Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud

by Libertà Books

  There was a sound from the door and, as she looked up, a large sheet of yellowed paper slid underneath. Jac approached it cautiously, then saw what it was.

  Piddling Perfection ran the heading in flowing copperplate and beneath it was the unfortunate brewmaster's recipe and instructions for Bertram's brilliant new beer.

  "Where did you get it?" Jac found she was sitting on the floor.

  "In the cellar. I couldn't sleep last night, I kept thinking about… things. Oh, damn it. About you. And I was all keyed up to discuss a partnership, a proper one, not just some co-operation, and at first light, I thought I'd get up and try and find the cellar, see who owned it, you or me, just for something to do."

  "And it's yours?"

  "I finally found the trapdoor under the rug under the kitchen table. Hadn't been opened for decades by the look of it. There was a big tin trunk down there. I smashed the padlock. Great great whatever D'Astarde was a nasty piece of work. There are all sorts of things in there that he collected. He liked to know people's secrets, that's obvious.

  "Jac, if he's not my ancestor, all I can say is, damn good thing. Will you let me in now?"

  She stood up, looked at the door, wishing she could see through it. Henry could have destroyed that recipe; she'd have never known. The key turned in the lock and she twisted the handle and braced herself for whatever was coming next.

  Henry walked in looking grim, took her by the shoulders, hauled her close and kissed her; then, just as Jac found herself kissing him back, set her away.

  "We've both made a right balls-up of this," he said. "I should have told you what I was planning, you should have told me about Bertram and we both ought to have trusted each other to have a straightforward discussion about business."

  "Yes. Yes, we should."

  "OK. Me first." Henry went and sat down at the table. "You sit the other side, because there are things I'd rather be doing than talk.

  "I told you the truth down there about the original plans I had done and why I didn't buy the brewery—a potentially nasty cashflow situation with the winery equipment that turned out to be a false alarm.

  "Then I got to know you." His smile came and went in a flicker, but something inside her warmed and relaxed. "And I could see how we would work together and how the businesses would work in unison. I want a partnership, Jac, and I should have come right out with it, instead of pussyfooting about, leading up to it by talking about joint promo."

  "A partnership?"

  Henry was contemplating his joined hands, then he took a deep breath and looked up. "Actually, I was wondering what you'd think about getting married."

  "Married? But… But you never said anything about even wanting to live together."

  "We are already. It's just rather a big house."

  "But you don't love me."

  "How do you know?" He grinned suddenly. "Jacintha, I love you. I realised about a week ago what was wrong with me, but I thought you were the independent businesswoman type who wouldn't want to get that closely involved with a bloke. I thought if I could persuade you into a bit of a business partnership, then I could work up from there."

  "I don't want to get involved with a bloke. Not with any old bloke, just with you." When he smiled back, she was seized with doubts all over again. "Henry, you're bringing so much more to the party than I am. The wine bar's established, you've got the vineyard and winery. I've got a brewery lurching out of the doldrums and a shabby little pub."

  "We'll work it out," he said comfortably. "Besides, you bought cheap and the potential value is huge. You've got a winner, if the new beer is as good as Bertram thought it would be. The area inland is full of pubs that are free houses—you can sell to them once you get up to speed. You could move out of this apartment and let it out as a holiday flat and then we could buy that derelict terrace on the other side of the square, refurbish it, turn it into holiday cottages. We'll make Brewery Square the upmarket must-visit district of Little Piddling."

  "We could do all that without getting married. I don't want a husband to look after me."

  Henry looked mildly affronted. "And I don't want a wife to look after the house and pair up my socks. I want a partner for everything." He shifted in his chair. "I don't know how to convince you I'm not just saying I love you because you said it first."

  "Did you believe me?"

  "Yes." He looked at her, clearly puzzled. "I don't know why, though."

  "And I believe you," Jac said. "And I have no idea why, either. And I think it's like me believing in Bertram when I first saw him. I didn't want to and it seemed so unlikely, but instinct told me it was true."

  There was a muffled thump from overhead.

  They both stood up. "Either a tile's fallen off, or there's a pigeon in the loft, or that's Bertram." Jac looked round for the torch.

  "We ought to give him his letters back," Henry said. "Should we lock it again or admit we've read them?"

  "Lock it," Jac said. "I don't want to upset him any more than he is already."

  She lit the oil lamp and Henry hooked down the ladder, then climbed up into the darkness. When he got up, he leaned down, took the lamp from her and straightened again.

  Jac saw the soft glow move away, then jerk suddenly.

  "Mr Bascombe?" Henry said. "I'm afraid we inadvertently moved something of yours when we were tidying up."

  Jac climbed the ladder, looked through the hole. Henry and Bertram confronted each other, then Henry held out the tin box in his hand.

  "Who are you?" Bertram demanded, snatching it back, almost knocking over the lamp at his feet in the process.

  "I'm Henry D— Henry. A descendant of yours. You are time-travelling again."

  "It is very confusing. And upsetting," Bertram said stiffly. "But… A descendant? Not… Hermione?"

  "Hermione is going to be perfectly fine, but I think you are right to be worried about Dumaine," Henry said. "And don't be concerned about your brewery, because a descendant of yours will be running it again."

  "Why are you crying?" he asked Jac when he followed her back down the ladder.

  "Because of his expression when you said a descendant of his would run the brewery. He was so happy." She blew her nose briskly. "I suppose I'll have to marry you now."

  "I didn't mean me. I thought perhaps you ought to call it The Bascombe and Francis Brewery and then, one day, we can make it And Sons or Daughters or Family, depending."

  "Children?" Jac stared at him.

  "Well, they do happen. Look, I know this is a bit old school, but I've been meaning to do this properly when I finally thought the time was right." He went down on one knee and dug in the pocket of his jeans. "I've been carrying this around, waiting for the right moment and I think this might be it." He held up a ring. The diamond in the centre sparkled in the lamplight and the sapphires surrounding it glowed a deep and mysterious blue. "It was Hermione's, and Gran told me it was her mother's, not the ring D'Astarde gave her."

  "Oh, Henry."

  "I'd rather you said, Yes, Henry and saved the, Oh, Henry for later. Will you marry me, Jac? I do love you very much."

  She took his hand, pulled him to his feet. "Yes, Henry." And when she kissed him, he took her left hand and slid the ring on her finger and it fitted perfectly.

  As the Town Hall clock struck twelve—two minutes before the church clock, because, after all, this was Little Piddling—Jac and Henry wandered barefoot along the beach, hand in hand.

  Jac had remembered that the beach hut had a bed, one that she'd made up ready for lazy siestas, and had never had the time to use. It had seemed the perfect place to consummate their engagement along with a bottle of wine and a picnic dinner.

  "One last stroll?" Jac had suggested when Henry had been remaking the bed in case they actually managed to get some sleep.

  They wandered as far as the rocks at the eastern end of the beach, then turned back. "Look," Jac murmured. "Someone else is about. See? On the boardwalk just outside my hut."<
br />
  "It's them," Henry whispered back.

  The man straightened up from kissing the woman and replaced a tall hat on his head, then offered his arm. There was the hiss of fine fabric sliding over sand as she turned, her long skirts dragging behind her, and they walked quietly away and vanished into the shadows. Into the past.

  THE END

  About Louise Allen

  Louise Allen lives in a village on the North Norfolk coast and is the award-winning author of over seventy books—historical romance, timeslip romantic mystery and non-fiction. She collects Georgian prints and newspapers and is bullied by her garden. You can find out more at louiseallenregency.

  She blogs about the 'long' Regency at janeaustenslondon.com and is on Twitter @LouiseRegency

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