The Secrets of Meadow Farmhouse

KATIE GINGER lives by the sea in the south-east of England, and apart from holidays to very hot places where you can sit by a pool and drink cocktails as big as your head, she wouldn’t really want to be anywhere else. The Secrets of Meadow Farmhouse is her seventh novel. She is also the author of the Swallowtail Bay series, Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage and The Little Theatre on the Seafront, which was shortlisted for the Katie Fforde Debut Novel of the Year award.

When she’s not writing, Katie spends her time with her husband and two kids, and their dogs: Wotsit, the King Charles spaniel, and Skips, the three-legged Romanian rescue dog. (And yes, they are both named after crisps!)

For more about Katie, you can visit her website: www.keginger.com, find her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/KatieGAuthor, follow her on Twitter: @KatieGAuthor or sign up to her newsletter here: http://bit.ly/3gbqMS0

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Also by Katie Ginger

The Little Theatre on the Seafront

Summer Season on the Seafront

Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage

Spring Tides at Swallowtail Bay

Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay

Winter Wishes at Swallowtail Bay

The Secrets of Meadow Farmhouse

KATIE GINGER

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by

HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Copyright © Katie Ginger 2021

Katie Ginger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008422745

E-book Edition © ISBN: 9780008422738

Version: 2021-02-15

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Everyone LOVES Katie Ginger

Also by Katie Ginger

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgements

Author’s Letter

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Marion Louisa Coeburn

(2nd July 1891–23rd March 1975)

and her love

William (Billy) Arthur Davis

(6th July 1893–9th April 1917)

Prologue

June 1959

The wedding dress hung in front of the wardrobe, elegant and beautiful. Premature, some might say as she wasn’t even wearing a ring. But Vera couldn’t help telling her mother about the engagement, and her mother couldn’t help but fetch it for her.

Side by side, they appraised it together, her mother giggling like a schoolgirl, Vera giddy in her excitement. Arty had asked her to keep it quiet until he’d spoken to his parents, but Vera had never been that good at keeping secrets. She was an open book as far as her thoughts and feelings were concerned, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Her half-sister always told her she should toughen up, but Vera had never seen the need, and after the events of the afternoon, when Arty had paused in the middle of the coppice where the ground was lush with green and the tall trees formed a canopy over their heads, taking her hand in his and slowly going down on one knee, it didn’t seem the right time to start now. How could she when there was little to no chance of containing her unbridled joy?

‘Will you marry me?’ he’d asked, with trembling hands and a slight shake to his voice.

As if there were any possibility she’d say no. She loved him more than anything else in the world. She’d never met anyone so kind, so funny or so handsome.

The sun had shone down on them, dappling through the leaves, causing shadows to dance on the ground. She’d replied instantly with a resounding yes that echoed around them and he’d picked her up in his strong arms and swung her about on the spot.

Replaying the moment over in her mind, she’d never felt a happiness like it. All he had to do was speak to his mother and father, which he’d do that very afternoon and who, he assured her, would approve. It didn’t bother her that he’d asked before speaking to her father. He was a good man and only wanted her to be happy.

As soon as she’d returned to the farmhouse flushed with excitement, her mother had guessed and Vera admitted the truth without a thought. Even as a child, without hesitation she’d owned up to the things she’d done, having learned early on that lies were always writ large on her face. Her mother had been over the moon. Apparently they’d been expecting it any day now, and they had celebrated with cake. Even her stepfather had raised a glass of sherry to her good fortune. ‘He’s a fine man. And rich too,’ he teased.

Vera giggled because they all knew that money meant nothing to her. It was him she loved. The shy, quiet boy she’d spotted in the fields as a young girl, then grown up with, becoming friends and now lovers. Soon they would become husband and wife, marrying at the small church in the village and picnicking on the green. Content in her plans, after the allowance of a small glass of sherry, Vera had tipsily gone to bed.

The night had been long and restless as her overactive mind refused to cease, unable to sleep for the joy and anticipation pulsing through her veins. She imagined herself in the dress, pictured herself dancing and dreamed of forever being Arty’s wife. In the half-light, she stared at the wedding dress now airing on her wardrobe door. It was, perhaps, a little old-fashioned, but she loved that it was her mother’s, and her mother wanted her to wear it. The neck was too high and would need taking down; the sleeves, too, were long with frilled cuffs, but overall, she liked it. It would be her something borrowed, or perhaps something old.

