Written From the Heart

by Trisha Ashley

  I shared his enthusiasm and it became both my lifelong passion and my profession. My marriage turned out to be a brief, mistaken digression along the way, although in saying this, I realize I will be thought very unnatural. But so it was.

  2

  Clipped Wings

  Angelique

  Sunday, 7 December 2014

  Eighteen months ago, before Julian had his stroke and our lives changed for ever, he was the owl who stayed up late into the night in his office/studio downstairs, while I was the lark, winging off in the early hours of the morning to the stained-glass workshop at the end of the garden. We were Yin and Yang, two sides of the same coin, and our lives were perfectly balanced and happy.

  But all that had changed, literally at a stroke.

  Now Julian slept so badly that he was often up before me and, on this particular morning, since I’d found the previous day extra exhausting, it was after eight before I groggily surfaced.

  It wasn’t yet properly light and looked likely to be another gloomy, cold, grey December day, but Julian’s side of the bed was empty. I switched on the lamp and saw that his stick was gone from where it usually hung on the back of a chair within easy reach.

  Bathroom? I wondered.

  But when I slid a hand between the sheets there was no warmth where he had lain and the house was silent, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs and the occasional creak of wooden floors adjusting to the fluctuating central heating.

  I felt the familiar scrunch of fear in the pit of my stomach.

  Was he lying in a heap somewhere in the house? Or had he risen early and made his way to the workshop like he’d done the previous day, so that I’d finally had to fetch the wheelchair to bring him back, totally exhausted, frustrated and angry.

  And could I really leave him for over a week to fly off to Antigua, even though, apart from the frustrated anger when his body refused to do what he wanted, his health now seemed quite stable?

  He was so keen for me to go that I suspected he longed to escape my anxious eyes as much as the confines of his condition.

  When I got up my second guess proved to be right. There was no sign of him in the cottage, but his coat and set of workshop keys were gone and the back door unlocked. When I opened it and looked out, he wasn’t lying on the path, and over the hedge I could see the glimmer of light in the large Victorian building that housed the famous Julian Seddon Architectural Glass Studio.

  Of course, he could still be lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of the studio, but his condition had been so stable for ages that I didn’t really think so. In which case, it would be a repeat of yesterday’s scene: I’d found him attempting to use his almost useless left hand to hold down a piece of deliciously creamy yellow glass over the white paper cutline he’d laid on top of a light-box, while he ran the wheel over it with his right. But glass slides easily, and you need to exert firm pressure while you’re cutting …

  The scrunch of the wheel incising a firm line across the surface of the glass, then the sharp tap underneath with the heavy grozing pliers, so that the break forms cleanly – these are some of the delights of the craft we both loved so much and took for granted.

  His assistant, Grant, or old Ivan, who was officially retired but haunting the studio almost as much as when he was employed there, could have expertly cut the piece for him. As could I, of course, but I knew that wasn’t the point. He had begun producing his brilliant designs again, but he wanted to be part of the whole process – the cutting, the painting and silver-staining, the leading-up of the calmes with the smooth caps of solder on every joint … even scrubbing the soft, oily black glazing cement into the finished panels, and then polishing the surface with powdered whitening till glass and lead alike were shiny and clean.

  He wanted to be part of the whole act of creation, not just the spark that ignited it.

  I knew, because I did, too. We recognized that desire in each other almost the instant our eyes met for the first time in a mutual, consuming passion. We’d always been as much in love with that complete act of creation as with each other.

  That day was Sunday and we always used to like having the workshop to ourselves at weekends. There was a magic to it, as if Santa’s elves had gone home and we’d sneaked in to play. I’d go down and potter about very early, checking on the kiln, if it had been fired, or working on ideas in the studio. Julian would appear later, bearing cheese toasties and I’d make coffee by the sink in the corner, before we settled in amicable silence to our work.

  How distant that idyllic life seemed now! I felt weary that morning and found myself hugely reluctant to face whatever the day intended throwing at me. Or whatever Julian threw at me – I’d taken him warm pain au chocolat the previous day and that hadn’t gone down well.

  So I had a cup of coffee, spread a thick layer of my own home-made raspberry jam over a doorstep of fresh wholemeal bread, and ate it slowly. I figured I might need the sugar for energy.

  My friend Molly, the wife of Grant, who worked in the studio, had made the soft and delicious bread, while the jam tasted of warm summer days. Happier days.

  I washed up and hung my mug back on the dresser. Mine had a picture of the Five Sisters windows at York Minster on the side, while Julian’s sported a Chartres Cathedral roundel like a brightly hued kaleidoscope.

  Then, finally, I shrugged into my quilted coat of many colours and let myself out into the dove-grey day.

  The big workroom was lit but empty and I went through the half-glazed door at the end and found Julian sitting at his desk in the studio, writing.

