This Other Eden (Skimmerdale Book 1)

by Sharon Booth

  As they approached the gate, Libby beamed up at her. 'There she is. Isn't she beautiful?'

  The pony stood to the left of the gate, hidden by the outhouses and stables, so it wasn't until Eden caught up with Ophelia that she got her first glimpse of her.

  'Oh!'

  'Do you like her?' Libby clambered onto the bottom bar of the gate beside Ophelia.

  'She's, er —'

  'Pretty,' shrieked George. 'Flora! Flora! Come here!'

  Even the two-year-old wasn't scared of her. The pony was extremely beautiful, even allowing for the mud on her legs. She was a dapple grey, with a black mane and tail, and she stood grazing contentedly in the paddock, occasionally swishing her tail to keep the flies at bay. When George yelled for her, she raised her head and, after hesitating a moment, sauntered over to the gate.

  Libby reached into her pocket and pulled out half a packet of Polos. She held one in the flat of her hand and offered it to the pony.

  'Mind your fingers,' Eden warned, hardly daring to watch, but the pony took the mint gently from her hand, looking blissful as it munched on it.

  'Polos are her favourite,' confided Ophelia. 'She likes apples and carrots, but mints are best.'

  The pony had large dark eyes and thick eyelashes. Eden hadn't known that horses had eyelashes. As ponies went, she was certainly a looker, and she wasn't very big, either. In fact, looking at her, she wasn't sure she was big enough for Libby.

  'Is she all right, standing out here in the rain?'

  'Don't be silly. She's got a shelter if she wants it, and besides, her breed is used to being outdoors in all weathers. They're ever so hardy.'

  'What type is she?' Eden asked, hoping she sounded knowledgeable.

  'She's a Welsh Mountain pony,' said Libby, which, in all honesty, meant nothing to Eden. 'Section A?' she added, as if that would make things clearer.

  'Oh, right.' Eden nodded and tried to look as if she knew what Libby was talking about.

  'What pony did you have?' asked Ophelia.

  Eden could feel her face burning. 'Er, it was brown.'

  The girls looked baffled. 'Brown?'

  'Yes, and it was a boy.'

  'Oh.' Libby thought for a moment. 'What was his name?'

  Eden's mind went blank. 'Bacon.'

  'Bacon?' They exchanged glances and then burst into helpless giggles. 'Why did you call your pony Bacon?'

  Eden had no idea. Who in their right minds would call a pony Bacon? Where the hell had that come from, and why hadn't she censored it in her mind before she opened her mouth?

  'Me stroke Flora,' demanded George.

  'Oh, I don't know about that,' said Eden nervously.

  'Why not?' asked Libby.

  'Well, he's so small. She might bite him.'

  'Don't be daft.' Ophelia looked scornful. 'Flora doesn't bite. Besides, George has ridden her before.'

  'Ridden her?' Eden squeaked in disbelief.

  'With Dad holding him,' said Libby. 'And only round the paddock.'

  'Good grief.' Eden was glad she hadn't witnessed such reckless behaviour. She'd have been a nervous wreck. Cautiously, she lifted George up and let him stroke the pony, who bore his enthusiastic patting with great fortitude.

  When he tried to grab her forelock, however, Eden decided enough was enough. She moved him away, much to George's dismay. He lunged forwards, trying to reach Flora again, but Eden was firm.

  'That's enough now. Time to get back and start thinking about tea.'

  'Fish fingers?' George stopped struggling and looked at her eagerly.

  She smiled at the delighted expression in his big blue eyes, and impulsively dropped a kiss on his chubby cheek. He was so adorable. He threw his arms around her neck and cuddled her, and she had an overwhelming desire to hug him tightly to her. It was amazing how quickly she was growing attached to the three children. It was scary, really.

  Turning to go back indoors, she stopped dead as she saw, on the other side of the beck, a whole bunch of people strolling by. A few of them raised their hands and waved, and the girls waved back cheerfully.

  'Who are they?' said Eden. It was a bit weird to be in such a remote location and see so many people all at once passing the farm.

