown and red leather bindings, half of which he’d never even touched let alone read. The fourth wall had a large window with a view out towards the front of the house and the grand driveway. As he glanced out of it now, he could just see, through the mass of wisteria vines (a pretty, yet invasive and costly plant), the bonnet of Hetty’s car parked at the furthest end of the turning circle. Sitting down at his antique mahogany desk, he quickly brushed aside the large pile of unpaid bills and final demands taking centre stage and ran his fingers over the worn green leather inlay. He gestured for her to take the seat opposite, which she did, with a mesmerising grace he tried to ignore. For some reason, Jaz had followed them in.
‘Thanks, Jaz. If Stevens calls early, can you come and get me please?’ Not only was this an instruction for Jaz to leave but also a tactful reminder to this woman that she was only getting the five minutes he’d promised. However, Jaz didn’t take the hint as she lingered and directed a sideways glance at Hetty. Hetty didn’t seem to notice as she was still busy looking around. After a second of silence Jaz got the message and left.
‘So, Miss Colman, you’ve managed to get your five minutes. What is it you want? What is this proposition that’s going to be of great financial benefit to me?’
She smiled. ‘I’ve come to talk to you about the Swallowtail Bay strawberry festival.’
He leaned forwards, his elbows resting on the desk. ‘Hardly a festival, Miss Colman—’
‘Yes, I know,’ she replied, with a small shake of her head. ‘More of a church jumble sale these days, but I’m happy to say, I plan to change all that.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ He sat back, amused at her confidence and the twinkle in her icy blue eyes.
Every so often a charity bod would come along full of new ideas that were going to raise millions to do this, that and the other, but it never happened. If she was looking to revamp the strawberry festival – an event he’d enjoyed as a child – it was going to take a lot of hard work. And he was sure she wouldn’t have thought of half the things that needed to be considered with only four weeks to go. ‘Whatever it is, you don’t have much time.’ Hetty raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Oh, yes, I know when it is. Despite what people think, we do know what’s happening in the town. And what’s being said.’ The bitterness he felt had crept out again, but she didn’t comment and he moved the conversation along. ‘So, what is it you’re planning on doing, Miss Colman?’
‘I’m a local event organiser and I plan to turn our current boring boot-fair type afternoon into a huge food festival, lasting the whole of the bank holiday weekend. I was hoping we could hold it in the grounds of Thornhill Hall.’
Now that was a surprise. John felt his mouth open slightly but didn’t speak, wanting to consider his response. He needn’t have worried as Hetty continued.
‘Obviously I don’t expect you to let us use your land for free, we’d either sell pitches for a flat rate or get a percentage of profits that you and I would then split. The more pitches, the more profit.’
So, she wasn’t quite a charity do-gooder but a small-timer trying the big leagues. While John admired the spirit, his family had learned from bitter experience that these ventures rarely ended well. ‘Unless it’s a failure and no one comes.’
The instant he said it he felt a stab of regret. John knew his manner took some getting used to. A boarding school education had formed his direct way of speaking and even when he tried to soften it, it didn’t come naturally. Constant concentration on not sounding like a sergeant major barking out orders gave him a headache and he’d long ago given up trying to correct it. The woman in front of him didn’t seem to mind it as she gave a polite smile and adjusted her glasses.
‘A, I don’t think that’s likely, and B, even if that is the case, as you haven’t had to shell out any money upfront it won’t be a problem, will it?’
Her confidence was astounding. The only person he’d met with confidence like it was Jaz, but that had grown over time. She’d been timid and worried of making mistakes at first, but with support and encouragement had grown into her role and John had watched on with almost brotherly affection. Miss Colman’s confidence was much more … attractive – no, mature. That’s the word he was looking for: mature. And impressive. Still, he wasn’t convinced and there were many more questions to be answered. ‘What exactly are you planning?’
‘I’m planning on a huge number of food vendors showcasing different things as well as other local producers, entertainment and activities.’
‘Why can’t you hold it in town?’ The idea of people running all over his land would send his mother into fits, not to mention cause him untold problems.
Miss Colman’s hands were resting in her lap, one on top of the other and there wasn’t an ounce of tension in her shoulders. ‘You know as well as I do, Mr Thornhill, that to hold it in the town would require applying for road closures, the diversion of traffic, and a number of other licenses and permissions. All of which we’re unlikely to get in the time we have available. Your land is the best option. We wouldn’t be limited by size and I plan to make this a big event worthy of regional, if not national, coverage. Your fields are fairly flat and not currently growing crops.’
‘No, they’re not,’ he said with a sigh. They hadn’t been farmed for a long time, his family unable to pay the farmers, repair equipment or process the yields even if they had grown any. He was working on plans to sell more land, but the price wasn’t what they needed to sell for and the solicitors said it really wasn’t worth it. ‘Will it still keep the strawberry theme?’ he asked. He’d always enjoyed the festival and hoped that it would.
‘Not entirely. I think to get the most vendors we need to broaden it. We’ll certainly ask them to consider it as a theme but if people sell other things, that’s fine too. We don’t want to limit ourselves, but I am going to start some awards and we’ll have a special one for strawberry-based products.’
‘And what do you want me to do? Apart from let you use my land?’ He waited for the catch. There was always a catch.
She lifted her delicate hands a fraction. ‘As much or as little as you like, Mr Thornhill. You don’t have to get involved at all if you don’t want to.’
He had an idea that ‘as little’ was probably the way she wanted it. He doubted very much that this powerhouse would ever give up an inch of control, not unless she absolutely had to, and he couldn’t imagine what catastrophic circumstance would require it. She seemed the sort of person who had contingency plans for contingency plans. It probably made her less than fun, though there was that mischievous glint in her eye which could mean otherwise. John took a moment to mull over everything she’d said.
