Aunt Louisa’s Miss Harding, niece of Admiral Harding, didn’t quite sound like what Bea had in mind. Anyone Aunt Louisa chose would surely be entirely wrong for Rose Hill. Bea knew she was only a little girl, but she also knew what she wanted, and what Papa needed.
She just didn’t know where to find it.
‘...in short, Sir David, the sale of the lands should go through at that price with no problems whatsoever,’ the old lawyer said. ‘Your estate at Rose Hill will be considerably enlarged, if you are sure more responsibility is what you truly desire right now.’
‘Have you heard complaints about my lack of responsibility, Mr Wall?’ Papa said, with what Bea suspected was amusement in his voice, though she didn’t understand the joke. She hoped he might even smile, but he didn’t.
‘Not at all, of course. You have a great reputation in the area as a good, and most progressive, landlord with a great interest in agriculture. Once you get those lands organised, you’ll have no trouble whatsoever leasing the farms. But there can be such a things as working too hard, or so Mrs Wall sometimes informs me.’
‘Is there?’ Papa said quietly. ‘I have not found it so.’
‘A wife, Sir David, can be a great help. The right sort of wife, of course, an excellent housekeeper, a hostess, a companion. But I fear we are boring pretty Miss Marton here! Would you care for a sweet, my dear? Sugared almonds—my grandsons love them, so I always keep them about.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wall,’ Bea answered politely. As she popped the almond into her mouth, she thought over what Mr Wall said. A hostess for Rose Hill—another thing to put on her list of requirements for a new mother.
As they took their leave of Mr Wall and stepped back out into the lane, Bea shivered at the cool breeze after the stuffy offices.
‘We should get you home, Bea, before you catch a chill,’ Papa said as he took her hand.
But Bea didn’t quite want to go back to the quiet nursery at Rose Hill just yet. Neither did she want to go visit Aunt Louisa. ‘Could we go to the bookshop first?’ she asked. ‘Maybe Mr Lorne has some new picture books from London. I’ve read everything in the nursery at least twice now.’ And Aunt Louisa and her sons never went in the bookshop. It was always quite safe.
Her papa seemed to hesitate, which was most odd, for he was usually most agreeable to visiting Mr Lorne’s shop. He glanced towards the building across the street, his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles as if he tried to peer past the dusty windows. But finally he nodded and led her across the street to the waiting shop.
Chapter Three
Emma smiled at the familiar sound of rusted bells clanking as she pushed open the door to Mr Lorne’s bookshop. It had been so long since she heard them, but once they had been one of the sweetest sounds in the world to her. They had meant escape.
Could she ever find the same sanctuary in books again? The same forgetfulness in learning? Or did she know too much about what lay outside the pages now?
As she closed the door behind her, she thought about the way people watched her as she walked down the street, silent and wide-eyed. She hadn’t left the grounds of Barton much since her arrival, wanting only the healing quiet of home. Days wandering around the rooms and gardens, reminiscing with Jane and playing games with the children, had been wonderful indeed. She’d almost begun to remember herself again and forget what she had seen in her life with Henry.
But now Jane and Hayden had gone off to London, and without them and the boisterous twins the estate was much too silent. Emma needed to purchase some things for her refurbishment of her cottage and she needed reading materials for the quiet evenings at her small fireside. That meant a trip into the village.
She hadn’t been expecting a parade to greet her, of course. She had been gone for such a long time and in such an irregular way. Yet neither had she expected such complete silence. They had looked at her as if she were a ghost.
Emma was tired of being a ghost. She wanted to be alive again, feel alive in a way she hadn’t since her marriage to Henry fell apart so spectacularly in its very infancy. She just wasn’t sure how to do that.
Mr Lorne’s shop seemed like a good place to start. Emma smiled as she looked around at the familiar space. It appeared not to have changed at all in the years she had been gone. The rows of shelves were still jammed full of haphazardly organised volumes, wedged in wherever there was an inch. More books were stacked on the floors and on the ladders.
The windows, which had never been spotless, were even more streaked with dust than ever, and only a few faint rays of daylight slanted through them. Colza lamps lit the dark corners and gave off a faint flowery smell that cut through the dryness of paper, glue and old leather. Once Emma’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw Mr Lorne’s bushy grey head peeking over a tottering tower of books on his desk.
‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘Is it really you, Miss Bancroft?’
Emma laughed, relieved that she really wasn’t a ghost after all. Someone could acknowledge her. She hurried over to shake Mr Lorne’s hand, now worryingly thin and wrinkled.
‘Indeed it is me, Mr Lorne,’ she said. ‘Though I am Mrs Carrington now.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘I do remember you had gone away. No one pestered me for new volumes on plants any more.’
‘You were always ready to indulge my passion for whatever topic I fancied,’ Emma said, remembering her passion for botany and nature back then. Maybe she should try to find that again?
‘You were one of my best customers. So what do you fancy now?’
‘I’m not quite sure.’ Emma hesitated, studying the old shop as she peeled off her gloves. The black kid was already streaked with dust. ‘I’m refurbishing one of the old cottages on the Barton estate, but I’m not sure what I’ll do after that. I don’t suppose you ever did come across any old writings about the early days of Barton?’ Before she left home, Emma had been passionately involved in researching her family’s home, especially searching for the legendary Barton treasure. But nothing had ever come of it.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then maybe some novels? Something amusing for a long evening?’
‘There I can help you, Mrs Carrington.’ Mr Lorne carefully climbed down from his stool and picked up a walking stick before leading her to a shelf against the far wall. Just like always, she saw he had an organisational system understood only by himself. ‘These are some of the latest from London. But I fear I can’t help you decide what to do next any more than I can help myself.’
Emma glanced at the old man, surprised by the sad, defeated tone on his voice. The Mr Lorne she remembered had always been most vigorous and cheerful, in love with his work and eager to share the books on his shelf. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Lorne?’
‘I fear I must close this place before too long.’
‘Close it?’ Emma cried, appalled. ‘But you are the only bookshop in the area.’
‘Aye, it’s a great pity. I’ve loved this shop like my own child. But my daughter insists I go and live with