  'Walkers,' said Libby. 'We get them all the time up here. Sometimes they stop and ask for a drink of water. Sometimes they sit on the grass and rest for a bit. It can get really busy in summer, but we even get them in the winter.'

  She supposed she should have guessed. Who else would be walking past this place, through squelchy grass and endless mud, wearing hiking boots, thick socks, khaki shorts and anoraks? 'They must be barmy.'

  'Why? It's proper grand walking country round here,' said Ophelia, sounding about sixty.

  'I'm sure it is if the sun ever comes out,' said Eden, not entirely convinced such an event ever occurred. 'Still, you'd need your head examined to come up here in the winter.'

  She walked towards the beck, wondering how many walkers there actually were. As she arrived at the edge of the water, she looked out across the dale spread before her. The wet grass seeped round her ankles, mocking her pointless shoes. A fine, damp mist hung over Skimmerdale, but she could still make out in the distance the network of stone walls criss-crossing their way across the valley and up the hills, and a dark shape that was one of the many stone huts that dotted the dale. To her left, the walkers were striding out, hoods up against the rain, chatting among themselves as if they were actually enjoying being out in the murky weather.

  From somewhere in the distance, she heard the faint bleat of a sheep, and something inside her fluttered in response. Eliot was out there in the mist, up on the hills, taking care of his flock.

  'You can ride Flora, if you like.' Ophelia appeared beside her, tugging at her arm.

  Eden laughed. 'I think she's a bit small for me, don't you?'

  'Not really. I mean, your feet will probably dangle. Libby's feet are starting to dangle a bit, already, but Flora's very strong, and you're not fat. Wouldn't you like to ride? Don't you miss your pony?'

  'Is your pony in heaven?' asked Libby, joining them.

  Eden had no idea. She hadn't even known Honey rode. It wasn't something she seemed interested in these days, at any rate. Her head was far too full of fashion, sex, and illicit affairs with married men. What a shame.

  She looked at the two little girls and wondered, would they one day put their passion for ponies behind them and dream only of expensive cars, shopping for designer clothes, and finding the perfect man? They had genes in them from Honey's family, after all. Jemima was obviously a different kettle of fish to her second cousin, though. Honey could never have settled in a place like this in a million years, whereas Jemima had turned it into a home and had adored her children and loved Eliot with a passion. Eden thought she would have liked Jemima. It seemed terribly sad that she'd been taken away so brutally — not least for these sweet kids, and for the grieving farmer, who had done his best to raise them on his own and was still obviously desperately cut up by his wife's death.

  'No, my pony lives on a farm with lots of other old ponies,' she said, figuring the children had dealt with enough sadness in their lives. She turned back to the farmhouse and hitched George higher on her hip. 'Now, peas or beans with your fish fingers?'

  Chapter Twelve

  Honey risked moving the curtain, ever so slightly, and stared out over the front garden of the cottage. She thought she'd never been in a more depressing holiday home in her life.

  God knows, she'd stayed in many in her time. Most of her friends' parents had second homes in the country, by the sea, or abroad. Her mother, who had her own homes in Brighton and Chelsea, had managed to wangle many free holidays from her own friends, who had homes in Cornwall, Somerset, Hampshire, Kent and Dorset, as well as villas in Ibiza, Spain, and Greece, rustic farmhouses in France, or swish apartments in Italy. Honey had been to them all and had grown used to making herself at home wherever she happened to be, but this pl
ace wasn't making her feel welcome. Not at all.

  She supposed it didn't help that they were sleeping in Sybil's and Rupert's room. There was a large, framed photograph of the couple on the wall above the bed which was distinctly off-putting. It was her own fault, she acknowledged. She should have been content with the guest room, but it was too late now.

  She sighed, looking out over the dullest front garden she'd ever had the misfortune to view. Crispin said the lawn had been dug up because Sybil and Rupert weren't frequent visitors and didn't want to pay for a gardener, so in its place they'd stuck a heap of gravel and a concrete drive. It was completely soulless. It was a good job it was hidden behind a high hedge, because anyone passing by would have been disgusted at the state of it. It was hardly conducive to a holiday mood.

