When they drove through the wrought-iron gates to Combury Manor, Hazel’s misgivings were replaced by awe. The rain had subsided to a proper Norfolk drizzle, and the red brick building could be seen in all its splendour against a sliver of blue sky. Three storeys high, with gabled wings on either side of the main house, a balustraded roof and an imposing front porch with twisted columns, it had a grand but welcoming air about it.
‘What a beautiful house! I’m going to love working here!’ she exclaimed without thinking, then felt her cheeks heat up when she realised how gauche she must sound.
Jonathan didn’t seem to have noticed. He pressed a remote control which lay on the dashboard, and the gates closed behind them. ‘I hope so. Our last admin person retired a few weeks ago, and it hasn’t been easy finding a replacement. Probably because we’re tucked out of the way like this.’ He cast her a sideways glance. ‘I hope the isolation won’t get to you; most young women would want to be nearer to Norwich, I should think.’
‘Not at all. I was never much of a townie. My flatmate was forever out partying, while I preferred being at home.’ She laughed. ‘She probably thought I was the most boring person ever.’
‘Boring? Surely not.’
Hazel felt Jonathan’s eyes on her as he parked the Land Rover just outside the front porch, and her neck prickled with self-consciousness. He was having a peculiar effect on her, and she racked her brains for a safer subject.
‘Combury Manor is built in the Jacobean style, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Although the porch looks more Georgian or Palladian with those columns.’
‘You have a good eye. Most people would’ve said Elizabethan. It was built in 1659 by a wealthy lace-maker, a man who’d worked himself up in the industry. His grandson added the porch later, I believe. It seemed appropriate when I bought it because, like the lace-maker, I started my company from scratch, and now there’s eight of us. Nine, including you.’
He got out of the car and moved around to the other side where he opened the door for Hazel and held an umbrella over her. She blushed furiously at the gentlemanly gesture, something she wasn’t used to, and busied herself with her handbag to hide her embarrassment.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, as she got under the shelter of his umbrella. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘You’re soaked to the skin, and it’s my fault. What sort of employer would I be if I didn’t at least try to make amends?’
Hazel didn’t have an answer to that. Sheltering her against the drizzle, Jonathan saw her safely to the porch, handed her the umbrella, then returned to the car to fetch her bags. She took the opportunity to study the porch area, which projected about nine feet out from the main building. Above the doorway, a coat of arms and monogram was carved into the stone – presumably, the industrious lace-maker must have been knighted later – and over the twisted columns on either side of the wide door were two robed, mythological figures in niches.
From what she could see, the building and grounds were well-maintained, with neatly-clipped holly hedges on either side of the house enclosing the gardens at the back, and carefully pruned oak trees, now devoid of leaves, lining the drive.
It must cost a fortune to maintain, she thought. Jonathan’s company might be thriving, but surely no one, no matter how successful, could afford to buy a place like this unless there was family money involved. Hazel felt as if she was in the presence of royalty.
‘You own all this?’ She couldn’t suppress the note of wonder which had crept into her voice.
‘Mm, yes and no.’ Jonathan grimaced. ‘The building society has the greatest stake in it, obviously, and my father owns a part of it too. The outbuildings – in other words, the stables, workshops, and such – are used by small companies, so I get some rental income from that, and the whole of the ground floor of the main building is taken up by the company. My partner, Tabitha, has a share in that.’
‘Oh.’ Hazel wondered what, precisely, he meant by the word ‘partner’. Was this Tabitha person his girlfriend, or fiancée perhaps? She knew that nowadays many couples chose not to marry, although that concept was completely alien to her.
Balancing her bags, Jonathan opened the door for her with a wry grin. ‘Did you think I was rich?’
That was exactly what she had been thinking. However, she didn’t want him to get the impression that she was after him, whether he was rich or not –she wasn’t, absolutely not! – so she merely shrugged.
‘It’s not every day you get to meet the lord of the manor.’
