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

The thought was disconcerting, yet the reality was the two of them had likely been friendly long before my arrival in Ambleside. Had I inadvertently spoiled their situation? Though it was uncomfortable visualizing the two of them in any kind of romantic situation, I held no poor opinion if they were involved. Good for them. Life was too short to spend unhappy and alone.

Alone—which is what I was. My mind travelled to the Wolfe brothers. I longed to know what was happening with Billy now Mr LaVelle had arrived. And where was Dominic at this very moment? Perhaps at Hollyfield House with Victor LaVelle? Or on the farm? I wanted nothing more than to go to him and find out if there was any news. Apart from the impropriety of my visiting alone, it was too late in the day. Dominic would be busy tending to the livestock.

I found myself strolling along the road towards the village. Plenty of people were out and about—some were familiar faces who acknowledged me. I walked along with no particular destination past the old mill. I paused on the bridge, remembering it was where I had first met Dominic.

The afternoon was drawing to a close and I turned back to go home. But as I neared the bakery, a delectable fragrance of hot pies wafted in my face. They smelled so delicious, that on a whim of indulgence, I popped inside and purchased one.

The hot pastry was so flaky, it melted in my mouth and the beef was rich and tender. I walked along the road trying to eat the blasted thing without making a mess but was having little success. I spied a bench outside the village church. I had plenty of time before it would grow dark, so I sat down to finish my pie.

Ambleside Village was not so different from my home in Devon. The people here were friendly enough, the lake and surrounding area scenic and interesting. I did miss the sea, but then I considered it natural. ‘When you are born with salt air in your lungs, you’ll always pine for the water,’ my mother had often said. I missed her so much. Each day there would be a moment when her face would float into my thoughts, and my heart would ache.

“You goin’ to eat all o’ that?”

I started at the unfamiliar voice. A woman stood not a few yards away, dressed in ragged clothing and a man’s scruffy overcoat. Her hair was wild. Long, tangled, and so filthy I could not determine its colour. She looked older than Uncle Jasper, though it would be difficult to guess her actual age.

“Who are you?” It was all I could say. She stepped a little closer, and my nostrils involuntarily tried to staunch the fetid odour emanating from her unwashed body.

She gave a semblance of a smile, which twisted her face, as though one side of it would not work or move. “Peggy Nash, though I’ve not clapped eyes on you afore, missy, an’ I know all the folk ’ere in Ambleside.” Her eyes darted to the pie in my hands. I held it out to her, and she moved quickly to snatch it from me and stepped back again. I watched as the woman thrust the food into her mouth as though starved. Guiltily I looked away, embarrassed by my good fortune while she must not have eaten for a while. She wiped the back of her hand against her mouth when she was finished.

“Will you tell me yer name then?” she asked, her voice thin and sharp.

I glanced at her, unsure if I should, then shrugged off my misgivings. “I am Jillian Farraday. I live with my uncle, Jasper Alexander.”

Her eyes brightened. “The professor?”

“Yes.”

She grinned again, and I realised she must have had a stroke or some such ailment as the right side of her face was practically frozen in place.

“’E’s nice, the professor,” she said. “’E gives me ‘alf ‘is sandwich when I see ’im on a ramble.” That made me smile. I could imagine Uncle Jasper doing just that. His kindness was one of his most endearing qualities.

I rose from the bench, ready to go home. “Yes, my uncle is a good man. Now I must be on my way, Miss Nash. It was nice to make your acquaintance.” The comment sounded ostentatious even to my ears, I was not leaving a soiree, but walking away from an unwashed woman in beggar’s clothes, who had just eaten my leftover pie. It was a bizarre encounter. Peggy Nash did not utter a goodbye, but I could feel her eyes on my back as I headed down the street.

UNCLE JASPER AND MRS STACKPOOLE were eating at the kitchen table when I arrived home.

“Why, there you are, Miss Jillian,” the housekeeper announced. “We would have waited, but the professor was hungry.”

I went to the sink and poured myself a mug of water. “That is all right, Mrs Stackpoole. I went out for a walk and then treated myself to a nice steak pie.” I caught her look of disappointment. “I happened to walk by the bakers when they had just come out of the oven. They smelled so good I could not resist.”

“Well,” she said mollified. “As long as you’ve had somethin’.”

Uncle Jasper took his last bite and beckoned me to join them at the table. “Mrs S. has made a rhubarb crumble. I am sure you have room for some?”

“Absolutely.” I took a seat and was pleased to see the housekeeper happy with my enthusiasm. She set three bowls in front of us and began spooning out the hot dessert.

“’Tis unlike you to be out in the evening, Jilly. Where did you go?” said Uncle Jasper.

“Nowhere special. I walked into the village over to the mill. On the way home I stopped and bought the pie, then sat on the church bench and ate it there and then.”

“Did you indeed?” He laughed. “How cavalier of you, my girl.