  His right side, his good one, was turned to me, and tugged my heartstrings with familiarity. Julian … his long, sensitive face had always reminded me of a dreamy knight from King Arthur’s round table. He was slender, quietly handsome, his dark brown hair silvered now, but his hazel eyes still shaded by long black lashes …

  He was more than twenty years my senior, but we’d fallen in love at first sight. Age had never been a factor …

  The love was still there, though recently I’d come to accept that the nature of that emotion had changed. It had happened subconsciously over many months, until the knowledge finally presented itself as a fact. Until then, it had been better not to think, just to scramble through each day, looking after Julian, while keeping the business going as best I could.

  As our relationship had changed from that of lovers to reluctant dependant and carer, I knew Julian had found the situation just as hard as I had – more so, for he was such a private person and resented each indignity of illness. And it brought anger – I’d never seen him angry in all our time together, until one day frustration welled up like a volcano and he shouted at me. Just for a brief moment his eyes had held the hard gaze of a bitter stranger. Since then, I’d learned to dread that look.

  But there had been some physical improvement in the first months after the stroke. He could walk to the workshop, supervise Grant and old Ivan, design a window or glass installation, take on more of the running of Julian Seddon Architectural Glass again.

  But he wanted to be the man he had been and by now he must have realized as well as I that things would never be the same again.

  The role of nurse and then carer had not come easily to me and in the first months I’d been thankful for Molly’s help. She’d previously been a nurse, though she now made her living filling the freezers of select clients with healthy home-cooked meals, and Julian seemed to find her brisk, impersonal no-nonsense assistance more acceptable than mine.

  But I was sure that love in some form still existed between us and would eventually settle into a new pattern – and if that was more a thing of shared interests and long association, then that was the way most marriages probably went …

  Though actually, we hadn’t married because I’d never wanted to, even though after ten years Julian had teased me about my having become a common-law wife, whether I liked it or not. I suppose I might have changed my mind
if there’d been a child to consider, but we had been so happy and fulfilled together that we’d kept putting off starting a family …

  I must have made some small noise, for Julian lifted his head and, to my relief, gave me a slight, lop-sided smile.

  ‘Hi, Angel. I’m making notes for my will.’

  I could feel the answering smile freezing on my lips and my heart began to thump. ‘Your will? Are you feeling—’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘I’m not doing it because I’m feeling worse. It’s just that I’ve been putting it off because it always seemed like tempting Fate, but now I think Fate already knows where I live, so I might as well sort things out.’

  He gave another slightly twisted smile. ‘Anyway, I heard something on the radio the other day that set me thinking. It appears that if you die without making a will, it can lead to all kinds of problems and delays.’

  ‘But you’re so much better now that you really don’t need to think about that kind of thing—’ I began.

  ‘Yes, and I’m also twenty years older than you are, so the chances are I’ll die first, one way or the other, aren’t they?’

  This seemed to be a rhetorical question, so I didn’t point out that life was a lottery and you never knew when your number would be up. The Grim Reaper had his random moments.

  ‘I want to make some provision for you, but to be fair to Nat as well.’

  I have a tendency to live in the moment so I’d never given the future a lot of thought until recently, but I’d vaguely assumed that Julian’s only son by his long-ago marriage would inherit everything at some nebulous future date. I’d been building up a little nest egg from my wages and the occasional prize or commission, but it had stayed little because I so often broke into it to add to my magpie’s shiny store of Antique glass that was stashed away in one of the outbuildings.

  I didn’t have a lot of outgoings, because the cottage was Julian’s, as was the business. I was still an employee, though I took design commissions of my own sometimes, too, if they were to be made elsewhere.

  ‘You’ve always been fair to me, Julian,’ I assured him. ‘But Nat is your only son, so naturally he should inherit everything.’

  Nat had followed in his father’s footsteps and worked with him in the studio, until my arrival on the scene had led to an estrangement between them. I felt guilty about that and over the years I’d done my best to heal the rift.

  Julian had overheard Nat accusing me of being a gold-digger, muscling my way into the workshop by sleeping with the boss, and he’d told Nat that if he couldn’t accept the situation in a civilized manner, he’d have to go elsewhere. The upshot had been that he’d found Nat a job in London in a friend’s stained-glass workshop and he’d made his life down there ever since.

  I don’t think the problem was ever really about my relationship with his father, who’d been a widower for several years when we met, it was Nat’s realization that although he was a great craftsman, he hadn’t got a spark of originality when it came to designing windows and installations … and I had.

  ‘You haven’t thought it through,’ Julian told me, recalling my wandering mind. ‘The cottage has been your home for years and the business is becoming as much about you now, as me.’

  That was a slight exaggeration, but I was beginning to make a name for myself and there was a whole Angelique Arrowsmith section on the Julian Seddon website. I’d won a major competition a couple of years previously, too.

  ‘Besides, the cottage and business really go together, so I’m leaving both to you,’ he continued, not waiting for any comment. ‘Everything else – and there’s quite a lot of money invested – goes to Nat.’