  Then there was the fact that she was a virtual prisoner in the place. Crispin was terrified she would be spotted. The cottage was two miles from a popular tourist town, so he refused point blank to let her leave the confines of the grounds. She supposed she should be grateful there was, at least, a large back garden with access to a private beach. It wasn't a huge stretch of sand, but it could only be reached through the garden or by sea, so it afforded almost total privacy. She could sunbathe and swim without worrying about bumping into holidaymakers, although, even there, Crispin was nervous. He pointed out that, although the beach was private, there was nothing to stop people turning up in a boat or sailing past with long lens cameras. Honey could think of no reason on earth why anyone would do that, but Crispin insisted one could never be too careful. He risked the occasional paddle in the sea but spent most of his time scanning the horizon for passing ships loaded with inquisitive journalists. Honey was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that he was a total wimp who was scared of his own shadow and was rapidly losing patience with him.

  She longed to go into town and shop, but he was adamant that she mustn't be seen. Although not strictly a celebrity in her own right, she had, nevertheless, appeared in the papers and in various magazines on occasion, usually to persuade the public that Freya was a model mother in every sense of the word, or to demonstrate the softer side to Cain Carmichael and convince everyone that he'd become a respectable citizen and doting father, rather than a wild, irresponsible rock star, and was therefore more than worthy of a knighthood. Crispin was terrified that someone would recognise her and follow her back to the house, putting two and two together and tipping off the press.

  'Why are you so scared?' she demanded, tired of being told she mustn't venture out of the grounds. 'So what if they find out you're having an affair? You won't be the first politician to play away. I'm sure your political career would survive.'

  'Bugger my political career.' Crispin shuddered. 'Lavinia is determined that one day she'll be the wife of the Prime Minister. If I screw that up for her, she'll castrate me. I have to protect my assets.'

  She could see why he was desperate to preserve his genitals. It was becoming increasingly clear to Honey that they were not only Crispin's biggest assets, they were his only assets. Confined in this cottage with him, she was finding him incredibly dull. He insisted on scouring the internet every day, reading the papers online, keeping up with the news. He regaled her for hours with tales from Parliament; he bored her to tears as he mumbled on about some protest meeting that he simply must attend at Windleby-on-the-Weir at the beginning of September; he made her want to stick her fingers in her ears when he furiously defended some bill or other that had been passed a few months ago, which the press were now insisting was damaging and indefensible. She felt like packing her bags and heading home, and only the thought that she would be doing something that would please and relieve her parents stopped her. She was beginning to think Eden had a better deal, after all. At least she could go shopping.

  She watched, suddenly curious, as a red Mini drove up the lane and slowed almost to a halt outside the cottage. From the bedroom window, she could just see the driver over the hedge, as he turned to stare at the garden gate. She leaned forward, and the movement of the curtain must have caught his attention, because he gazed up at the window. Squinting, she tried desperately to make out his features, wondering who he was, but the car moved before she could, and she watched it drive away, leaving her rather puzzled. She didn't know anyone with a red Mini, and, anyway, no one she knew would be anywhere near this Godforsaken place.

  Behind her, Crispin stirred in the bed. She dropped the curtain and turned back to face him. He blinked sleepily at her for a moment, then she saw the passion stirring in his eyes as he took in her naked form.

  'Good morning, gorgeous,' he murmured, pulling back the duvet and patting the space beside him.

  'I'm bored,' Honey announced, climbing back into bed. 'If I have to spend another day listening to you banging on about politics, I'll go mad.'

  Crispin pouted. 'I'm sorry, darling. I didn't realise. I thought you were having a good time.'

  'A good time? In Colditz?'

  'Colditz?' He looked offended. 'This has been in our family for years. We've always loved holidaying here.'

  'I'm sure when you came here previously, you weren't confined to barracks. Can't I go shopping? It's so tedious here.'

  'You know it's better to be safe than sorry.'