Jonathan laughed. ‘I’m no lord. I’m just an ordinary man who likes to work in beautiful surroundings. Ah, there’s Mrs Whitmore, my housekeeper. Come and say hello.’
A middle-aged woman, with a soft grey perm and a cook’s apron, appeared at the foot of a large staircase as they entered the grand hallway. She smiled when she saw Hazel, then her expression changed to a look of utter dismay.
‘Oh, my word! Look at you! Soaked to the skin, you poor thing. Mr Gough!’ She turned to her employer with a frown.
‘I know. I should’ve been there on time. Sadly I wasn’t, and Hazel Dobson here decided to walk.’
Mrs Whitmore was clearly a formidable woman, and Hazel felt a little sorry for Jonathan; technically it wasn’t his fault she’d been rained on. ‘It’s nothing,’ she assured the older woman. ‘If I can just go somewhere and change, I’ll be fine.’
‘Of course,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I’ll show you to your room and let you get settled, then we can discuss practical matters later.’
She took the smaller of Hazel’s two bags and began to climb the carved oak staircase. ‘Your client called, as you expected, Mr Gough. He’d appreciate it if you could drive by his office tonight.’
‘Ah.’ Running his hands through his fair hair, Jonathan’s eyes met Hazel’s. ‘Duty calls, I’m afraid. I’d hoped we could get to know each other better before I introduce you to everyone else, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow now.’
‘Tomorrow is fine,’ she reassured him, while she wondered at his ambiguous choice of words.
Jonathan disappeared through a door leading off the hallway. Hazel followed Mrs Whitmore up the stairs and through what seemed like a labyrinth of corridors and narrow oak-panelled passages, until they stopped outside a heavy door. Mrs Whitmore produced a key from her apron pocket, unlocked the door, then handed the key to Hazel.
‘This is what we call the west wing, although it’s a rather grand word for a simple apartment. The nanny used to live here, but that was a couple of years ago.’
‘Nanny?’
‘Mr Gough has two children, Miss Dobson.’
Children? Hazel had wondered about Tabitha’s role in Jonathan’s life, but it hadn’t occurred to her that he could be a father as well. He’d made no reference to that himself, which she found puzzling.
‘Where are the children now?’
‘They’re away at boarding school.’
Mrs Whitmore sniffed, and Hazel had a feeling the housekeeper didn’t approve, so she didn’t enquire further.
Curiosity killed the cat, she reminded herself. No doubt everything would be revealed in good time.
‘You have your own private bathroom, bedroom and a small sitting room, as well as a kitchenette, although you’re welcome to eat in the kitchen with me, at seven. I’d appreciate the company.’ Mrs Whitmore put her hand on Hazel’s arm. ‘I was so glad when I heard you were to live in for a while. This place could do with a bit of life in it.’
Handing Hazel a map of the house, she explained the way to the kitchen, how to find the laundry room, the main office, and the door to the gardens, then left Hazel to change and unpack.
Steering the Land Rover towards Norwich, Jonathan contemplated the project he was currently working on.
Robert Miles was a local entrepreneur, a so-called mover and shaker, who was constructing a call centre on the outskirts of Norwich. He’d engaged Gough Associates to draw up the blueprints and a local
construction company for the actual building work, and although Jonathan was delighted to be involved in a project which would bring jobs to the region, it hadn’t been without a number of hitches.
This time it was a planning permission issue, which Jonathan hoped to straighten out with a revised set of drawings.
Thinking of architecture brought him back to Hazel Dobson. It surprised him that she was so knowledgeable about the Jacobean style of building, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t be.
‘What did you expect?’ he muttered to himself. ‘A blonde bimbo?’
His prejudices about her profession shamed him, and he vowed to make up for it. There were plenty of books on the subject of Jacobean and Elizabethan architecture in his library, and he decided to find them for her. He could just imagine her enthusiasm.
