by Liz Eeles
Upstairs, a door banged in the breeze that was eddying through the house as Rosie came to a decision. She grabbed the letter from Charles Epping and her mother’s car keys from the kitchen dresser and stepped out into the lunchtime sunshine.
CHAPTER 9
The good weather had held at least. Rosie pulled her mum’s battered Mini into the side of the road and peered at the wide open moorland around her.
The landscape was bathed in watery sunlight peeping from behind pillows of white cloud, and golden rays were catching a raised rocky tor in the distance. The sides of the hill were dotted with sheep, sure-footed creatures well used to the uneven ground of Dartmoor.
Rosie wound down her window and breathed in great gulps of fresh air. She’d spent many happy hours as a child tramping these moors with her mum, and hadn’t realised quite how much she had missed this ancient, unspoiled land. When she thought of Spanish countryside, vivid shades of ochre flooded her mind. Dartmoor, in contrast, was a palette of soft greens and deep browns with splashes of cream and grey. It was calmer, more soothing.
Glancing at the letter in her lap, she re-read the address on the back of the envelope: High Tor House, Granite’s Edge, near Kellsteignton.
She’d left Kellsteignton behind ten minutes ago but the sat nav stuck to the windscreen was worse than useless. It started having a hissy fit as the village disappeared in her rear-view mirror and had now given up the ghost completely. But High Tor House must be around here somewhere.
Clambering from the car, she grabbed her bag and started walking uphill to get a better view. Before long, she heard the sound of water and reached a narrow stream that sliced through the ground. A rough-hewn slab of pale stone formed an ancient clapper bridge across the rushing water, and she picked her way over it.
Darker clouds drifted onto the horizon as she kept climbing, scrambling up the last rocky parts of the tor. But the view was worth the effort, as she’d known it would be. All around her was a magnificent tree-less landscape. Sheep were grazing here and there and the rough grass was littered with huge boulders of grey granite.
In the distance, a narrow ribbon of track wound from the road, ending at a pale stone house in the middle of nowhere. That must be the Eppings’ country pile – a house so remote that it would be cut off in winter when heavy snow blanketed these high parts of the moors. Who would choose to live in such isolation?
Rosie shivered, feeling nervous at what she was about to do. Charles Epping had quite a reputation in Heaven’s Cove, even though he was rarely seen. He never visited the village, sending staff instead to sort out any issues, and according to rumour, he’d become increasingly reclusive and bad-tempered as he grew older.
Would he shout at her or run her off his land? Rosie jumped when a bird swooped low overhead, and gave herself a good telling off. It was ridiculous to be so on edge. She wasn’t a child any more. She was a grown woman who was simply going to have an adult conversation with a rich landowner. That was the long and short of it – she would face up to Charles Epping for her mum, and for poor, condemned Driftwood House, which was increasingly taking on human characteristics in her mind. She hurried back to the car before her courage could desert her.
Five minutes later, Rosie drove through the black, wrought-iron gates of High Tor House and pulled her car to a halt on the gravel next to a white van.
The churning in her stomach only got worse as she took in the magnificent house before her. Constructed of pale grey stone, the building seemed out of place here, in the middle of vast moorland. Its mullioned windows glinted in the sunshine and a small fountain trickled in front of an arched porchway that led to a black door. The arm of the stone angel that topped the fountain had turned green in the constant stream of water.
Parked on the gravel, near a big, bright flowerbed, was a shiny, silver Range Rover that looked brand new. And Rosie glimpsed a khaki Jeep in the open double garage that had been built onto the old house. Money obviously wasn’t in short supply for Mr Charles Epping and his wife.
With her heart pounding, Rosie rang the doorbell. A clang echoed inside. After a minute, a scruffy-looking man in grey chinos opened the door, rather than the Downton Abbey-style butler she was expecting.
‘Mr Epping?’
‘I should be so lucky. I’m today’s hired help, here to sort out the electrics,’ said the man with a rich Devonian burr. ‘I’m just leaving actually. Is he expecting you?’
