She was hungry and, with no Kit to make her supper, she wandered downstairs to prepare it herself. The spring day had disappeared like a memory and the evening had turned chilly. She lit the fire, using what she was sure were Kit’s exact techniques but, as usual, it refused to ignite with the same verve.
After a supper of cheese on toast, the evening hours stretched out before her. Julia resolved she would buy a television – anything to dull the heavy silence that had fallen across the cottage since Kit had left.
Later, she took herself upstairs to bed. As she heard the clock from the church strike midnight, Julia admitted to herself that she missed him.
The next morning, Julia sat on the bench in front of her cottage, enjoying the warm spring-like air, and pondered her future. The fact that she believed she even had one was a revelation to her. What it actually held in store, she didn’t know.
The only certainty in her mind was that she no longer wanted to stay here at the cottage. Since Kit had left, the hours had dragged interminably. She knew she had too much time to think. And, although it galled her to admit it, she was probably emotionally vulnerable. She was sure the reason she missed Kit was simply because he had shown her kindness in her hour of need.
If nothing else, the feelings engendered by his departure had given her the prod she needed to make some decisions at last. Frustrated by her own lack of inspiration, she slammed her palm down on the wooden bench, making two nearby ducks ruffle their feathers and turn tail in disgust.
‘Enough,’ she muttered to herself. She would make arrangements to go back to France as soon as possible. There might be difficult memories, but at least it was home
.
And far away from here.
Her mobile rang and she picked it up, glad of the distraction.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hi, Julia, it’s Kit.’
‘Hi,’ she returned, feeling her cheeks flush involuntarily.
‘I was just calling to find out how my patient is.’
‘Better, definitely better, thank you.’
‘Good. Then do you think you might be able to stagger over to Wharton Park for supper with me tonight?’
‘I think I might, yes,’ Julia smiled.
‘About eightish?’
‘Okay. Do you need me to bring anything?’
‘Just you will do fine.’
Julia felt her cheeks redden further. ‘See you then.’
‘Look forward to it. Bye, Julia.’
‘Bye.’
Julia put her mobile down on the bench and stared into space, horrified by how happy she suddenly felt. Surely,
surely
it was impossible for her to be, well, interested in a man? Only months after her husband had died?
Of course it was.
Julia stood up, as if the physical motion would clear the thoughts from her mind, wipe away the tingling feeling that had surged up her spine when she’d heard his voice, stem the sudden excitement at the thought of seeing him again tomorrow …
It didn’t. She sauntered inside, feeling guilty and confused but also, in spite of herself, experiencing something she vaguely recognised as expectation.
After lunch, she drove to Holt and bought a silk shirt, jeans, two soft cashmere jumpers and a pair of boots. She’d wear the shirt and jeans tomorrow night, she thought, as she walked down the High Street to stow her bags in the car, then chided herself for even thinking about it. It was hardly a date … was it? Besides, the one pair of jeans and summer top she had been wearing when Alicia brought her from France to England, and a couple of things she’d borrowed from her since, did not constitute a wardrobe bulging with clothes.
Just as she was turning into the car park, she heard someone calling her name. She turned round and saw Alicia waving at her.
‘Hi, Julia!’ Alicia caught up with her and smiled. ‘You’ve saved me a wasted journey. I was just on my way to see you.’ She eyed the carrier bags. ‘Been shopping?’
‘Yes,’ Julia admitted.
‘You’re feeling better then?’
‘Yes, thanks, lots.’
‘Good,’ Alicia nodded. ‘Good,’ she repeated. ‘Actually, Julia, if you’re up to it, I was wondering whether you’d like to come to supper tonight? We have some friends joining us. It might be nice for you to meet some people locally,’ she encouraged.
‘I can’t, but thanks for the invite.’
Alicia looked at her sister suspiciously. ‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Can’t.’ Julia was reluctant to say more.
‘Why?’ Alicia probed.
Julia sighed in frustration. ‘Because I’ve already accepted another invitation, that’s why.’
‘Really?’ The surprise showed on Alicia’s face. As far as she was aware, Julia knew no one and had not been out of the cottage socially since she had arrived. ‘Where to?’