His face split into a grin when he realised that he was going to enjoy basking in that beaming smile of hers. He recalled how enticing it had been to feel her delicate frame in his arms when she’d buried her head against his shoulder, and how he’d delighted in the scent of apple shampoo from her newly-washed hair. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman like that.
Then his circumstances brought him back to reality. Careful, Jonathan.
Shortly before seven o’clock, Hazel found her way through the seemingly vast building to the kitchen. Large and traditional, with an Aga in the chimney space and copper pots suspended from ceiling hooks, it was painted a warm primrose yellow with matching café curtains and chair cushions. Delicious smells wafted from a cast-iron dish on the hob, and a chubby marmalade cat was stretched out on the floor in front of the cooker, eyeing her lazily. Hazel immediately felt at home, and she bent to stroke the cat.
‘Something smells wonderful.’
‘I hope you like lamb. We need something hearty on a day like this.’ The housekeeper was spreading a brightly-coloured tablecloth over a scrubbed pine table at the far end of the kitchen.
‘I can think of nothing better.’ That explained the mouth-watering smells. Hazel was already feeling warmer at the prospect. ‘Do you need any help, Mrs Whitmore?’
‘You can finish laying the table. Crockery is in that cupboard over there.’ Mrs Whitmore pointed to an enormous dresser which took up an entire wall. ‘And you’ll find knives and forks in the drawer. Set the table for three. Oh, and please call me Irene. No need to stand on ceremony around here.’
‘Okay ... Irene. And I’d love for you to call me Hazel.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Although I did notice that you call Jonathan Mr Gough.’
Smoothing down the tablecloth, Irene sent her an amused look. ‘There are certainly no flies on you, my young friend. Yes, I address him as Mr Gough. With some people, formality is best observed, which you’ll probably discover for yourself soon enough.’
Irene returned to the stove, and Hazel finished setting the table. Considering Irene’s cryptic words about formality, she wondered about the third person who was to eat with them since Jonathan was out with his client. Most likely another member of staff. An estate this size would require more than just a housekeeper to run it.
Her unvoiced question was answered when a gust of wind indicated that an outside door had been opened, and her eyes turned to the scullery just off the large kitchen. A man shook the rain off his oilskin jacket, then discarded his muddy Wellington boots in an untidy heap on the flagstone floor.
‘Here’s George,’ said Irene.
The newcomer entered the kitchen. Judging him to be in his late sixties, Hazel took in his threadbare tweed jacket, faded corduroys, and now a pair of carpet slippers which had seen better days. With a shock of fine white hair standing out in all directions and a preoccupied frown, he resembled a mad scientist and not the groundsman or gardener which he appeared to be.
He gave a curt nod to Irene, then started when his eyes fell on Hazel, who was just about to step forward and greet him formally. She stopped in her tracks, and her smile froze.
The man named George was staring at her with undisguised hostility.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Now, now, George,’ said Irene, as she spooned out steaming hot stew. ‘Easy does it. This is Hazel Dobson, Mr Gough’s new secretary. She’s just arrived from London, no doubt exhausted from her long journey, so there’s no need for you to scare the poor girl away with your gruff ways, is there?’
George frowned. ‘Hm, s’pose not. What’s for dinner?’
‘Your favourite. Lamb casserole.’
He seemed to cheer at that and, pulling out a chair, he sat down at the table just as Irene placed a plate of stew and fluffy white potatoes in front of him. Without another word, he tucked in, wolfing down his food as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Now Hazel came to think of it, he had a certain scrawny and ravenous look about him.
All the while he kept casting Hazel suspicious glances.
What did I do? she wondered. Deciding to ignore him, she engaged Irene in conversation about the estate and Jonathan’s company. The housekeeper was only too happy to talk, and Hazel was soon able to forget the gardener’s animosity.
In record time, George had finished his stew and Irene dished him up another helping. ‘You’re too thin, George. Did you skip lunch again?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘You work too hard. Why don’t you ease up for a day or two? Surely the grounds don’t need that much attention in this weather.’
