by H. Y. Hanna
Hastily, Caitlyn straightened and said, “Antoine, you remember my cousin, Pomona?”
“Bien sûr—who could forget such loveliness?”
Pomona gave him a cool look and a nod. Caitlyn was surprised. It wasn’t like her cousin to respond in such an aloof manner to a man—especially a man as handsome as Antoine de Villiers. Still, she retreated slightly to let them talk. Now that Pomona was here, she half-expected Antoine to ignore her anyway—that was usually what happened whenever men met her cousin. Compared with Pomona’s glamorous looks and easy confidence, Caitlyn usually didn’t stand a chance.
But to her surprise, Antoine did not ignore her. Instead, he turned back and continued to flirt with her. Caitlyn was flattered—she had never had a man choose her over her cousin—and she felt herself blushing with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. Pomona stood and watched them for a moment, her mouth pressed into a thin line, then excused herself abruptly and headed back to the kitchen. As she was going through the connecting door, a little black ball of fluff slipped out and scampered up to the counter.
“Nibs, you really shouldn’t be out here,” said Caitlyn with mock sternness. “We can’t have you getting under the customers’ feet.”
Antoine de Villiers looked down at the kitten, who had trotted over to him and was now sitting at his feet, staring up with big yellow eyes.
“Meew!” said Nibs, reaching up and hooking his claws into Antoine’s trouser leg.
The Frenchman laughed as he reached down to disengage the kitten. “Ah, he has spirit, this one. He will be a little tiger when he is grown, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh gosh, I hope not,” said Caitlyn. “He causes enough trouble already at the size he is!” She gestured to the glass counter. “Would you like to sample some of the truffles?”
Antoine waved a hand. “Not now. But I will take a box as a gift back to the Manor—a small ‘thank you’ for having me as a guest. Perhaps you can wrap it for me?”
“Oh, sure,” said Caitlyn, reaching below the counter and taking out a shallow giftbox, which she proceeded to fill with chocolate truffles. When it was full, she placed the lid over it, then found a length of gold ribbon to tie around it.
Nibs had jumped up on the counter and had been watching her curiously. Now he meowed excitedly at the sight of the ribbon and pounced, trying to grab the ends with his claws.
“No, Nibs…” Caitlyn frowned, flicking the ribbon out of the way.
The movement only excited the kitten more and he pounced again. He missed the ribbon but his claws caught the side of Caitlyn’s bare arm, leaving a long scratch on her skin.
“Ouch!” cried Caitlyn, jerking back. She looked down ruefully. It was a shallow wound but bright red blood was already welling up along the length of the scratch.
There was a sound from across the counter and she looked up to see Antoine de Villiers staring fixedly at her arm. He had gone very pale and she could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“It’s only a scratch,” she assured him. “It’s not serious.”
Antoine swallowed convulsively and clamped a hand over his mouth.
“Hey… are you all right?” she asked, reaching out to touch his arm.
He twitched. “I… The sight of blood disturbs me,” he muttered, looking away.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Caitlyn grabbed a napkin and wiped the red drops from her arm, then rummaged through the drawer below the counter until she found a First Aid kit. The Frenchman stood awkwardly, keeping his eyes averted, until she had covered the scratch with a bandage.
He cleared his throat. “Pardon… I should have offered my assistance but the blood… ever since I was a child, it is something which I—”
“Oh, no, no problem,” said Caitlyn. “I totally understand. A lot of people are squeamish about blood, aren’t they? In fact, my adoptive mother had a chauffeur who used to faint if he ever saw blood. It was quite extreme. I remember him telling me all about it; he said it’s something to do with a primitive reflex in your brain—”
“Yes, yes,” said Antoine quickly, obviously not wanting to talk about his embarrassing weakness. “It is not a great affliction. I certainly do not faint.”
Caitlyn smiled to herself. “No, well… anyway, here’s your box of chocolates.” She finished tying the ribbon and pushed the gift-wrapped box across the counter towards him.
