a mile or so the road wound through rolling, lightly wooded parkland, on fire with the reds and golds and copper tints of autumn. Finally the colourful drifts of fern and bracken gave way to cultivated gardens surrounded by thick yew hedges cut into fantastic shapes.
They came to the Hall itself through an archway of yew, and, though Charlotte had known more or less what to expect, the first sight of it brought a gasp of sheer pleasure.
Calling it delightful had been no exaggeration, she thought. Built of mellow stone, it was both graceful and symmetrical, with a short wing at either end and a central door.
Its mullioned windows were uniform, apart from one wide, three-tiered expanse that rose roof height, and must be, she guessed, the window of the Great Chamber.
Bringing the car to a halt on the gravel, Simon sat without speaking, watching her entranced face.
When she finally turned to him with shining eyes, he queried, ‘Do I gather you like the old place?’
‘It’s lovely,’ she answered simply.
Having helped her out and retrieved her case and the carton of books, as well as the crab-apple jelly, he said, ‘It isn’t all that big. Apart from the attics and the servants’ quarters, there are only nine bedrooms. After you’ve met Grandfather and had lunch, I’ll show you round.’
As they approached the heavy, black-studded oak door it opened, and a plump, elderly woman with a kind face and grey curly hair appeared to lead them into a beautifully panelled hall.
Simon made the introduction. ‘Charlotte, this is Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper… Ann, Miss Christie.’
‘How do you do?’ Charlotte murmured.
Returning her friendly smile, the housekeeper said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Christie. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you—’
‘As Cook’s ill,’ Simon broke in, ‘if you want to get on with lunch, I’ll take Miss Christie up. Which room have you given her?’
‘Sir Nigel suggested the Bluebell Room.’
‘Very well. What time is lunch? If possible I’d like to see Grandfather first.’
‘The sooner the better.’ Mrs Reynolds gave her opinion briskly. ‘If necessary I’ll hold the meal back. In all the years I’ve been at the Hall I’ve never known Sir Nigel to be so impatient.’
‘In that case, we’d better not keep him waiting any longer than we can help… If you can put this in the pantry?’ He handed her the crab-apple jelly.
Carrying Charlotte’s case and the books, he escorted her up the main staircase, elaborately carved in oak, and turned right along the landing.
Opening the second door on the left, he ushered her into a cosy room simply furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a bow-fronted chest of drawers and a cushioned armchair.
The wallpaper was patterned with a woodland scene of bluebells and green leaves, while the carpet, pleasantly faded by time, picked up the colours.
A small black fireplace was screened by a tall pitcher of cream and pink gladioli, and the casement windows were partly open, the balmy air wafting in the scent of thyme and late roses.
Putting her case on the padded window-seat, Simon remarked, ‘I’m pleased to say that some years ago a central-heating system was installed and en suite bathrooms were added to most of the bedrooms…’
Opening a door papered to blend in with the walls, he revealed a well-appointed bathroom. ‘Perhaps you’d like a few minutes alone to freshen up?’
Feeling curiously nervous about meeting Sir Nigel, and unwilling to delay matters, she said, ‘I’m ready now, if you are.’
CHAPTER FOUR
HE LED the way down a wide corridor with panelled walls and oak floorboards and tapped at the door of what was obviously the master bedroom.
It was opened at once by an elderly nurse in a neat blue uniform, who slipped out to join them in the corridor.
‘I’ve been trying to get Sir Nigel to have a sleep,’ she told them in a hushed voice. ‘He’s in a great deal of pain this morning, but he’s refused to have his injection until he’s seen you, on the grounds that it makes him muddle-headed.’
Simon nodded and asked, ‘How long?’
‘Ten minutes, fifteen at the outside.’
She ushered them into the dimness and disappeared through a communicating door, closing it quietly behind her.
The warm, still air of the sickroom held the country-house scent of lavender and the hospital smell of disinfectant, but over and above all was an unmistakable atmosphere of tension.
‘Is that you, my boy?’ a voice demanded. ‘For heaven’s sake open the curtains and let some light in. I told that dratted woman I couldn’t sleep, but she treats me as if I were a fractious child.’
Then eagerly, ‘Have you brought our guest?’
‘Yes, she’s here.’
Simon drew back the curtains, flooding the room with light, then a hand at Charlotte’s waist urged her towards the big four-poster.
Though she knew it was silly, she found herself holding her breath, as if something momentous was about to happen.
The man lying there was propped up against a pile of pillows. His silver hair was thick and springy, and though his face was skull-like, the transparent skin stretched too tightly over the bones, it was obvious he’d been a handsome man.
He smiled at his grandson, and Charlotte saw that his teeth were still good. The top middle two had a slight gap between them, which gave him an endearingly boyish look.
Smiling back with an expression of tenderness that brought a sudden lump to her throat, Simon said, ‘Grandfather, here are the books you wanted, and this is Miss Christie.’
After studying her for a moment, Sir Nigel looked up at his grandson and said simply, ‘Yes.’
Then, holding out a hand that was so thin and fragile-looking she was almost afraid to take it, he added, ‘It’s nice to meet you, my dear. May I call you Charlotte?’
‘Of course.’
Still clasping her fingers, his grip surprisingly firm, he patted the bed with his free hand. ‘Do sit down. Let me look at you.’
She obeyed, sitting down with care.
Though illness might be ravaging his body, it hadn’t killed his spirit, and the dark eyes that studied her so intently were fiercely alive.
‘Tell me about yourself, and how you come to be running a bookshop.’
She told him what little there was to tell, adding, ‘I love it, though, with opening six days a week, it’s quite hard work.’
Nodding,
