‘I can’t go on like this! Having you there beside me, seeing you every day … I thought … dear me, I’m not putting this very well, am I? I’m as tongue-tied as one of the lads caught stealing apples!’
‘You thought?’ Polly encouraged.
‘Last year when I went to Chester seeking you out, it struck me what a good position you’d held there. Your master wanted you back – in truth, the entire household wanted it. And I thought, who was I to stand in your way? You may have wanted the chance to return. Even now, it could still be possible. A secure position with a well-to-do family. It isn’t to be sniffed at, Polly.’
She shook her head, her face brimming with emotion.
‘John, I’d give up a thousand such opportunities to remain here at your side. Always.’
‘Truly?’ You will be my wife?’
‘I should be honoured. I love you, John. I always have.’
He took her in his arms.
‘My own dearest love. I have a confession to make. It was your papa sent me here. “Tell her what’s in your heart, you young idiot,” he said. “I know my Polly. You don’t want to lose her, do you?” After those words I couldn’t get here fast enough!’
John’s lips came down on hers. And then, leaving that quiet place to the rippling breeze and the scent of roses, the couple walked back home together.
A door slammed from somewhere at the front of the house, jerking Thea awake.
‘Thea? Are you in here?’
‘Yes, Dad. I’m in the kitchen.’
Chas came stomping into the room in his heavyweight rubber boots, leaving a trail of dried mud in his wake.
‘I saw your car outside. Been having a look round?’
‘Yes, I was just thinking—’ Thea broke off, disorientated.
‘About the house and what’s to be done with it?’ Her father sighed heavily. ‘Blessed if I know!’
‘Me, neither. It’s such a lovely house. I’d hate it to go out of the family.’
‘I daresay that’s inevitable at some point. Funny old place. I wouldn’t mind betting it’s got a few tales to tell.’
‘You could be right.’ Thea shot him a wry look. ‘It’s the history group meeting tonight. One of the members is bringing in some early parish registers. I’ll see if there’s any mention of this house. It’ll be interesting.’
‘It won’t find us a tenant, though, will it? Not to worry. Something’s sure to turn up,’ Chas said comfortably. ‘Are you coming? Those ponies are tearing round the field shouting their heads off. They must know you’re here. You look frozen, lass. A bit of mucking out will no doubt warm you up!’
That evening at the meeting, confronted with pages and pages of closely scripted copperplate, Thea’s task seemed impossible. She tried a second volume and had more luck. About a quarter of the way through she found recorded the marriage of Edward Dakin, lawyer, to Susanna Marsdon, spinster of the parish. It was dated 3 August, 1835.
In the spring of the following year John Royle had wed his Polly.
In another leather-bound book Thea came across the baptism of Polly and John’s only daughter. How the name Royle had become Partington was also made clear. The daughter had married a certain Charles Partington of Woodhey Farm, Parkgate, thus joining the two properties.
Thea stared, hardly able to believe what she saw, a monumental relief rippling through her. She wasn’t going out of her mind. The people she had dreamed of really had existed!
She wanted, badly, to ring Dominic and tell him of her discovery. He’d be interested.
Later, back home again, Mae had some news.
‘Tracey rang shortly after you’d left. She couldn’t speak for long. They were at a gig – oh, the background noise! I could hardly hear what she said.’
‘Was it something important?’ Thea asked.
‘Worrying, I’d say. She wants me to look in on her mother. Apparently Jenny Kent’s been given notice to quit. Her landlord has plans for the cottage and wants her out. The very idea!’
‘But surely he can’t do that? Jenny’s been there for years. As a sitting tenant she’ll have rights.’
‘That depends,’ Chas put in behind the evening paper. He put it aside, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with his fist. ‘Rentals can have small print that’s easily overlooked – especially by those desperate for a roof over their heads. Jenny Kent was left with a small child – Tracey – to bring up, wasn’t she?’
Thea nodded.
‘That’s right. Tracey never speaks of her father. He upped and left … I think.’ She stopped, awareness blazing in her face. ‘That’s it!’ she gasped. ‘The Harbour House! It can go to Richard and Tracey.’