“Merci.” He took the chocolates and gave her a smirk, back to his suave, confident self. “You will be returning to the Manor soon? Perhaps I can escort you?”
“No, we’re not going back until quite late tonight. Pomona and I are having dinner with my grandmother.”
“Ah, quelle dommage… it is a shame. I had hoped to continue our delightful conversation at dinner tonight.”
Once again, Caitlyn felt a rush of pleasure at his desire for her company. “We’ll be there tomorrow night,” she promised. “I heard that James’s friends are arriving from London and he’s having a big meal.”
“I shall look forward to that greatly,” said Antoine de Villiers, grasping her hand and bringing it briefly to his lips. “À demain, mademoiselle.”
CHAPTER TEN
Caitlyn enjoyed the warm family atmosphere during dinner with the Widow Mags, her aunt Bertha, and Evie, but she noticed that Pomona seemed unusually quiet. Later, as they drove back to the Manor in silence, Caitlyn glanced at her cousin.
“Pomie… is something the matter?”
“No, nothing,” said Pomona. Then she burst out, “You’d better watch yourself with that French guy.”
“Antoine?” Caitlyn looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“He’s way too much for you to handle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Caitlyn with a flicker of irritation.
Pomona tossed her head. “I know guys, okay? He might have a fancy accent and a castle in France but Antoine de Villiers has ‘bad boy’ written all over him.”
“How can you say that when you barely know him? And anyway, I thought you liked ‘bad boys’.”
“That’s me. It’s different for you.”
“Why is it different for me?” Caitlyn felt her temper really rising. “Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?”
“No—you’re just too sweet and innocent for a guy like Antoine de Villiers. Leave him to someone who knows how to handle men.”
“You mean someone like you?” asked Caitlyn, stung.
Pomona shrugged. “Hey, I’m not interested in him… but I have dated a lot of guys whereas you—well, you haven’t really dated anyone, have you?”
Caitlyn flushed. “Well, I… that doesn’t mean I’m not a good judge of character!”
“But you’re not,” said Pomona flatly. “At least where men are concerned. You were, like, getting all pink and fluttery just ’cos he fed you a couple of clichés about how beautiful you looked. You were totally blinded by his charm.”
“That’s not true!” cried Caitlyn, angry and embarrassed. “I think you’re just jealous!”
“Jealous? Me?”
“Yes! Because you’re so used to guys always paying you the attention, and for once a man was interested in me instead. Your ego can’t take it.”
“Oh, gimme a break!” said Pomona, rolling her eyes. “I’m not jealous! I’m saying this ’cos I care about you and don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
“You’re the one who’s always telling me I should flirt more,” Caitlyn snapped. “You’re always pushing me onto James—”
“James Fitzroy is different! He’s a complete gentleman; he’s noble and decent and would never take advantage of you—”
“I suppose you think I can only handle guys who are safe and boring,” said Caitlyn bitterly.
“You think James is boring?”
“No,” said Caitlyn quickly, feeling ashamed. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just… he’s… well, he’s so reserved. You never know what he’s thinking or if he really l
ikes you…”
“He’s English! They’re like that. You know, they feel a lot but don’t show it on the outside. It’s all, like, understatement with them. Okay, so you’re not gonna get James showering you with compliments all the time—but he really cares for you. Like, big time.”
“How do you know Antoine doesn’t really care for me?” demanded Caitlyn. “Just because he makes it obvious doesn’t mean he’s not serious. Maybe he’s just better at showing his feelings.”
Pomona rolled her eyes again. “Honey, guys like Antoine de Villiers love seducing shy, innocent virgins. It’s the ultimate game for them: the thrill of the chase. That French dude doesn’t really care for you—he just wants to get you into his bed.”
Caitlyn gasped and spluttered. “That’s not true! You don’t know Antoine at all… Anyway… I… I’m not a child! I’m old enough to look after myself and I don’t need you to babysit me!”
