could have spent time alone if we’d stayed in town,’ Jake reminded her flatly. He parted the two slices of his sandwich to discover the almost transparent piece of ham covering the bread. When would the British learn that a ham sandwich needed a proper filling? he wondered gloomily, as a wave of nostalgia for his homeland swept over him. What he wouldn’t give to be back in the Caribbean right now.
‘I know,’ Cassandra said, reaching across the table to cover his hand with hers. Long scarlet nails dug into the skin of his wrist. ‘But we’ll have some fun, I promise.’
Jake doubted that. From what Cassandra had told him, her mother was already well into her seventies. Cassandra had been a late baby, she’d explained, and her brother, her only sibling, was at least fifteen years older than she was.
Jake wasn’t absolutely sure how old Cassandra was. In her late thirties, he imagined, which made her half a dozen years older than he was, though that had never been a problem. Besides, in television or theatre age was always a moot point. Actresses were as old as they appeared, and some of them got ingénue roles well into their forties.
‘So, tell me about Watersmeet,’ he said, trying to be positive. ‘Who lives there besides your mother? You said it’s quite a large property. I imagine she has people who work for her, doesn’t she?’
‘Oh…’ Cassandra drew her full lips together. ‘Well, there’s Mrs Blackwood. She’s Mummy’s housekeeper. And old Bill Trivett. He looks after the garden and grounds. We used to have several stable hands when Mummy bred horses, but now all the animals have been sold, so I imagine they’re not needed any more.’
Jake frowned. ‘Don’t you know?’
Cassandra’s pale, delicate features took on a little colour. ‘It—it has been some time since I’ve been home,’ she said defensively. Then, seeing his expression, she hurried on, ‘I have been busy, darling. And, as you’re finding out, Northumberland is not the easiest place to get to.’
‘There are planes,’ Jake commented, taking a bite out of his sandwich, relieved to find that at least the bread was fresh.
‘Air fares are expensive,’ insisted Cassandra, not altogether truthfully. ‘And I wouldn’t like to scrounge from my mother.’
‘If you say so.’
Jake wasn’t prepared to argue with her, particularly about something that wasn’t his problem. If she chose to neglect her mother, that was her affair.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Wilkes have a companion?’ he asked now, his mind running on the old lady’s apparent isolation, and once again he saw the colour come and go in Cassandra’s face.
‘Well, there’s Eve,’ she said reluctantly, without elaborating. ‘And my mother’s surname is Robertson, not Wilkes.’
‘Really?’
Jake regarded her enquiringly, and with evident unwillingness she was obliged to explain. ‘I changed my name when I moved to London,’ she said tersely. ‘Lots of actors do the same.’
‘Mmm.’ Jake accepted this. But then, because he was intrigued by her apparent reticence, he added, ‘And what about Eve? Is she some elderly contemporary of your mother’s?’ Faint amusement touched the corners of his thin mouth. ‘Doesn’t she approve of you, or what?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Cassandra spoke irritably now, and he wondered what he’d said to arouse this reaction. ‘Eve is—a distant relative, that’s all. Mummy brought her to live with her—oh, perhaps ten years ago.’
‘As a companion?’
‘Partly.’ Cassandra huffed. ‘She actually works as an infant teacher at the village school.’
Jake made no response to this, but he absorbed both what she’d told him and what she hadn’t. It seemed from his observations that Cassandra resented this woman’s presence in her home. Perhaps she was jealous of the relationship she had with Cassandra’s mother. Possibly the woman was younger, too, though that was less certain. Whatever, Jake would welcome her existence. At least there would be someone else to dilute the ambivalence of his own situation.
They reached the village of Falconbridge in the late afternoon. The traffic on the Newcastle by-pass had been horrendous, due to an accident between a car and a wagon. Luckily it appeared that no one had been hurt, but it had reduced the carriageway to one lane in their direction.
The last few miles of the journey had been through the rolling countryside of Redesdale, with the Cheviot Hills in the distance turning a dusky purple in the fading light. Despite his misgivings about the trip, Jake had to admit the place had a certain mystery about it, and he could quite believe Roman legions still stalked these hills after dark.
A latent interest in his surroundings was sparked, and he felt a twinge of impatience when Cassandra shivered and hugged herself as if she was cold. ‘This place,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to stay here. Give me bright lights and civilised living every time.’
‘I think it’s beautiful,’ said Jake, slowing to negotiate one of the blind summits that were a frequent hazard of the road. ‘I know a lot of people who live in London who would love to leave the rat race and come here. Only not everyone has the luxury of such an escape.’
Cassandra cast him a disbelieving look. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that you’d prefer to live here instead of San Felipe?’
‘No.’ Jake was honest. Much as he liked to travel, there was nowhere quite as appealing as his island home. ‘But I was talking about London,’ he reminded her. ‘You have to admit, there are too many people in too small a space.’
‘Well, I like it.’ Cassandra wasn’t persuaded. ‘When you work in the media, as I do, you need to be at the heart of things.’
‘Yeah.’
Jake conceded the point, but in the six months since he’d known her Cassandra had only had one acting role that he knew of. And then it had only been an advertisement for some new face cream, though she’d told him that advertising work certainly helped to pay the bills.
They approached the village over an old stone structure spanning a rushing stream. The original Falcon Bridge, he concluded, glad they hadn’t encountered another vehicle on its narrow pass. Beyond, a row of grey stone cottages edged the village street, lights glinting from windows, smoke curling from chimneys into the crisp evening air.
‘My mother’s house is on the outskirts of the village,’ Cassandra said, realising she would have to give him directions. ‘Just follow the road through and you’ll see it. It’s set back, behind some trees.’
‘Set back’ was something of an understatement, Jake found. Turning between stone gateposts, they drove over a quarter of a mile before reaching the house itself. Banks of glossy rhododendrons reared at one side of the drive, while tall poplars, bare and skeletal in the half-light, lined the other.
Watersmeet looked solid and substantial. Like the cottages in the village, it was built of stone, with three floors and gables at every corner. There were tall windows on the ground floor, flanking a centre doorway, uncurtained at present and spilling golden light onto the gravelled forecourt.
‘Well, we’re