A faint tapping at the window drew her attention to the day breaking outside. At first, she’d thought it was rain, but as she listened to its rhythmless nature and growing intensity she realised it was something else. With a thrill of excitement, Vera pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of bed. The cold spring morning penetrated the thin material of her nightdress and she pulled her dressing gown on before silently padding her way to the window.

As she pulled back the curtains, the emerging white light of the sun illuminated the slowly waking world, blinding her. The sky held patches of cloud here and there, harsh and dark, threatening rain. Her eyes dropped to the ground below her window. Arty. Arty had come to see her. A shiver ran down her spine at the romantic nature of this dawn visit, and as quietly as she could, she ran down the stairs, avoiding the patches of old wood that creaked and moaned underfoot, and unlatched the heavy back door.

Vera stayed in the doorway, propriety forcing her to hide. Though her mother had always told her not to worry too much about convention, there were some things that would not be tolerated, and meeting a beau in the early hours of the morning in nothing but your night clothes was one of them. Arty stood motionless in his shirtsleeves, his arms hanging limply by his sides. Goose bumps covered his skin from the chill morning air. ‘Arty? What are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry, Vera,’ he replied, his voice weak, almost inaudible. He’d been crying. His eyes puffy and red, bloodshot through lack of sleep and marked under with deep blue shadows. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t marry you.’

Fear tensed her muscles and a burden of dread rested on her chest. He hadn’t said that. He couldn’t have. ‘What do you mean?’ An incredulous laugh escaped her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I can’t marry you, Vera. I’m so sorry.’ Tears welled in his eyes once more and with a strong sniff he attempted to force them away.

‘Why not?’ A weight pressed down, tightening her ribs. ‘You love me and I love you.’

‘You know why—’

She shook her head. ‘But you said you didn’t care. You said—’

‘I know what I said.’

Vera watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed heavily. Why was he hurting her like this?

‘I have to think of others, not just myself.’

He was saying words that weren’t his. He’d never have said anything like this before, when their relationship was purely friendship. It must have been his mother. She must have refused her consent. Vera felt the slow, steady tearing in her heart as it ripped so completely in two.

‘You don’t mean that,’ she whispered, tears now falling down her face. Her heart ached, slowly breaking as his words sunk in. With white knuckles, she held tight to the doorframe, her body no longer able to stay upright. All her strength had disappeared.

‘I’m sorry, Vera, but I do. I have to go.’

He turned and walked away, and as loudly as she could without waking the others, she called out to him, but apart from a slight turn of his head, he didn’t stop, or acknowledge her anguish.

Vera’s hands shook as she closed the door and leaned back against it as though it would stop her from disintegrating. Her legs gave way, unable to take the weight of her emotions. She slid down to the floor, curling her legs up and hiding her face behind them. Tears soaked through the fabric of her nightdress so it stuck to her skin. The grey clouds that had threatened only moments before let loose their burdens and as her life fell apart, the rains came.

Chapter 1

Paris

Present Day

The sights and smells of the Paris flea market were almost too much for Amelia’s hungover senses to bear. Only her excitement at living in the city she adored, and a need to be out of her apartment, led her forwards.

Though the baking emanating from the nearby shops smelled delicious, the aromas changed with every step causing her stomach to roil and calm in equal measure. The strong scents of garlic and onion were overtaken by that of sweet pastries and butter. The crowds wove around her, all heading for the farmers’ market at the bottom of the tiny street or returning up the hill with bags laden with fresh produce. In between, shopkeepers cast open their windows, displaying the eclectic range of goods they had to offer. Amelia’s eyes darted between the numerous chandeliers that hung from the ceilings of one store, onto antique vases side by side on a small side table. Traditional French furniture lined the street outside along with stacks of paintings. On the other side of the street, smaller objects like perfume bottles, vintage jewellery and trinkets glittered as the sun hit the windows.