  I knew Julian had inherited money from his mother’s family, not to mention what he earned himself – and his work was still as much in demand as it was when he blazed on to the scene with his first major commission, the spectacular Tidesbury Abbey west window.

  ‘But … if you must leave me something, couldn’t it simply be a small amount of money, enough to buy a tiny cottage with?’ I suggested. ‘And everything else to Nat. I’m sure that’s what he’d expect.’

  ‘He seems to have made a life for himself in London, but my investments would give him enough money to set up his own workshop, if he wanted to,’ Julian said. ‘I want you to carry on the business here, which is what you’ve been doing since the stroke anyway. In fact, we’ll change the name to Julian Seddon and Angelique Arrowsmith Architectural Glass as soon as you get back from Antigua, and I’ll make you an equal partner. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘I’m perfectly happy with things the way they are,’ I protested. ‘And we’re going to live to a ripe old age together, working and having fun like we used to. Look how much better you are now.’

  ‘I hope we do, darling, though let’s face it, I’m never going to be the man I was,’ he said. ‘I want you to have security if anything should happen to me, because there’s a whole bright future ahead of you, while my glory days are all in the past.’

  ‘From someone who’s just designed a spectacular rose window for Gladchester Chapel, that’s a bit rich,’ I said, and he laughed, like an echo of the old Julian.

  ‘Do change your mind about this will business,’ I coaxed him.

  ‘I know what I want – and what’s fair,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll get Mr Barley to draw up the will and then bring it over to be signed.’

  I was still deeply troubled, but he had that stubborn expression and I didn’t want to provoke him. I made some coffee and got out the biscuit tin, then changed tack.

  ‘Julian, I really don’t think I should have let you persuade me to go off to Antigua, leaving you alone,’ I began. ‘What if—’

  ‘We’ve already had this conversation, Angel,’ he broke in impatiently. ‘A break will do me as much good as it will you.’

  A break from me, he meant, since he hated hot countries and had never been to Antigua with me. I felt hurt. We were both private people, but we’d lived and worked together in perfect harmony. In fact, my annual December visits to Mum and my stepfather had been the longest periods we’d ever spent apart.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t already asked Molly to check on me every five minutes while you’re gone, because I won’t believe you,’ he added, with just enough of the ghost of his old, familiar smile to reassure me.

  And of course I had done just that, though it still seemed wrong that I should leave him.

  ‘Julian, why don’t I cancel the flights and have a break nearer home?’ I said impulsively. ‘Or we could both have a little holiday in a hotel somewhere lovely, like Cornwall or—’

  The smile vanished and I caught a glimpse of the alien, slightly dangerous fire of anger that the stroke had somehow lit inside his mind.

  ‘No, and we’re not discussing it any more,’ he snapped, and I turned away.

  The only consolation was that this time I’d only be absent for a mere nine days, not the usual fortnight. What could possibly go wrong in so short a time? Especially with Molly, Grant and old Ivan watching over him for me.

  The Little Teashop of Lost and Found

  Trisha Ashley

  Alice Rose is a foundling, discovered on the Yorkshire moors above Haworth as a baby. Adopted but then later rejected again by a horrid stepmother, Alice struggles to find a place where she belongs. Only baking – the scent of cinnamon and citrus and the feel of butter and flour between her fingers – brings a comforting sense of home.

  So it seems natural that when she finally decides to return to Haworth, Alice turns to baking again, taking over a run-down little teashop and working to set up an afternoon tea emporium.

  Luckily she soon makes friends – including a Grecian god-like neighbour – who help her both set up home and try to solve the mystery of who she is. There are one or two last twists in the dark fairy tale of Alice’s life to come … but can she find her happily ever after?

  A Leap of F
aith

  Trisha Ashley

  Sappho Jones stopped counting birthdays when she reached thirty but, even with her hazy grip on mathematics, she realizes that she’s on the slippery slope to the big four-oh! With the thought suddenly lodged in her mind that she’s a mere cat’s whisker away from becoming a single eccentric female living in a country cottage in Wales, she has the urge to do something dramatic before it’s too late.

  The trouble is, as an adventurous woman of a certain age, Sappho’s pretty much been there, done that, got the T-shirt. In fact, the only thing she hasn’t tried is motherhood. And with sexy potter Nye on hand as a potential daddy – or at least donor – is it time for her to consider the biggest leap of all? It’s either that or buy a cat …

  A Good Heart is Hard to Find

  Trisha Ashley

  Cassandra Leigh has woken as if from a bad dream: forty-four, childless and twenty-plus years into an affair with a married man. Max assures her that one day soon they will be able to marry, but Cass is desperate for a baby and running out of time. Maybe Max is not the only man for her?

  There’s her friend Jason – though he’s perhaps a little too rugged, and there’s something strange about the way his wife disappeared. Or there’s Dante, the mysterious stranger she meets on a dark night in his haunted manor house …

  Cass must throw caution to the wind and claim the life she’s always wanted. Suddenly, it’s a choice between Mr Right, Mr Wrong or Mr Right Now …

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