Chas shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. What’ll they want with a house? If what Richard says is right they’ll be spending the next few years on tour,’ he said.
‘But not all the time.’ Thea gestured excitedly with her hands, words tumbling from her lips.
‘Mum, Dad, don’t you see? It’d be ideal for them. It’s big, great for entertaining. They could even make a recording studio there if they wanted. It’s isolated, no neighbours to be disturbed. Best of all, Jenny could live there and look after the house for them while they’re away!’
‘Of course!’ Mae said wonderingly. ‘It’s all so obvious I can’t think why we never came up with it before. Darling, you’re brilliant! ’
‘I know!’ Thea grinned at her mother. ‘There’s room for Jenny to make a flat if she prefers it. The old stables would do a great conversion.’
‘Stables?’ Chas frowned. ‘You mean the garages and outbuildings? ’
‘Well, yes,’ Thea said, thinking back, her smile broadening. What a story she’d have to tell her grandchildren one day. Always supposing she ever had any!
She drew out her mobile.
‘I’d better text Tracey. I’ll tell her to stop worrying, we’ve hit on a perfect solution, and suggest she rings back the moment she’s free.’
Bryony wanted to hug herself. Her wedding dress had been delivered that morning and now hung in all its splendour in her old bedroom at Woodhey.
‘It’s gorgeous!’ Liz pronounced soberly.
Doing the rounds of bridal boutiques and department stores with her mother, Bryony had discarded the modern look and gone for tradition. The gown was pure Victoriana, high-necked, long sleeves, frilled and flourished, a whisper of ivory silk and lace.
The one break with tradition was the reception, which was to be held at the groom’s house instead of the bride’s, Roseacre having the space to house the marquee next to Helen’s celebrated rose garden.
‘I’m so pleased with my dress, too.’ Liz grinned. ‘But when you insisted on the old-fashioned frock, I wanted to back out. I mean, ringlets, flounces and gold satin? Me?’
‘Amber satin,’ Bryony corrected merrily. ‘The colour’s perfect for you, especially now your hair’s grown back to its natural shade.’
‘Boring brown.’ Liz made a little face, but her eyes were smiling. ‘Wish it would grow longer. It’s taken ages to get just to jaw length. D’you think Michelle will be able to do something with it on the day?’
Michelle, an old school friend, worked in a salon in town and was delighted to be second bridesmaid.
‘Sure to,’ Bryony said. ‘She’s got magic in her fingers, trust me – and anyway, you’ve time yet. Still six weeks to go. You’ll look terrific, both being so dark.’
‘Well, it’ll make a contrast to the blonde bride! What colour’s your mother wearing?’
‘Ice blue. Thea’s chosen a sort of silver-grey. A trouser suit with a long jacket, terribly elegant.’
‘Thea’s got class. That sort of look never dates.’
‘I know. Just think, she’ll still look a million dollars when the rest of us are grey and wrinkled!’
‘Best make the most of things, then.’ Liz grinned. ‘You’ll stun Geoff in that dress. He’ll be knocked speechless!’
‘H
e’d better not be. I want those marriage vows ringing out for all to hear.’
Sweeping up the dress, Bryony held it to her, suddenly serious.
When Liz left, Bryony hung up the dress under its layers of protective wrapping, headed for the sitting-room and sat down at her mother’s polished kneehole desk. On the top of the desk was a stack of neatly written invitations that were stamped and ready for posting.
Checking off the names against the list she and Geoff had painstakingly compiled, Bryony picked up the pen and completed those that remained.
Her sister’s face swam before her mind’s eye. Tranquil, arresting, the eyes somewhat withdrawn of late, the chin upheld in typical Thea pose. She had been terrific over the events leading up to all this. What could Bryony do in return.
On impulse, she drew forward a final invitation card and wrote Dominic Shane’s name on it. She had to scan her pocket book for the address. It came to light at last scrawled on the inside back cover – a coastal town in the Republic of Ireland. Having addressed the envelope, she realized it would have to go through the post office instead of the post-box.
