not?’ Sorrel questioned mock-innocently. ‘She’s as much their cousin as she is mine.’
‘Sorrel, you know exactly what I mean. She’s a girl. It wouldn’t … it wouldn’t be proper. Not with only that one double bed up there,’ she said severely, breaking off as she heard Sorrel laughing. ‘Oh, you knew exactly what I meant all along! I …’
She stopped talking as her eldest son walked into the kitchen; Simon paused to remove his filthy wellington boots before turning round and saying to Fiona, who was standing behind him, ‘Give me the lambs and I’ll take them over to the Aga.’
‘Oh, not more,’ Sorrel complained, her heart stirred to pity, nevertheless, by the sight of the two tiny, immobile creatures.
‘Twins,’ Simon told her grimly. ‘We’ve lost the ewe, and by the looks of it we might lose these two as well. Dad’s going berserk. None of them should have lambed so early, and he can’t get hold of the vet.’
Expertly ministering to the two small creatures, Sorrel was relieved to see that they were still alive. Fiona came into the kitchen on the heels of her husband.
‘Simon, you’re going to have to drive up to the old farm when you can. Sorrel’s agreed to stay there a few days with Valerie, just until the boys are back at university and we can find room for her down here.’
‘Ma conned you into it, then, did she?’ Simon muttered sotto voce to his sister, and then, turning to his wife, said calmly, ‘Come on, cough up, that’s fifty pence you owe me.’
‘What? Oh, I might have known!’ Sorrel grimaced. Her mother was a great strategist, a compulsive plotter and planner.
‘Now, Simon, that’s enough,’ she told her eldest son firmly, but when he winked at Sorrel behind his mother’s bent back Sorrel had no doubts at all that she had well and truly been caught. And it was too late to back out now. Too late to protest as she ought to have done, that she was far too busy to spend three days with a completely unknown female with whom she most probably had nothing whatsoever in common, apart from their family name.
‘IT WON’T BE so bad,’ her mother consoled her over supper later on that day. ‘You’ll be able to show her the diaries. I’m sure she’ll love those.’ ‘Are they still up there?’ Sorrel asked her.
‘Mmm … packed away in the attic. I’ll ask Simon to bring them down for you when he goes up there.’
‘It’s a lovely old house,’ Fiona chipped in.
‘But very remote,’ Sorrel reminded her, adding with a grin, ‘but you won’t mind that, will you?’
And the whole family laughed at the look Simon and his new wife exchanged, although it was Simon’s turn to laugh when he told them smugly, ‘We may not be on our own for very long.’
‘Oh, Simon, it’s too soon yet to be sure,’ Fiona protested. Watching them, Sorrel felt an unfamiliar and unwanted sensation of envy clamp her heart.
What would it be like to love someone the way Fiona loved Simon? To want nothing other than to be a part of his life, to conceive his children …
Her relationship with Andrew wasn’t like that. She loved him, of course she did. He would make her an excellent husband, but when she didn’t see him for a few days, for instance, she had no yearning to do so. No sense of loss when he went away to one of his frequent conferences or sales. He was away at the moment; she hadn’t seen him for over a week, and yet she was quite content. She didn’t go to bed at night hungering for his unexciting kisses, wishing time would speed past so that they could be married, so that she could lie in his arms at night as Fiona undoubtedly lay in Simon’s. She felt none of the things so very evident in her sister-in-law’s rosy face, and until recently it hadn’t bothered her; but now for some reason it did, and illogically she decided that the root cause of all this dissatisfaction was the unplanned and unwanted visit of this Australian relative who was thrusting herself into their lives, claiming a kinship with them which might or might not exist. And now she had agreed to spend three days with her. How on earth was she going to keep her entertained?
Plas Gwynd was ten miles from the nearest farm and over fifteen from the nearest village. It clung to the hillside, gaunt and grey, weathered by over five hundred years of storms, a long, rambling collection of outbuildings and farmhouse which had housed her family for generation upon generation.
In the spring and summer, the garden bloomed so profusely that it took one’s breath away, and it was true that the lee of the hill gave the house some degree of protection, but there was nothing to protect the sheep from the winter snows, no one with whom to share the weather’s fierceness, and it was no wonder that her father had preferred to farm the much richer Shropshire pastures left to him by his maternal uncle rather than remain living in the remote Welsh farmhouse.
Hill farming was backbreaking, grinding work. No hill farmer was ever rich, and her father was fortunate in his fertile English pastures.
After supper, Sorrel went out to the barn which housed her knitting machine and design studio. She often worked best late at night when her thoughts became miraculously clear and concise, free of the clutter of the day.
Some of her inspiration came from what she saw around her, or what she had experienced as a child. Once she had realised how fascinating she found the design and execution of knitwear, she had spent several holidays in Scotland, studying the traditional knitting patterns and stitches they had used there for generations. Some of her designs, though, were very modern, incorporating innovative ideas and vibrant modern colours.
In her bedroom, thrown across her bed, was the woollen rug which she had designed herself at art school, and which she had kept for sentiment’s sake. She still designed such rugs and they sold well … as did the tapestry cushions she had started as a sideline two years ago and which were increasingly in demand.
Her glance fell on a tapestry frame holding the beginnings of a new design she was trying out. She could take that to the farm with her. It would give her something to do if her cousin’s company became too much.
The hill farm wasn’t even equipped with a telephone. There was no gas, no electricity, although apparently her father planned to have these services installed for Simon and Fiona. Sighing faintly, Sorrel switched off the lights and headed back to the house.
‘YOU’VE GOT everything, then? Blankets, sheets, towels, soap, the boxes of food? Simon says there’s paraffin and oil up there for the lamps, and he’s putting some bags of logs and fuel in the back of the Land Rover for the Aga.’
‘Ma, we’ll be there for three days, not three months,’ Sorrel reminded her mother patiently.
‘Yes, I know, but Giles said this morning that he fancied there was bad weather on the way.’
‘Well, if there is, there wasn’t anything about it on the farming forecast,’ Simon told his mother cheerfully.
‘Maybe not, but your uncle lived in the mountains for most of his life.’
‘He’s an old man, Ma,’ Simon said gently. ‘Sometimes he gets confused. Don’t start looking for problems. Ready, Sorrel?’ he asked his sister.
‘Just about,’ Sorrel agreed. She wasn’t looking forward to the next three days one little bit, but her mother was so relieved, so pleased, that she
