Diamonds are for Deception

When the frail, papery hand released hers, she rose to her feet. ‘Now I’d better go and unpack my things before lunch.’

‘I hope you’ll come to see me again before you go back to London?’

‘I’d love to.’ She smiled at him, and, leaving the men together, headed for the door.

Pulling it to gently behind her, she heard Simon say, ‘The good Mrs Jenkins has sent you a pot of crab-apple jelly.’

‘Ah, splendid woman, she never forgets…’

As she retraced her steps to her room, Charlotte’s mind was on the indomitable old man and the quiet courage he’d displayed.

Recalling what Simon had told her of the family’s history, she decided that perhaps all the Farringdon men were fighters in their own way. Sir Nigel might be dying, but it was on his terms.

Once back in her pleasant room, she set about emptying her case. Packed with her overnight things and accessories was a grey chiffon dinner dress, and a skirt and top in shades of taupe and olive that Sojo—who was fond of bright colours—referred to with open contempt as funereal.

At the last minute, in case the weather stayed fine and Simon suggested a walk, she had added a pair of oatmeal wool trousers, a mulberry-coloured sweater, a pair of flat shoes and a hip-length jacket.

Deciding that the suit she was wearing was too formal after all, she changed into the skirt and top and brushed out her long dark hair.

She was preparing to take it up again when there was a light knock, and Simon’s voice queried, ‘About ready for lunch?’

Opening the door, she said, ‘I won’t be a minute. I just need to re-pin my hair.’

‘Leave it as it is.’ Taking her hand, he tucked it through his arm. ‘I like it that way.’

His touch sensitised her skin and sent little electric shock waves running through her. Concentrating all her attention on not giving herself away, she failed to catch his question and was forced to say, ‘Sorry?’

‘I asked what you thought of Grandfather.’

‘I liked him and admired his courage,’ she said unhesitatingly. ‘Considering how ill he is, he seemed very much in control.’

‘He has extremely strong views about life and death and what comes after, which serve to give him unlimited strength. Though he’s the first to admit he’s made some bad mistakes and suffered some grave disappointments, on the whole his life’s been good, and after what he describes as ‘‘a long and interesting innings’’ he isn’t in the least afraid to die. He’s already made it clear that when he does go, he doesn’t want either a dismal wake or a period of mourning. Instead he would prefer a celebration of his life, and then for things to go on as if nothing had happened.’

Certain now that he cared a great deal for his grandfather, she asked, ‘Will that be possible?’

‘It may not be easy, but, as it’s what he wants, I’ll do my best.’

Lunch proved to be an informal affair, served by a young maid and eaten in the light and airy morning-room. The simple fare, celery soup followed by a Quiche Lorraine and raspberries and cream, was delicious, and as they drank their coffee Charlotte said so.

‘Mrs Reynolds will be pleased. She prepared it herself, as the cook has flu. Incidentally, I’ve told her we won’t be in for dinner tonight, that with your agreement we’re having a meal at the Oulton Arms. I think you’ll find the place interesting historically, and the food, while nowhere near the cordon-bleu class, isn’t bad. However, if you’d prefer to eat somewhere more upmarket…’ Simon raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

‘No, the Oulton Arms sounds fine.’

‘In that case, when I’ve shown you round the house, we’ll take a leisurely drive through the estate and leave by the north gates. That route takes us through the park proper, where we graze both sheep and deer, and the wooded area.’

‘Are sheep the estate’s main source of revenue?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Not any longer. A few years ago an independent survey showed the estate was seriously overstaffed, but, as a lot of the families had been with us for several generations and wanted to stay, Grandfather was reluctant to ask anyone to leave. After consulting the people involved and listening to their ideas, we decided the best option would be to diversify and create new jobs. There were large areas of woods and pine forest standing idle, so we began to fell carefully, replanting with deciduous trees as we went. At the same time we went into pig breeding and poultry farming—specialising in rare breeds of pigs and hens—and into market gardening in a big way. The market gardening was a great success and we now have several farm shops and a growing trade in organic produce. As well as providing employment, the various ventures have proved to be extremely lucrative. Now fifty per cent of the profits go to children in need, and a charity that fights drug abuse and helps to maintain a series of hostels for the homeless…’

As well as simply being attracted, she was starting to like him, and she was ridiculously pleased to know that both he and his grandfather cared about people.

‘More coffee?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Ready to begin the Grand Tour?’

‘I certainly am.’

‘Then I suggest we start with the Great Chamber and the Long Gallery.’

Charlotte was staggered by the grandeur of the Great Chamber, and the elegance of the Long Gallery, which was lined with family portraits that ranged from the 16th to the 20th century.

‘If you’re interested,’ Simon said, ‘I’ll explain who everyone is another time. But right now we’ll get on and see the rest of the place.’

