The Secret of Hollyfield House, Jude Bayton [books for 20 year olds txt] 📗

quick halt not far down the street and a liveried coachman rushed back to assess the damage.

My rescuer turned on the driver with a scowl. “Good God, man. You should pay attention where you are going. This poor woman could have been killed!”

“…She stepped right out in front of me,” the driver protested, his face white as a sheet. I began to say something but was distracted when the carriage door swung open and a passenger alighted, heading in our direction.

She wore a striking sapphire blue travelling suit, her mass of blonde hair artfully scooped up into an elaborate bun, underneath a matching jaunty felt hat. With eyes blue as forget-me-nots, her expression was one of genuine concern.

“Oh, dear.” She came to stand before me, inspecting my face as an artist studies his subject. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said unconvincingly. “At least I shall be once I catch my breath.” I still felt winded, and my legs trembled—though it was hardly surprising after the morning I had already endured.

“Come.” She grasped my arm firmly and glanced at her driver. “We must go somewhere close where the lady may rest and perhaps take refreshment.” Dismissing the stranger with a polite thank you, she led me a short way down the street into a tearoom before I could protest. In truth, I was rather relieved to sit. I was queasy, and my spine was sore where it had taken the brunt of my fall.

The lady gave our order to the hostess as she took me inside the establishment. We settled into our seats and, before long, a waitress brought over a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of hot, buttered crumpets.

“There now,” said the young lady. “This should set you to rights, I’ll be bound.”

I did not respond but watched her pour me a cup for which I was most grateful. I eyed the crumpets. Perhaps they would help settle my nausea. “May I?” I enquired boldly, glancing at the food.

“Certainly, please help yourself,” she said.

I did not hesitate. I took one bite and at once my upset stomach decided it was ravenous.

“Goodness, you must think me so rude,” the lady said as I ate. “Here we are at tea, and I have yet to even introduce myself. I am Evergreen LaVelle. May I ask your name?”

I swallowed and dabbed my lips with the serviette. “Jillian Farraday, miss.”

She gave me a pretty smile. “Are you new to Ambleside? I do not recognise you.”

“Yes. I am recently moved from Devon.”

“Indeed?” Her blue eyes sparkled. She looked like a porcelain doll, smooth and delicate, not a hair out of place. I shuddered to think how I looked.

“I have never been to Devon,” she continued. “Pray, tell me. What brings you to our Lake District?” She removed elegant white cotton gloves, set them upon the table, and then helped herself to a piece of a crumpet. She placed it delicately in her mouth, and I became uncomfortably aware that in comparison, I had devoured mine like a rabid dog.

“I moved here to work for my great-uncle. He lives in Ambleside.”

Miss LaVelle's eyebrows raised. “Indeed, what is it you do?” I believe she thought me his maid or housekeeper.

“I am a secretary. Uncle Jasper is an academic. He does much in the way of research on lichens and flora. I transcribe his studies which are sent to various agricultural colleges in the country.”

There was an immediate change in her countenance. I had apparently been elevated in status.

“Would that be Professor Alexander, by chance?” She took another sip of tea.

“Why, yes. Do you know him?”

“Not really—but Father does.” Miss LaVelle placed her teacup back in its saucer and her expression grew thoughtful. “Miss Farraday, I am sincerely sorry about what happened with our coach. Are you sure you do not require a physician?”

“Positive, thank you. I shall have a few aches and pains, but I will recover.” I did not mention what I had witnessed earlier that morning. Those wounds would scar.

She was not mollified. “But I feel dreadful about this. You will at least allow me to take you home in the carriage?” Her pretty eyes glittered with an idea. “And you must come for luncheon on Friday. That way, I can ensure you are fully recovered.”

“Oh, that is not necessary,” I stammered, shocked at her invitation.

She reached into her reticule and retrieved a small, embossed card. “Please.” She touched my forearm and gave a mournful smile. “I should so enjoy speaking with you again, and it would be far more comfortable at Hollyfield. Say you’ll come.”

I hesitated. I had no desire whatsoever to do as she asked, but something in her face made me reconsider. Surely she could not be lonely? I was uncertain. Yet as I examined all the reasons I should decline, I heard myself accept both her card and her invitation.

THAT EVENING, WHEN UNCLE Jasper finally returned from his trek across the hills, he discovered me in the kitchen with Mrs Stackpoole, the housekeeper. I cradled a mug of beef tea between my hands, which she had insisted upon making after hearing my shocking news. I still could not shake the image of the dead man from my mind.

The day had stayed warm, yet with the sun gone, the evening brought with it a slight chill, so we sat before the stove warming ourselves.

“What’s this, then?” Uncle Jasper put down his satchel and pulled off his boots in the mud room. He strode into the kitchen, leaving a trail of dried dirt from his thick wool socks. “Good evening, ladies. Am I late for dinner?” Sparse grey hair on his head stuck up at awkward angles. His face was ruddy from a day of wind and sun, and his round glasses threatened to slip off his snubbed nose.

“Professor, do have a care. I have just this day swept the blasted floor.” Mrs Stackpoole shot to her feet, throwing a disapproving glare in his direction. She put the kettle