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

will collect me at noon.” I leaned forward and passed it to the housekeeper.

Mrs Stackpoole studied it and returned it to me. “How very nice,” the housekeeper said with sarcasm. “It’s the least she can do after practically runnin’ you over. I imagine she’ll have a nice spread put on for you, an’ so she should. I think it’s best you go. If nothin’ else, you’ll get a dandy look at the Lavelle’s home. Hollyfield House is right on Lake Windemere, just past Wolfe Farm. Ooh, ’tis a lovely old place—well I always thought so.” She raised an eyebrow. “Wait ’til your uncle hears about it. He’ll be right pleased you’ve an invite there.”

I wish I felt the same, for I was not particularly thrilled about the prospect of dining with a stranger. As it was, my mind was at sixes and sevens. I was jumpy and unsettled.

I put the card away. “I may send my regrets and not go.”

Mrs Stackpoole put down her toast and glared at me. “Now, Jillian,” she chastised. “It don’t do no harm to be on good terms with the local gentry. The LaVelles have lived in Ambleside on an’ off several years. I’ll admit they’re an odd family, what with that eastern fellow living under the same roof. But Mr Victor LaVelle, he’s a good sort.” She tapped one side of her nose. “An’ there’s plenty of money there I can tell you. If you don’t go, they will think you ungrateful, an’ that would look bad for your uncle, now. Wouldn’t it?”

I groaned. “But I have nothing appropriate to wear, Mrs Stackpoole. I am not in the habit of taking tea with high society folk.” I owned a few dresses, but they had all seen better days. Seldom did I venture anywhere to warrant the purchase of new clothing. Now I was more than aware of my lack of finery, not to mention my inability to arrange my undisciplined plain brown hair. I considered Evergreen LaVelle with her beautiful blonde tresses and tailored clothing. How envious I was of someone pretty as she. Her skin was alabaster to my sun browned face, her lovely eyes so blue, and mine green as a cat's.

“Truly, I would rather stay here,” I complained.

Mrs Stackpoole fixed me with a harsh stare. “That’s as may be, Miss Jillian. But I’ll remind you your behavior not only affects your reputation, but the professor’s too. ’Tis a nice gesture Miss Evergreen has offered, an’ you should mind your manners an’ go along for luncheon.” She smiled to soften her words. “What harm is there to be had? At the very least you’ll get something fancy to eat.”

AFTER BREAKFAST, I SET OFF on an errand to purchase stamps for Uncle Jasper. When I passed the butchers, I noticed people clustered in small groups talking. As I drew closer, one or two peered in my direction. I guessed why—and hurried along.

I reached Ambleside Post Office, and as I put my hand on the doorknob it suddenly swung open to reveal a man so intent on reading a letter, that he bumped right into me. With an earnest apology, he excused himself, smiled, and held open the door for me to step inside. I glanced at his face which studied my own intently, and I managed a quiet ‘thank you’.

Mr Bonfield smiled a toothless grin from behind his counter. “Hello, again, Miss Jillian.” His rheumy eyes squinted through thick spectacles. He had befriended me as I came regularly to post Uncle’s work to several colleges across the country.

“Good day, Mr Bonfield. May I purchase three first-class stamps please, and a bottle of your dark blue India ink, as well.”

The older man opened a drawer and fished out the stamps which he slid into a piece of creased paper. Then he disappeared into the storeroom for a moment, returning with a small bottle of ink. He handed them both to me, and I placed them in my basket.

He tilted his head. “How are you feelin’, Miss Jillian, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I am well, thank you.”

“Terrible business if you ask me,” he said soberly.

Comprehension dawned. I glanced out through the window to where the villagers still gathered. “Yes. It is dreadful. I am so terribly sorry for the man, and his relatives.” His image came into my mind and I forced it away.

“Lucky really he had no family, just his old mother. An’ she’s beside herself with grief—poor dear.”

“You knew him then?” My pulse picked up speed.

“Why yes, Miss Jillian. Everyone did. ’Twas Jareth Flynn, our village blacksmith, you found floatin’ in yon lake.”

I gasped. But then the door behind me opened, and another customer entered the shop. Stepping back quickly, I sought a moment to compose myself and suppress the nausea rising in my belly. Would it always be thus with the recollection of yesterday’s tragic event? I turned my attention to a free-standing turnstile displaying varieties of postcards. I willed my mind away from the ghastly memory at Lake Windemere and forced my eyes upon the pretty cards instead.

They depicted tiny portraits of the area. I studied them and found them lovely indeed. There were lake scenes with sailboats on the horizon, paintings of velvet green hills with rambling pathways, and fields dotted with sheep. My favourite was a beautiful depiction of a waterfall. Whoever created these was a talented artist.

I left the post office and turned in an alternate direction to avoid the ever-growing crowd of people gossiping on the corner. I took a detour to walk past the mill, for I loved the old building. Though still a newcomer to the village, this part of it was my best discovery so far. I loved to stand on the ancient stone bridge, watching the enormous wooden mill wheel turn in the narrow river. The constant movement churned rushing water into small foam-flecked waves. Having been born so close to the sea, I felt a tranquil calm descend whenever I was