‘Um… not exactly.’
The man stepped past her onto the driveway before she could say any more. ‘Good luck, then.’ He threw his bag into the back of the van before sliding into the driving seat and pulling away in a shower of gravel.
Good luck? That didn’t do anything to ease her nerves. Rosie stepped into High Tor House and called out ‘Hello?’, her voice high-pitched and anxious. She was in a large square hallway, with a carved stone fireplace opposite her. Dark panelling lined the walls and turned-wood bannisters, worn smooth by countless hands, flanked a wide staircase carpeted in tasteful burgundy. Glass-shaded lamps on a wooden table cast a mellow glow, even though it was still early afternoon. It must be pitch-black in here during the winter months. A cold shiver went down Rosie’s back.
‘Hello?’ she called again, more loudly this time, but no one came. The house seemed cavernous and empty. She was heading back to the front door, to try ringing the bell once more, when the faint sound of music drifted into the hallway. ‘Yesterday’ by The Beatles. Rosie followed Paul McCartney’s voice towards the back of the house, to a panelled door that was slightly ajar.
When she gently knocked, the music was abruptly switched off.
‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ said a deep male voice. The man sounded so cross and impatient, Rosie’s courage instantly disappeared. But her impulse to flee was scuppered when the door was wrenched open.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The man in front of her faltered for a second, alarm sparking in his icy-blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have just come in but the door was open and no one was around. I did ring the bell and shout but no one came, and then I heard the music so I…’ Good grief, she was burbling. Rosie took a deep breath and tried again. ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you but I really need to speak to Mr Epping.’
‘Who are you?’ repeated the man, more urgently, pulling at the collar of his white shirt. A stranger turning up in his house in the middle of nowhere had really spooked him, which was fair enough.
She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘My name’s Rosie Merchant and I’m from Heaven’s Cove.’
That sounded like she was about to take part in a TV game show: survive a showdown with a scary stranger to stop a wrecking ball laying waste to your family home.
‘I see. What do you want?’
The man had recovered his composure but his bony face had set into an expression of disapproval. Rosie swallowed hard and ploughed on.
‘Are you Charles Epping? I apologise for intruding but I was hoping to have a quick word with you, about my mother and Driftwood House. If that would be all right?’
The man held her gaze for a moment before breathing out loudly, as though he was deflating. ‘I am indeed Charles Epping and I suppose you’d better come in, seeing as you’re in my house already.’ He pulled the door wide open and strode back into the room.
Rosie followed him and stood, self-consciously, next to an enormous rubber plant in a vast china pot. Sunshine was dappling on a Persian rug and casting a pale stripe across a red sofa circled by squashy armchairs. In the corner stood a mahogany desk, and oil paintings – mostly portraits of people in old-fashioned clothing – hung on the walls. It was certainly eclectic in here – a ragbag mix of old furniture, probably inherited, that was no doubt worth a fortune.
Charles, Heaven’s Cove absentee landlord and recluse, now stood by the fireplace with his arm resting on the mantelpiece. He was shorter than Rosie had expected – maybe five feet ten – and
younger-looking, although his hair was snow-white. His eyes, the piercing blue of arctic ice, were cold when they settled on her. He stared at her face for a moment, a slight flush rising on his cheeks, before speaking in clipped tones.
‘Why have you sought me out? I’m not the easiest person to find.’
Was that for a reason? Did Charles Epping and his wife choose to stay in this remote location on purpose, to avoid other people?
Rosie tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I’m here to talk about Driftwood House, which I believe belongs to you. My mother Sofia lives… lived there.’
‘Yes, I was sorry to hear of your mother’s death.’
His face was impassive and his tone cold, almost monotonous, as though he was merely saying what was expected in such circumstances. Rosie clasped her hands behind her back and dug her nails into her palms.
‘You sent a letter via your solicitors saying that Driftwood House belongs to you, and you intend to reclaim it.’