“Fine!” snapped Pomona. “If you wanna be like that, then do what you want!”
Caitlyn turned away and stared furiously out of the window as they drove in silence back to the Manor. When they arrived, the grounds were dark, with only a few security lights on. It was nearly midnight and the household had obviously gone to bed. Caitlyn got out of the car, still seething, grabbed her holdall and slammed the passenger door harder than necessary. Pomona did the same and both girls stalked up the front steps, not looking at each other. They maintained a stony silence as they returned to the guestroom they shared and got into bed without saying goodnight.
When Caitlyn awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to remember what had happened and she felt her temper rising again as she recalled Pomona’s words. She glanced across to the other bed and saw her cousin’s blonde head buried amongst the pillows. Although there was no movement, somehow she had a feeling the other girl wasn’t sleeping.
It wasn’t their first fight, of course. Being more like sisters than cousins, they’d had their fair share of sibling arguments over the years, but in the past it was always Caitlyn who caved in first. She would apologise, and then Pomona would immediately apologise too, since she was usually just waiting for Caitlyn to make the first move.
Now Caitlyn looked at the blonde head turned away from hers and knew that Pomona was probably listening, waiting for her to speak. But for once, Caitlyn dug her heels in. Why should she apologise? She wasn’t sorry for what she’d said yesterday! Instead, she got out of bed and washed and dressed quickly. When she came out of the bathroom, Pomona was still buried under the covers. Caitlyn hesitated, then set her lips and turned towards the door, leaving the room without a word to her cousin.
She went downstairs and let herself out of the main door, pausing at the top of the front steps to look around. The sky was a clear, washed blue and it looked as if it was going to be another lovely summer’s day. She could see various members of staff going around the house and grounds, cleaning and tidying before the Manor officially opened to the public, and she wondered where James was. Probably out having an early morning ride or taking Bran for a walk before breakfast. And Antoine de Villiers? Probably in bed, Caitlyn thought with a wry smile. The Frenchman didn’t look like the type to embrace early mornings.
She decided to go for a walk herself and wandered into the rose gardens that stretched out on one side of the Manor. Slowly, she strolled along the wide avenue between the rose beds, admiring the rambling bushes covered in exquisite deep-cupped blooms, in soft pastel shades of apricot, peach, and cream, with the occasional burst of salmon pink or vivid strawberry. The lovely fragrance of roses filled the air around her and she felt as if she had stepped into a romantic fairy tale. The enchanted rose garden, perhaps, in “Beauty and the Beast”, where Belle’s father had stolen a rose and been captured by the Beast…
As she came to the end of the avenue, she paused by a magnificent rosebush with huge, chalice-shaped blooms, each displaying dozens of velvety petals in a beautiful shade of creamy apricot. She leaned towards it, burying her nose in a fragrant blossom.
“Mind the mulch,” said a voice.
She started and turned around to see Old Palmer, the Manor’s Head Gardener, standing behind her. She followed his gaze and saw that she had stepped into the rose bed by mistake.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, taking a hasty step back. She gave the old man a smile. “It’s so beautiful, I forgot myself. I’ve never seen roses like these before—what are they? They look so different from the roses you get at the florist. Those have got thin, narrow flowers—these are so deep and full, and have so many petals.”
“Pah! Those hybrid tea roses ye get in shops…” said the old gardener with great disdain. “Feeble, spindly things, always getting fungus and whatnot, and not even a whiff of fragrance… I’d never have those in my garden! No, these are real roses,” he said, waving a proud hand towards the flowers around them. “Proper English roses: lots o’ big flowers on a healthy bush… and smell the perfume!”
He cupped a blossom gently and tilted it towards Caitlyn, who obediently took a sniff. It was gorgeous: a warm tea fragrance, with hints of spiced apple and cloves.