It looked like rain and Bryony put the envelope aside, wondering whether to bother after all.
‘Going to the post-box,’ she called to her mother in the kitchen. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Right. Take your coat. It’s April showers.’
Bryony had gone halfway down the farm track when her steps faltered. It was a pearl of a day, not raining yet, the air fresh and sweet. A walk would do her good.
Retracing her steps to the house, she snatched up the abandoned small, white envelope and set off again, cutting across the fields. She was smiling as she entered the village.
‘How on earth,’ Thea murmured to herself in the mirror, ‘do I get through today?’
It was a perfect June morning, the birds singing, the sky gloriously blue and gold. As on the day before, the old farmhouse teemed with guests. Voices and laughter issued from the next bedroom, where the bride and bridesmaids were preparing for the big event.
The flowers had arrived. The horse-drawn carriage Bryony had insisted upon was waiting in the yard that had been hosed and swept to a pristine cleanliness by Chas. In the distance, the grey-green sweep of saltmarsh met an estuary sparkling in sunlight.
Oh Mary, go and call the cattle home
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.
The western wind was wild and dank with foam
And all alone went she.
Throughout the night the poem so beloved by Dominic had prowled her dreams. A few days before she had heard from him. Nothing much. A postcard featuring an Irish racing print on one side and a hasty scrawl on the other, enquiring after the ponies and wishing her well.
She had received other such missives from time to time, an email or a text, and had geared herself to look upon them as tokens of friendship rather than anything more serious.
The words of the verse were with her still; dark, full of imagery, poignant.
‘Thea! The cars are here,’ her mother’s voice trilled from the hall.
‘Coming.’
Arranging the broad-brimmed wedding hat over her hair that was dressed in an elegant coil on the nape of her neck for the occasion, Thea took a few sustaining breaths, lifted her chin resolutely and, collecting her handbag from the bed, left the room.
As she did so, the first pealing of church bells drifted across the fields.
Inside the church, all was hushed. There was a mingled smell of flowers, perfume and old stone. Thea, her silk-clad back ramrod straight, sat with her family on a front pew. To her right were her brother and his wife. Next to them was her mother, her handbag occupying the space shortly to be taken by Chas.
Mum and Dad, Richard and Tracey, aunts and uncles and all the rest. Couples everywhere the eye fell, here to celebrate the joining of yet another union. Only she, Thea, sat alone. She glanced down at the space on her left that would remain just that throughout the ceremony. It seemed to mock her.
Beyond, the north aisle was shadowed, although in the available pews an assembly of villagers had congregated in smiling numbers to watch the proceedings.
On the other side of the main aisle, Geoff’s fairish head and the darker one of his best man could be seen.
Please, please let me get through this, Thea beseeched silently.
The organ started playing and Bryony was there, looking so ethereal and lovely that breath was collectively held as she drifted down the aisle on her father’s arm. Chas cut a dignified and rather distant figure in his uncharacteristic wedding finery, and was almost bursting with pride as he beheld his youngest child.
As Bryony gained the altar where her groom waited and the vicar intoned the opening phrases, Thea realized her hands were clenched. She was making a concentrated effort to relax, when all at once the church door creaked open to admit a latecomer, closing again with a small, distinct click.
Aware of movement behind her, a tip-toed step approaching along the worn red and blue carpeted north aisle, Thea turned her head to investigate … and her eyes widened in surprise.
Dominic slipped into the empty space beside her. Tall, good-looking, smart in charcoal grey, the riotous dark hair hastily tamed with a brush, Dominic’s intensely blue eyes were not on the bride, but on Thea. He reached out, took her hand and, lacing her fingers tellingly in his, sent her a hesitant smile.
Thea’s heart pounded. Such a lot could be read in that smile. Remorse, contrition, a degree of hope and above all, love.
It was as if a fog had lifted. He had come for her. Now, they could move on.
Everything was going to be all right, after all.
Across the Sands of Time Page 23