‘That’s correct. But you knew that would happen.’ When she grimaced, he tilted his head to one side and frowned. ‘Oh, you didn’t know? That’s interesting.’
‘Why do you think that’s interesting?’ Rosie couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice.
‘It’s interesting that your mother never told you about her arrangement with the Epping family.’
‘I’m sure she meant to, in the future,’ said Rosie, stung into defending her mother’s incomprehensible secrecy. ‘Did you know my mum?’
‘I did not.’ He glanced at his watch, as though Rosie was taking up his valuable time. ‘Your mother was simply my tenant. A name on a rental agreement.’
‘An unusual rental agreement, that let her stay in the house until her death.’
‘My sister, Evelyn, always was kind-hearted.’
‘What does your sister have to do with it? Did she know my mother?’
‘They were friends.’
Rosie shook her head. The Epping family was cold, uptight and entitled, if Charles was anything to go by, and she found it hard to imagine her warm, bohemian mother having anything to do with them. Plus, Charles owned Driftwood House, so what did Evelyn have to do with any of it?
‘Mum never mentioned your sister. Did they stay friends?’
Charles blinked and glanced at a large portrait hanging above the fireplace. The oil painting showed a young woman, her brown hair swept up in a bun, with the moors stretching behind her. She had the same thin, Roman nose as Charles, but her grey eyes were kinder and her mouth was turned up in one corner as though she was about to smile. A small brass plaque was fixed to the foot of the frame and etched with the words EVELYN AMELIA EPPING: A FLASH OF LIGHTNING IN THE DARKNESS.
‘Sadly, my sister died some years ago. She…’ Charles paused, lost in thought. Should Rosie say she was sorry? She hesitated too long and the moment was lost. ‘It happened a very long time ago,’ he continued. ‘Your mother and Evelyn were friends at the time.’
‘So did Mum move into the house because of Evelyn?’
‘Your mother was always very fond of the house, according to Evelyn, and she wanted her friend to be able to live there. Evelyn asked me to set up the arrangement, and it stood until your mother died.’
‘That was very kind of her. But you say you never met my mum?’
‘That’s correct. Look, Ms Merchant.’ He strode to the French window that overlooked a large garden. ‘In light of you being unaware of the house’s provenance, I see that the timing of the solicitor’s letter was unfortunate and I apologise for that. My wife instructed our solicitor and set wheels in motion rather more quickly than I’d envisaged. But the house does belong to my family and I understood that your mother lived there alone following the death of your father.’
‘She did, and I realise that you can reclaim our home, but I’d like to know more about your intentions towards Driftwood House.’ Your intentions towards Driftwood House? She was beginning to sound as pompous as him. ‘What I mean is, what are you planning to do with it?’
Charles Epping looked up at that and held Rosie’s gaze. He suddenly seemed old and tired, which wrong-footed her.
‘I know it’s your house and I probably sound impertinent questioning you like this, but I lived at Driftwood House for a long time and I care about what happens to it. I heard in the village that you want to knock the house down and build a hotel in its place.’
‘Did you, indeed? It appears that Heaven’s Cove remains a hotbed of gossip and rumour.’ Charles raised a white eyebrow and set his mouth in a thin line. ‘Oh, do sit down, Ms Merchant.’
That sounded more like an order than an invitation and Rosie was vaguely annoyed with herself when she complied. The fabric of the sofa was rough beneath the palms of her hands.
‘Are the rumours wrong?’ she asked him, aware of a spring pushing into her thigh. These family heirloom sofas were uncomfortable.
‘Rather annoyingly, they’re perfectly correct, but our plans are at a very early stage so I’m surprised and rather perturbed that they’re common knowledge. I appear to have a spy within my ranks.’
‘Please don’t!’ blurted out Rosie, wholly unconcerned about the Eppings’ security levels, and now perched so much on the edge of the sofa she was in danger of toppling to the floor. Though if that happened, she suspected that Charles Epping would simply step over her and continue with his day.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Please don’t what? I’m sorry that you haven’t inherited a valuable property, as you must have imagined you would. But I’m told your mother had lived there alone for some time so you’re not without a roof over your head.’