All around, the sound of chatter penetrated her ears, resonating through her sluggish brain. Fluent in French, Amelia could make out most of what was said, but when so many voices merged and the locals spoke so quickly, she struggled to keep up. Snippets of conversation met her, forming unusual and humorous sentences. She pushed her large round sunglasses further up her nose to shield her eyes from the sun’s strong glare, and her stomach rumbled loudly.

Spring in Paris was a magical affair as flowers bloomed around the city, giving the air an overwhelmingly floral scent. She’d been there for eight years now, but the capital never failed to impress her. Each season affected the city differently, but whereas summer could sear the streets with a hazy heat, spring gave all the golden glow but with a much more temperate feel.

Pausing at her favourite café, with a mix of folding metal and wicker chairs tightly packed around small circular tables, she took a seat and ordered a café crème and a buttery, flaky croissant; the perfect thing to soak up the rest of the wine lingering in her system while she waited for Océanè to join her. She’d want to know all about her date with Bastien last night and by the time Amelia had something to eat and chatted to her friend, she’d feel well enough to look again for the perfect items to finish off the job she was working on. As an interior designer, Paris – with its chic fashions and varied shops – was ideal for her business. Could she have built this career in the tiny English village she’d grown up in? Probably not. Though regret at the way she’d left bubbled inside, causing her insides to roll again.

Twenty minutes later, Océanè arrived and ordered the same as Amelia. Amelia asked for another café crème before the waiter disappeared, knowing the questioning was soon to begin and a second caffeine hit would help her endure it. Her friend didn’t exactly mince her words.

‘So?’ Océanè asked in her heavy French accent. ‘How was your date last night? Was Bastien attentive? Did he buy you champagne? You have seen him, what? Five times now?’

‘He bought me wine. And lots of it. Too much, in fact,’ Amelia said, adjusting her sunglasses once more as the sun moved across the sky, climbing higher. The coffee was helping her headache, but she still felt a little fragile. This morning she had dived to the bathroom and hastily scraped her black hair into a chignon and swiped bold red lipstick over her lips, knowing it would give her pale complexion some colour. Over the years she had tried to absorb the Parisian style of dressing: classic, expensive pieces, simple lines, and most of the time she managed to pull it off, but there were times, like this morning, when fashion wasn’t important. She’d thrown on old loose jeans and a jumper but it only took a moment with a real Parisian to make her feel sloppy and slobbish, and as Océanè cast her eyes over her outfit, she knew she didn’t approve.

Océanè swiped her blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘You do look a little, how do you say …’

‘Under the weather?’

‘Pasty.’

‘Thanks.’ Amelia giggled.

‘Did you not have a good time? He is very handsome, non?’

‘We had a very nice time.’ For once, Amelia was grateful that she looked so ill any blushing wasn’t likely to show as thoughts of his intense and passionate kisses rang through her head. ‘And yes, he is very handsome. He wined and dined me, paid me compliments, made me laugh, but I’ve left him to make his way home while I’m out.’

‘You are avoiding him?’ Her friend’s tone was incredulous.

Bastien was almost perfect and she liked him well enough, but Amelia wasn’t very good at the small talk made the next morning. It made her uncomfortable and embarrassed and to be honest, she hadn’t had a lot of practice at it. An image of Adam flashed into her brain and she shook it away. Ever since she’d left him back home in the tiny village of Meadowbank, he’d pop up in her mind, most often when she was thinking about or trying to date someone else. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake him off.

‘But you will see him again tomorrow?’ Océanè asked. ‘He is in love with you, I think.’

‘I don’t think he’s in love with me. I know he likes me, but—’ Amelia paused while the waiter delivered their drinks. She took a sip of coffee and saw the imprint of her red lipstick on the rim of the cup. ‘I don’t think it’s love.’ Sometimes, she found it hard to believe that someone would ever love her. Her life had been so destitute of it from such an early age. ‘And to be honest, I’m not sure I’m in the market for that sort of thing at the moment. I like him, but …’

The words died on her lips. What could she say? He was another man who over the years hadn’t made her feel the way Adam had? Océanè would laugh at her for thinking of a love that happened so long ago. An image of their goodbye at the train station floated before her, causing her throat to tighten. She dropped her eyes to her cup, focusing on the coffee inside it, hoping it would draw her mind and the pain away.