‘Work’s not going to do itself.’
‘Of course not, but–’ Irene continued, but he cut her off.
‘I wish you’d stop fussing so! I’m not a child that needs to be molly-coddled or wrapped in cotton wool!’
Having delivered the longest speech since he entered the kitchen, George rose from the table with an exasperated expression, mumbled an apology, and disappeared into the bowels of the large house carrying his plate, his old carpet slippers slapping against the tiled floor.
Irene sighed. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of George. At heart he’s the kindest person you’re ever likely to meet, but he’s had a run of bad luck, and I’m afraid it’s turned him sour.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story, and I don’t want to bore you.’
‘If I’m going to be working with him, it might be helpful to know the details. And just so you know, I’m not a gossip.’
‘I didn’t think you were.’ Irene smiled. ‘All right. Let me just clear up first and make some coffee, then we can chat.’
Together they tidied the kitchen. When they were settled at the table again, with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits, Irene told her George’s story.
‘His company, a biological research facility, had liquidity problems and went bankrupt. The administrators who took over arranged for the shares in the company to be sold to the highest bidder, as always when a company goes into administration.’ Irene paused to take a sip of her coffee. ‘What George hadn’t reckoned with was his old business partner making an extremely low offer to the administrators for the shares, and buying all of them for a song – even George’s half – then starting up in business on his own the next day with all the stock.’
‘Is that legal?’
Irene nodded. ‘There was nothing George could do. He lost everything: money, premises, years of research. It broke him, I’m afraid. That’s why he doesn’t trust people now.’
‘That’s terrible!’
Hazel felt her stomach contract at the thought of how devastating it must have been for the older man. He hadn’t made a favourable impression on her, but she understood him a little better now and vowed that she’d try to befriend him. If he’d let her.
But Irene hadn’t finished. ‘Fortunately, George still had his share of Combury Manor. Because of some legal wrangling that I don’t quite understand, the administrators weren’t able to touch that.’
‘Sorry, you’ve confused me now,’ said Hazel. ‘George has a share in the manor? Jonathan mentioned
that his father had a share but he didn’t mention anyone else.’
‘George is Mr Gough’s father. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No.’ Hazel shook her head. He hadn't told her about his children either, and it puzzled her. Why the big secret?
‘Fortunately, Mr Gough needed a gardener for the estate,’ Irene explained. ‘It keeps George busy and stops him from brooding too much, and it’s a great help for me to have a handyman around, to change light bulbs I can’t reach and take the rubbish out, that sort of thing. My back’s not what it was.’
They’d finished their coffee, and Hazel rose to clear away the cups. ‘You must tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.’
‘Oh, no.’ Irene waved her hand dismissively. ‘You’ll be busy with the architects. They’re a disorganised lot. Besides, my daughter Alison comes in once a week to do the heavy cleaning. Between us, we manage.’
The housekeeper fed the cat, then they bid each other goodnight. Hazel confessed that she was nervous about the following day.
‘I’m sure you’ll get on just fine,’ Irene reassured her, but she didn’t look at Hazel when she said it.
Back in her small apartment, Hazel got ready for bed then pulled back the heavy curtains so she could look at the night sky while lying down; she’d never been able to do that in London, because of the proximity to her neighbours.
She noticed a peculiar green light at the far end of the grounds, almost indiscernible among the naked trees. Her first thought was that someone in one of the rented outbuildings was working late, then she remembered that the outbuildings were all on the east side of the house.
There must be another building at the end of the grounds, she concluded, although it seemed impractical to her.
Her last thought before her exhausted head hit the pillow was the strange colour of the light. Why was it green?
CHAPTER THREE
She didn’t have time to dwell on the mysterious light. The following day started with a hasty breakfast in the kitchen with Irene, then a tour of the office with Jonathan.
Gorgeous Reads for Christmas (Choc Lit) Page 2