‘I have a roof, abroad, where I work, and I don’t care about the money. I honestly don’t. But I do care about the house.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s been a part of Heaven’s Cove for generations, up there on the cliff. I’m sure it means a lot to the villagers and it certainly meant a lot to my mum. She loved Driftwood House and it would break her heart if it was destroyed. She’s gone and I’m not sure I can bear…’
The words caught in her throat, strangling her until Rosie could hardly breathe. But she would not cry in front of this cold, unfeeling man. Charles Epping took a step towards her – was he going to throw her out? – but he stopped when the door was flung open.
‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ A whippet-thin woman was framed in the doorway. She stepped into the room and peered at Rosie. ‘I do apologise. I didn’t realise that my husband was entertaining guests.’
‘This is my wife, Cecilia,’ said Charles.
Rosie got to her feet and held out her hand. Cecilia walked forward, trailed by a large grey-haired dog, and gave Rosie’s hand a limp shake. Not an ash-blonde hair was out of place, and her terribly tasteful clothes – brown corduroy trousers, caramel cashmere jumper and paisley silk scarf – contrasted with Rosie’s jeans and T-shirt. Her whole demeanour screamed confidence and old money.
‘And who are you?’ she asked, glancing at Charles.
Rosie cleared her throat. ‘I’m Rosie Merchant from Heaven’s Cove.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ Cecilia moved quickly to stand next to Charles. They made quite the couple.
‘I’m from the village originally, but I’m living in Andalusia now,’ Rosie told her, not wanting to seem too provincial in front of this self-assured woman.
‘Heaven’s Cove and Andalusia. How marvellous.’
Charles gave his wife a tight smile. ‘Ms Merchant is here to discuss Driftwood House.’
‘Is that right?’ The edge to Cecilia’s voice was unmistakeable.
‘Her mother lived in the house until her death.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’ She turned to address Rosie directly. ‘You must have received the letter from our solicitor by now.’
‘I have, and that’s why I’m here.’
‘I feared as much. But I’m afraid the house does not belong to you.’
‘I realise that and I’m not here to question its ownership. I came here to ask you not to demolish the house.’
‘How do you—?’
‘Gossip in the village,’ interjected her husband, staring out of the window at the moors beyond.
‘Do they know about…?’ She trailed off.
‘About your hotel idea? Yes, I’m afraid that also appears to be the subject of gossip.’
‘I see.’ Cecilia’s glittery green eyes hardened. ‘It’s purely a business proposition, Ms Merchant. Driftwood House occupies a prime spot, overlooking the sea, and would make an excellent location for a small, tasteful hotel.’
‘Have you applied for planning permission?’
Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern but no, not yet. It’s very much at the idea stage and quite how it’s become common knowledge is beyond me. But I’m sure the local authority will be keen to have more accommodation to encourage visitors to Heaven’s Cove. After all, more visitors means more footfall for local business and more income.’
More money for the Epping family coffers, thought Rosie, glancing round at the antique china vases on the mantelpiece and the grandfather clock in the corner. The furniture and ornaments in this room were probably worth more than the contents of Driftwood House and her flat combined.
‘I’m quite set on this proposal,’ said Cecilia, drawing in the corners of her mouth until her lips pursed. ‘The elevation, and the prospect of waking to that view, would attract visitors like a magnet.’
Rosie’s heart sank because she couldn’t argue with Cecilia’s logic. Just that morning, the sight that met her when she pulled back the bedroom curtains had taken her breath away: wisps of cloud, tinged gold by the rising sun, were drifting above a midnight-blue sea and Sorrell Head in the distance was a beacon of deep green. Cecilia could definitely make money from sharing that view. Hadn’t Rosie suggested it to her mother often enough?
As she thought back to those conversations, an idea began to take shape in Rosie’s mind, and was out of her mouth before she knew it. ‘Why not make use of Driftwood House itself? It could be converted into a wonderful little hotel.’