‘Honestly, Alicia!’ Julia snapped, her irritation getting the better of her. ‘Kit’s invited me to Wharton Park for supper, okay?’
‘Okay, okay. Sorry. I –’ she grinned and indicated the bag. ‘Planning on wearing something new?’
‘Probably.’ Julia mentally begged her cheeks not to colour. ‘Look, Alicia, I really have to go and buy a television before the shop shuts at five. I’ll call you.’
‘Promise?’ Alicia asked Julia’s back as she walked away hastily towards the car park.
‘Yes. Bye.’
‘Have a good time tonight,’ she called, as Julia disappeared from view. Alicia allowed herself a smile at her sister’s disclosure, then set off to the dry-cleaners’ to pick up Max’s shirts.
27
Julia pulled her car to a stop in front of the crumbling stone steps that led up to the main entrance of Wharton Park. The house was in darkness, with the magnificent oak front door ominously closed. She realised she hadn’t asked Kit which entrance she should use. It didn’t seem this was the one. Stepping out of the car, clutching her bottle of wine, Julia locked it and walked round the corner of the house towards the more familiar servants’ entrance.
As she walked, she noticed adrenalin was pumping round her system; why she felt nervous, she couldn’t fathom. This was simply a relaxed supper with a friend, after all. A man she knew almost nothing about, who might well be married with kids. Kit had never said and she hadn’t asked.
Julia stood in front of the servants’ door, glad to see that at least there seemed to be a light on beyond it. She took a deep breath and knocked.
A few seconds later, Kit appeared and unlocked the door.
‘Hi, Julia,’ he kissed her on both cheeks, ‘come in.’
‘Thanks.’ Julia duly followed him through the boot room and into the kitchen. ‘I brought you some wine.’ She indicated the bottle as she set it down on the same pine table she had once sat at as a child.
‘Thanks,’ said Kit, staring at her. ‘Blimey, you look better. And that colour you’re wearing really suits you,’ he said admiringly, indicating her new shirt. ‘Seems Doctor Crawford’s care has worked wonders. White or red?’ he asked, hovering by the pantry door.
‘Either,’ said Julia, wishing her tongue could untie itself and she could relax. She gazed at Kit as he walked to the fridge, his long legs clad in jeans, his torso in a freshly ironed pink shirt.
‘We’ll start with white then.’ He took a bottle from the fridge door and came back into the kitchen to open it. ‘I’m afraid it’s a voyage of discovery in terms of what this will taste like. The cellar’s full of French wine, some of it dating back years. Some have aged better than others, as you can imagine. This will be nectar or vinegar.’ He pulled out the cork and sniffed it. ‘Neither, actually, but definitely drinkable.’
‘Perhaps you should get an expert in to take a look. There might be some valuable bottles down there. Xavier, my … husband, once bought a bottle for two thousand euros at an auction.’
‘And did it taste like two thousand euros when you drank it?’ asked Kit, handing her a glass.
‘It tasted nice but not exceptional. I always said he must have been drunk when he bought it.’ Julia grinned.
‘Emperor’s New Clothes and all that, in my opinion,’ said Kit, taking a tentative sip of his wine. ‘Bit like caviar and truffles; call me a philistine but I don’t understand the appeal of a few fish eggs or a simple mushroom. But, then, I eat to live, not vice versa. Or perhaps I’m simply jealous of the money it takes to indulge these whims. In the hierarchy of my needs, they currently feature somewhere down in Australia. Anyway, cheers, Julia. Welcome back to Wharton Park.’
‘Thank you for inviting me,’ Julia replied stiffly, taking a gulp of wine and hoping it would loosen her up. ‘How did the meeting with the solicitor go?’
‘Actually, that’s why I asked you here tonight. I need another opinion on the situation. And who better than someone who’s always loved this old place?’ He moved towards the ancient black range. ‘Whilst I concoct the pasta sauce, I shall pour out my troubles to you.’
‘Fire away,’ said Julia, ‘it’ll make a change listening to someone else’s woes.’