  'It makes no sense. And how come you can go into town? You're much more recognisable than I am.'

  'People know I holiday here regularly. They won't be surprised to see me. It's you that mustn't be spotted. You know all this, darling. Please don't spoil it. We've been having such a lovely time.'

  'You have,' she said sulkily. 'I'm thoroughly fed up.'

  He cupped her breast and began to caress it, kissing her neck and nibbling her ear. Honey squirmed, feeling herself melting against him, in spite of herself. How did he do that, she wondered? He was so dull and not particularly handsome, once she'd spent a bit of time with him, but he knew exactly what to do to make her forget all that and just long to be with him.

  'I'm not joking,' she muttered, as he softly stroked her inner thigh, her breathless voice betraying her increasing lust.

  Crispin began to kiss her, his tongue finding its way into her mouth, and Honey had to concede, as Crispin's hand snaked its way between her legs, that there were worse ways to spend the day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eliot knew there was something different about the house as he approached it. He just couldn't think what it was. Beside him, Lug and Jake, his two faithful sheepdogs, paused the moment he did. They sat patiently, looking up at him as he stood still, gazing thoughtfully at his home. He scanned the door, the windows, even the roof. What was it that was making him think something had changed?

  Then he realised. The net curtains were gleaming. Instead of dingy yellowing nets shaming the windows, they were now adorned with crisp, white ones that uplifted the look of the entire house. Honey had clearly been at work.

  He couldn't believe it. Surely, she wouldn't have lowered herself to do some washing?

  He hesitated. Had Daisy been round? She had a long shift today at The King's Head. He couldn't imagine she'd had time to pop round and do the laundry, especially with that miserable old bugger to see to, on top of everything else. Besides, it had been pouring with rain all day. He couldn't see her heading up here in that kind of weather.

  He pushed open the door and took off his muddy boots, picking them up and carrying them to the boot room off the hallway. Until Jemima moved in, boots had been left scattered all over the place, but she'd taken a dim view of that. When the architect began to draw up plans for the kitchen, she'd insisted he find room for a small space with access to the garden, where boots and dog bowls could be placed without messing up the rest of her house. When she'd been alive, he hadn't dared use the front door, instead heading round to the garden to enter the boot room through the side door that had been created for such a purpose. For the last eighteen months or so, though, he'd reverted to using the front door. He tried not to dwell on the reason fo
r the change.

  Inside the boot room, he dropped the boots on the ground, shaking his head when he caught sight of Honey's ridiculous wedges and high heels stacked up near the back door. Surprised to see that two of the three dog bowls had already been filled with food, and the water bowls topped up with fresh water, he paused. The third bowl was empty, but as Tuppence wasn't around he guessed she'd already had her tea and was snoozing in the kitchen. She was the only one of the dogs who lived in the house, being elderly. Well, that saved him a job, at any rate. Maybe the girls had done it. They must have been bored stiff, stuck indoors while the rain pelted down. Hopefully, the poor weather would hold off for at least some of their school holidays.

  He wondered how Honey had coped, having them under her feet. He hoped she'd attempted conversation with them and not stuck them in front of the television all day. With a light pat on each of the dogs' heads, he left them to eat their well-deserved tea. Later, he would take Lug and Jake to their beds in the barn, where they slept alongside Fagin and Dodger.

  When he entered the kitchen, he was greeted with the astonishing sight of his daughters rushing towards him, carrying a plate with the most peculiarly-shaped buns he'd ever seen. They were decorated with splodges of runny pink icing, most of which had run off the buns and pooled on the plate, but he'd not seen his children looking so proud of anything for a long time. Bella had a suspicious splodge of pink stuck to her fur, and Tuppence looked smugly satisfied as she eyed him from under the table.

  'Well, what have we here, then?'

  'We made you some cupcakes. Do you like them?' Ophelia's eyes shone.

  Eliot ruffled her hair. 'You made these? All by yourselves?'

  'Well ...' Libby glanced at Honey. 'Honey helped us a bit. She doesn't know much about baking, though. They don't look as good as Mummy's cupcakes, do they?'