Océanè took a moment to understand the phrase, but realisation quickly dawned. ‘You are mad. He has everything a woman could want: money, success, good looks.’

Bastien did have all those things and he was also kind and funny, which is how they’d made it to five dates rather than just one, but despite her best efforts, he still hadn’t managed to break through to her heart.

‘You are a cold woman. You care only for your work.’

Amelia raised her head at this remark. Was she cold? She didn’t think so. She had friends and had been through some decent relationships, but they’d never felt strong enough to last. She wasn’t cold, she was just focused on living her life to the full. She’d worked hard to become one of the foremost interior designers in Paris, and she wanted more than just a man who was perfect on paper. She wasn’t prepared to invite a man into her life for the sake of it. She’d always done fine on her own and her life was far too busy for loneliness.

Océanè continued. ‘I do not know how you can be so immune to his charms. Our men – French men – Parisian men – know how to win a woman’s heart.’

‘Your French men are pretty charming, but I’m far too busy with work to worry about love.’

‘Don’t your parents want you to get married? Mine do. They say that I should marry Émile and have children before they are too old to enjoy being with them. They say my eggs will die.’

‘Your eggs?’ Amelia almost spluttered her coffee.

‘Eggs.’ Océanè motioned towards her lap. ‘Your parents do not worry about your eggs?’

A sharp pain shot into Amelia’s chest and a hurt she’d convinced herself had been dealt with stabbed anew. ‘My parents are dead. They died when I was a child.’

Océanè’s hand paused as she tore off a piece of croissant. ‘You have never told me that. We have been friends for years and yet you make no mention of this. Why not?’

Amelia shrugged one shoulder. ‘It’s never come up before.’ That was a lie and she quickly changed the subject, unsure why she had suddenly admitted it. Perhaps she was more tired than she realised. Her temples started to pound again. She’d been out with friends every night this week, and last. Maybe a decent dinner cooked by herself – something hearty and wholesome rather than tiny, minuscule restaurant portions – and a quiet night in were in order. ‘Once we’re done here, I’d like to take another look around. I’m after some special pieces for an apartment I’m working on in Montmartre.’

‘You will have to do that alone; I have to meet Émile. But you must think about Bastien. There are many women who would like to take your place in his bed.’

‘He was in my bed, actually,’ she replied, playfully eyeing Océanè over the rim of her cup.

‘You know what I mean.’ Océanè raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘You can be too hard, Amélie. Too independent.’ It always amused Amelia that Océanè called her by the French version of her name when she was being serious. ‘One day, you will push a man too far away and he will not bother coming back.’

Not if he’s the right man, Amelia thought, but didn’t bother saying so. She hadn’t planned on sleeping with Bastien last night and it had been a moment of weakness she was paying for this morning. She hoped that by spinelessly hiding out until he’d left, she’d avoid an embarrassing situation.

‘You have a great business, yes?’ Océanè said. ‘You have a great apartment, yes? But you are never alone. Always you are with friends. A person cannot exist without love. Eventually, you will have to let someone into your heart. Why not Bastien?’

Feeling the prickle of embarrassment inch its way over her skin, Amelia pulled her compact from her handbag and topped up her red lipstick. She’d been without love all her life, since her parents’ deaths but she couldn’t face talking to Océanè about that now. ‘I’ve done fine without a man so far,’ she said light-heartedly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

After they had finished their coffees and talked about their plans for the rest of the weekend, Océanè left and Amelia took another walk around the flea market. Temptation sat on her shoulder and whispered into her ear as her eyes fell on different objects that would suit her already overflowing apartment. Some of her clients liked a minimalist style, but when Amelia saw something she wanted, it was almost impossible to resist. As a result, her small flat was now packed with possessions and her wardrobe overflowing with clothes.

Amelia haggled with a vendor to buy an ornate perfume bottle – a finishing touch for the Montmartre apartment – and a vintage copper milk jug for her own place. She’d find somewhere for it to go later. Maybe the bathroom? And made her way back to the Metro.