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

She paused. “Come. Enough of us being maudlin. Shall we walk a while longer?”

“I do not think so,” I said, my mood darkened by memories. I was unused to such company and had stayed long enough to be polite. “I must return home, Miss LaVelle. I have multiple tasks to finish before my uncle returns.”

Her face registered disappointment. “Oh, do call me Evergreen, please. I wish you might stay a while longer, Jillian. Still, you must come again.” Her blue eyes implored. “I shall not take no for an answer.”

I imagined Miss LaVelle often got her way, and in truth, it would be hard to turn down so friendly and engaging a person. “Perhaps.” I would not commit to her enquiry, and I could see she had expected acquiescence.

“Please Jillian, I shall go barmy if you do not. Say you will visit another time, or I will return home along with you.” She grinned, a sly look in her eye.

I relented. “All right, Evergreen, I will come again, but not for several days as I have my own work to do.”

I took my leave of Evergreen LaVelle. Little did I realise my life would never be quite the same again.

Chapter Four

MRS STACKPOOLE WAS A matronly woman. Though she had only one child, she was nonetheless a kind lady with a propensity to cluck. Upon my return from Hollyfield, she declared me tired and pale. I had been plied with tea and fresh jam tarts until I felt more myself once again. The housekeeper told me it was natural to still be upset after what I had seen. “It will fade with time,” were her sage words.

Uncle Jasper was in fine fettle when he appeared at sundown, his face smudged with dirt and carrying a bag full of mouldy samples. He entered through the back door, bringing the scent of the downs with him, earthy and damp. I encouraged him to pull off his socks as well as his muddy boots. While he went to change clothes, Mrs Stackpoole warmed up a pan of oxtail soup, and I cut the loaf of bread she had baked fresh that afternoon.

Uncle Jasper returned and we sat down to eat.

“The soup is delicious, Mrs S., I believe you are turning me into a fat old man with all this wonderful fare.”

“’Tis no stargazy pie,” she retorted, her eyes twinkling with pleasure at his compliment. “But it’ll do.”

I took a bite of bread. “How went the collecting today, Uncle? Did you find what you needed for the lecture?”

“Just about there, Jilly. Plenty to show those horticultural boffins.”

I chuckled at his reference, for he was likely more of a boffin than all the others combined.

“I went to Hollyfield House today, for luncheon with Evergreen LaVelle.”

“You don’t say?” He glanced from me to the housekeeper. “And how did that come about?”

I had not explained the carriage accident the other night because our conversation centered on the murder of the blacksmith. I quickly recounted the events leading up to the invitation.

“My goodness, Jilly. You haven’t been here five minutes and you are already rubbing shoulders with the gentry. And how was it, my dear? Did you eat caviar and drink champagne?”

“Of course not,” I laughed. “Tiny sandwiches, fancy cakes and Oolong tea.” I took a sip of my soup. “But I prefer our good soup and bread over that any day. Though I do envy them their home. It is quite lovely.”

“Hmmm. The father does something with boats if I’m not mistaken?” Uncle Jasper said vaguely.

“Ships,” I corrected him. “Shipbuilding. Oh, and he has rather a large fortune.”

“That’s right.” He slurped another spoonful of soup and sat back in his chair. “Victor LaVelle. Nice chap. Donated a large cheque to the society last year. Has a son, tall lad if I remember rightly, though I never met the fellow.”

“Victor LaVelle is a good an’ generous man.” Mrs Stackpoole contributed, not to be left out.

“That he is,” agreed my uncle. “Spends most of his time in the city though. I haven’t laid eyes on him in Ambleside for a long while. Don’t think they’ve much interest in horticulture as their gardens are a bit mundane. But they are kept neat and tidy—I’ll give them that.” He returned to his meal, and I concluded that was the sum of my uncle’s interest in the LaVelle family. Had they a root system and were they green, I am sure he would have known their entire life history.

“Did you meet the son?” Mrs Stackpoole asked.

“No.” I said. “Though Miss LaVelle did say she had a twin. However, I did meet the cousin. A Miss Pike.”

The housekeeper bristled. “Now there’s a miserable woman if I do say so. She has a face on her t’would spoil milk. Too high an’ mighty to speak to any of us in the village. I remember when the LaVelles first came to Ambleside an’ bought the house from old Mr Morecombe.” She paused to think. “Must be fifteen years since.” Her hazel eyes looked directly at me. “The wife died in India if I’m not mistaken. Victor LaVelle brought the children here for a fresh start. They spend their time in London mostly. Come to think of it, they’ve been here for a longer spell than usual.”

“Oh,” I answered quickly. “The son is being mentored by the firm’s accountant, a Mr Sneed. At least that is what Evergreen said.”

“On first names, are we?” Mrs Stackpoole grinned. She turned to my uncle. “It might be time for missy here to get a new frock or two if she’s going to be hobnobbin’ with the gentry now.”

SATURDAY DAWNED AND THE WEATHER was positively glorious. Mrs Stackpoole opened all the windows and aired out the house while Uncle Jasper disappeared to capture his final samples for the upcoming lecture. Birds sung happily in the fresh breeze and the scent of spring was invigorating.

It was too nice to sit at the table working. So I took a leaf from Mrs Stackpoole’s