‘The sale of Wharton Park has fallen through.’
‘Oh, Kit! No! Why?’
‘Just another story of our times,’ he answered evenly. ‘We were meant to exchange yesterday, but when it got to the table, the buyer’s solicitor announced he wanted the price reduced by a million, to take into account the drop in house prices since this deal was first negotiated. Apparently, Mr Hedge-Fund has taken a bit of a lashing on the old markets and can’t afford to pay any more.’
‘Do you believe him?’ ventured Julia, wondering why she hadn’t noticed before what beautiful eyes Kit had.
‘Who knows? At present, I can’t decide whether he’s an evil, conniving bastard, or an evil, conniving bastard,’ Kit muttered, poking the boiling pasta with a fork. ‘The point is, he realises that in a market like this I’m going to struggle to find another buyer. He holds the nap hand.’
‘I see. What an evil, conniving bastard,’ Julia sympathized, trying to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘Can you afford to sell it for less?’
‘Not with the debt the estate is currently in, plus the death duties on the small amount that’s left over. But, to cap it all, Mr Hedge-Fund has also demanded I throw in the Quadrangle. He’s decided he doesn’t want neighbours at such close-quarters and, to be frank,’ admitted Kit, ‘that has really pissed me off.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Julia. ‘Especially as he’s waited till the last minute to do it.’
‘Well,’ Kit raised his eyebrows, ‘that’s how the rich get richer, isn’t it? The fact I’d negotiated the Quad out of the deal and decided to make my home there, somehow managed to make the idea of selling the estate more palatable. And … I admit it,’ Kit held up his hands, ‘this place is getting to me. Which has surprised me, given that I never formed an attachment to it when I was here as a child. But yes, it’s true. The longer I’m here, the more difficult it gets to contemplate selling Wharton Park.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
Kit poured the pasta into a strainer and served it with the sauce into two bowls. ‘Well now, that’s the million-dollar question. Right, dinner is served.’ He refilled their wine glasses and sat down at the table opposite her.
‘Thanks for this, Kit. It smells yummy.’
‘Good. I like cooking. Or, at least, experimenting. Dig in before it gets cold.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not much of an expert in the cooking department,’ she admitted, taking a mouthful.
‘Merely a matter of practise, and I can’t imagine you’ve had much of that, given your lifestyle. Besides, pretty disastrous if you managed to chop off a finger whilst peeling the veg.’ Kit’s eyes twinkled. ‘Might engender a few missing notes in Mr Chopin’s ‘Études’
.
’
‘So, what are you going to do about Wharton Park?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Kit admitted. ‘What would you do?’
‘Oh, Kit.’ Julia shook her head, ‘I’m probably not the person to ask. You know how I love Wharton Park. And I also know my sense of fair play would get the better of me. So, I’d almost certainly tell him to bugger off,’ she smiled. ‘But that’s just me, and doesn’t take into account the financial ramifications. I mean, if you don’t sell it to Mr Hedge-Fund, what will you do? Can you afford to keep the place going until someone else comes along?’
‘Well, last night I looked through the books and this morning I paid a visit to the estate accountant. It seems that, with the income from the farm and the tenants in the cottages on the estate, it currently runs at a small loss. But that’s because any profit is servicing the interest on the debt.’ Kit poured himself some more wine. ‘The accountant pointed out that the estate could easily be turned round with a little attention to detail. The debts could be consolidated into a single mortgage on a lower interest rate, to free up funds to plough back into buying some modern equipment, and finding a good estate manager who knows what he’s doing.’
‘That all sounds very positive,’ said Julia.
‘Yes, but there still isn’t a bean to spare to sort out the house itself,’ Kit sighed. ‘The surveyor who came round when I was first thinking of selling, reckoned it would cost a couple of million at least to prevent the building crumbling away before my very eyes. And that doesn’t take into account any interior refurbishment, like a new kitchen or perhaps the odd bath one can use, without becoming dirtier than before one climbed in. There are sixteen bathrooms in the house,’ he added, ‘and, of course, I just don’t have that kind of money.’