Autumn Leaves at Mill Grange, Jenny Kane [big ebook reader .TXT] 📗

bare skin while telling her off, and wondering how to redeem herself with the Landscape Treasures crew, her usually voracious appetite had deserted her.

Aware that her mother was watching her, she concentrated on not making eye contact. If she did that, then Sophie knew the floodgates of disappointment would open, and all hope that she could somehow save the situation would be lost. Cursing the change to her parents’ travelling plans, which had brought them home a month early, she poured herself a coffee she felt too sick to drink.

Cradling the bone china cup, Sophie closed her eyes. An image of Shaun Coulson flashed up beneath her eyelids. She couldn’t believe she’d messed this up. It had taken so much work to get him here, so much planning; from tempting her parents with the old-fashioned Grand Tour of Europe, so they’d be away during the Landscape Treasures filming season, to practising her mother’s signature until it was perfect. Not to mention the year of painstaking research she’d done to make sure there was something on their land worth excavating.

Sophie hadn’t been able to believe her luck when she stumbled over the document in the Truro archive, suggesting that somewhere on Bodmin Moor, buried, but not forgotten, was the site of the original St Guron’s church.

Sophie recalled the tingle of excitement as further research suggested that, not only was the church on the moor upon which she lived, but it was within the Guron Estate. Her hands had shaken as she kept hunting for information. Each day she’d returned to the archive office, studying map after map, document after document. Then, by pure fluke, she’d found what she’d been searching for.

A photograph had fallen from a stack of maps. Shot from the air, it showed Guron House and its immediate gardens. Taken in the summer of 1976, one of the driest years on record, it formed part of a comprehensive aerial archaeological survey which, due to the weather, revealed parch-marks in the soil, made by buildings long buried beneath the ground. There was no getting away from the fact that there, beneath her parents’ immaculate front lawn, was the outline of a church.

She’d only cursed how close it was to the house for a few seconds. The inconvenience of the location had been overridden by the idea that maybe, just maybe, she’d stumbled across the lost church of St Guron. And, even if she hadn’t, it was enough of a mystery to pique the interest of the Landscape Treasures team. She could meet her hero, and learn how to dig at the same time. The estate was her home, so surely she’d be allowed to help uncover the site she’d found.

He looked at you as if you were a child.

The memory of Shaun’s face, his incomprehension at her actions as she’d hidden behind the van to avoid her mother, sent a prickle of shame crossing Sophie’s face.

It had been a supreme act of rebellion when she’d signed up, in secret, for the distance learning degree in archaeology. Sophie loved it, and had excelled at her work so far. But to pass, she needed to have some practical experience, and that would mean telling her parents what she’d done. Far better, she’d reasoned, to get her experience while they were away; and if that experience happened on the doorstep, then she wouldn’t have to make up lies about going on holiday.

But what’s the point in lying? Even if you get the degree, you can’t use it without them noticing you disappearing off every day, and coming home muddy.

Sophie sighed as the Shaun of her imagination shouted, ‘You’re twenty-five!’

A knock on the door was followed by the arrival of the gardener. He looked suitably apologetic for daring to breathe indoors.

‘What is it, Jenkins?’ Lady Hammett lowered the spoon upon which a segment of grapefruit was precariously balanced.

‘Excuse me your Ladyship, your Lordship, but that archaeologist bloke wishes to speak to you.’

‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning!’

‘They have been working since six-thirty, my Lady.’

Sophie was shocked out of her self-pity. ‘They have?’

‘They are carrying out—’ Jenkins grimaced, as if trying to remember exactly what was said ‘—non-invasive exploration of the site prior to leaving.’

‘Leaving!’ Sophie’s cup clattered into its saucer.

Lord Hammett lowered his paper, giving his wife a sideways glance as she picked her spoon back up with an air of victory. ‘It seems Mr Coulson has more sense than I credited him with. Tell them we expect the turf to be replaced as if it was never touched.’

Jenkins’ eyes widened, but his thoughts on how that might be achieved remained unspoken. ‘I will inform them.’

Chewing her grapefruit with satisfaction, Lady Hammett levelled her gaze on her daughter. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

Sophie wondered how much it had cost her not to add ‘young lady’ to the question.

Unsure if she was going to get her words out before her mother interrupted, Sophie was heartened when her father folded his paper and turned to his wife.

‘I’m also interested in Sophie’s explanation. I trust you’ll let her give it properly, Stephanie.’ His wife glared at him as Lord Hammett smiled. ‘Sophie, I’m prepared to overlook the fact you faked your mother’s signature and, if I can, I will stop the television company suing you…’

‘Them suing us! I have every intention of suing them for—’ Lady Hammett’s explosion was cut short by the quiet, firm shake of her husband’s head.

‘As I was saying, I will endeavour to stop them from suing us for providing false documentation, but I need to know why, Sophie. It would not have been difficult to ask us… me… if this excavation could go ahead.’

Guilt at deceiving her father hit Sophie. He was normally such a background figure in their lives that she often forgot how much she loved him, and vice versa.

‘I’m sorry, Father, but you’d have said no, and this was too important not to happen.’

Holding up a hand to silence the outpouring of words he instinctively