“Ohhh…!” sighed Caitlyn. “I’d forgotten what roses could smell like! In fact, these remind me so much of the flowers you see in oil paintings… Are these like the antique roses that used to grow in castles in medieval times? I was just thinking that they reminded me of roses you read about in fairy tales.”
Old Palmer shook his head. “Most o’ these are modern hybrids, actually—but they’re bred to look like the old antique roses. Gets the best from both worlds… see? They’ve got the big, full blooms an’ proper perfume, an’ they flower for months. Tough too. Proper shrub roses for growing in the garden… they can take what the weather throws at ’em.”
“This colour is just gorgeous,” said Caitlyn, indicating the creamy apricot bloom she had been sniffing.
The old gardener cracked a smile. “Aye, that’s the ‘Lady of Shalott’. She’s one o’ my favourites. A real beauty.”
Then, to Caitlyn’s surprise, he pulled a pair of pruning shears out of a rear pocket and cut off the bloom.
“Here ye go,” He presented the rose to her.
“Oh! Thank you!” Caitlyn exclaimed. “I think that’s the most beautiful flower anyone has ever given me.”
“Get away with ye, now!” said the old gardener gruffly, but she could see from the twinkle in his eyes that he was pleased by her compliment.
“Are the rose gardens part of the official Manor tour?” she asked.
“No, they’re not… but many o’ the visitors come wandering down here by themselves anyway. An’ the villagers are always welcome, of course. A couple of ’em are real busybodies—here every week, telling me how to prune an’ what to use for blackspot… as if I don’t know!” He growled. “That new tenant too. Always rabbiting on…”
Caitlyn’s ears perked up. “From the refurbished cottages?”
“Aye, that woman with the bloody dog,” he growled. “Little mutt running around loose an’ digging up my flowerbeds… an’ her! Walking around in them wellies… thinks she’s a gardener, does she? Talking nonsense about azaleas! Even a green-behind-the-ears garden boy knows azaleas need acidic soil—”
“What about the young man? The English teacher?” asked Caitlyn eagerly. “Do you see him?”
“Aye, he’s a strange lad… mooches around… always asking if ye can grow black roses…” Old Palmer turned and pointed towards the far end of the rose garden, where it was backed by the woods that covered part of the estate. “There’s a path there, through those trees, that leads to the cottages. Sort of a shortcut, ye see, instead o’ going the long way from the main driveway. He likes to use that path an’ cut through the rose gardens.”
“Did you happen to see him two nights ago—the night of the Open-Air Cinema?”
The old gardener thought for a moment. “Two nights ago… hmm… Was out here doing a bit o’ deadheading… Yes, now that ye me
ntion it, I reckon I might have. Just when dusk was falling an’ I was packing up.”
“Was he in the rose garden?”
“No, I saw him on that path.”
“What was he doing?”
The old gardener shrugged. “Couldn’t really see… Could have been going, could have been coming… Wouldn’t have seen him, actually, ’cept that I pricked my thumb an’ the pain made me jump. Happened to look up an’ see him.”
“Wow, you must have really good eyesight,” said Caitlyn, thinking of how hard it was to make out shapes at dusk, especially at a distance.
“Never need glasses,” said Old Palmer proudly. “Not even for reading.”
Caitlyn turned and scanned the area, noting that the woods stretched alongside the pathway and then flowed to the other side of the Manor, merging with the trees that surrounded the lawn where the cinema screen had been erected.
She thought back to yesterday afternoon, when Lionel Spelling had come into the chocolate shop. He’d insisted he hadn’t gone to the Open-Air Cinema—that he’d stayed in his cottage all night—but could he have been lying? It would have been easy for him, especially in the black clothes that he usually wore, to slip into the woods from this side and make his way to the lawn without anyone seeing. It was just his bad luck that the old gardener happened to be tending his beloved roses and had such unusually good eyesight.
So had Lionel Spelling lied about where he’d been that night? Were the villagers right in their suspicions—was the young English teacher the murderer?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