‘The rest of the place’ was everything and more than Charlotte had imagined. As well as being serenely beautiful, Farringdon Hall had an atmosphere she could only describe as one of contentment, as if generations of being loved and cared for and lived in by the same family had made it into a real home.

‘I can’t imagine anywhere less likely to be haunted.’ She spoke the thought aloud as, the tour completed, they were returning via her room so she could pick up her coat and bag while Simon spent a few minutes with his grandfather.

‘So you’ve heard there’s a ghost?’

Feeling a blush starting, she admitted, ‘I was curious enough to look Farringdon Hall up in Britain’s Heritage of Fine Historical Houses…’

‘I see.’ There was some slight nuance she couldn’t catch. ‘What else did it have to say?’

‘That in her heyday, Elizabeth I was rumoured to have made many private visits to the Hall.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Sir Roger Farringdon, a notorious rake who owned the house at that time, and had been widowed quite young, was known to be one of the queen’s favourites. Next time we visit the gallery I’ll show you his portrait. But to get back to our ghost…’

‘You mean there really is one?’

‘Grandfather certainly believes there is. This is her room we’re just coming to now.’

When he opened the door Charlotte was surprised to find that it was a child’s room, full of the paraphernalia of childhood—dolls and a doll’s house, an old-fashioned rocking-horse, a pram with a golly in it and a cot containing a large teddy.

A jumble of books and toys were still stacked on a wide shelf. The air struck chill.

‘After her death it was left completely untouched,’ Simon explained.

‘So she was a member of the family?’

‘Oh, yes. She was Grandfather’s sister. Her name was Mara and she was born in 1929. When she was still a toddler it was discovered she had a serious heart defect that in those days it wasn’t possible to correct. She was just turned seven when she died.’

‘And Sir Nigel believes that her spirit still lingers here?’ Charlotte asked with a shiver.

‘Yes.’

‘What do you believe?’

‘I keep an open mind,’ he said lightly.

Charlotte would have liked to know more, but the brevity of his answer seemed to preclude any further questions.

‘Now, about ready for our outing?’ he queried.

‘I will be in a second or two when I’ve fetched my jacket and bag.’

‘While you do that, I’ll just put my head round Grandfather’s door and tell him we’re off.’

Outside, the air had turned appreciably colder and a rising wind was hustling ragged, charcoal-coloured clouds across a leaden sky.

As they made their way through a wide stone archway to the right of the house, Simon, who was wearing a short car coat, remarked, ‘It looks like the forecast’s correct and we’re in for some rain.’

‘If I’d been thinking straight I would have packed a mac instead of a jacket,’ Charlotte said ruefully.

But excitement had precluded straight thinking.

‘It won’t matter if it rains while we’re in the car, and I’ll try to park near the entrances to both the pub and the village hall… Of course if everyone has the same idea—’

‘We’ll just have to run between the drops,’ she finished, smiling.

He returned her smile.

Watching his excellent teeth gleam and laughter lines form at the corners of his eyes, she felt her heart begin to beat faster.

The force of his attraction was powerful, as if he were true north and she, like a magnet’s needle, couldn’t resist the pull.

‘As we’ll be going cross-country,’ he told her, when they reached the creeper-covered garage block, ‘what I will do is take the vehicle Frank Moon, our estate manager, uses, rather than my own car.’

Retrieving a large bunch of keys from a locked cupboard, he added, ‘A lot of the roads through the wooded areas are just rutted tracks, so if it does rain heavily, we may well need a four-wheel-drive.’

Glancing around her, Charlotte observed, ‘This looks like part of an old stable block.’

‘It is,’ he confirmed as he helped her into the big estate car. ‘There are still a couple of stalls left in the other part, but we haven’t kept horses since I was in my teens.’

‘Did you learn to ride as a child?’

Sliding behind the wheel, he answered, ‘Yes, but when I went to university there was only Lucy left and she didn’t care for horses, so Grandfather gave them to a local riding school for the blind.’

As the engine roared to life and they headed north through rolling parkland dotted with grey woolly shapes, he went on, ‘From time to time I’ve considered getting a couple of horses so I, and possibly a guest, could ride at weekends.’

Only half listening, she watched his hands on the wheel—strong, exciting hands with long, lean fingers and neatly trimmed nails—and pictured them touching her intimately, so that her breath came faster and butterflies danced in her stomach.

Making an effort to banish such erotic thoughts and concentrate, she pulled herself together, and said, ‘It sounds a wonderful idea. But wouldn’t you need someone to exercise them during the week?’

‘Our present chauffeur used to be a groom, and he’s declared himself more than willing to take them out on a daily basis.’

Then thoughtfully he asked, ‘I gather you ride?’

‘Yes, I learnt when I was about eleven. Of course, it wasn’t real riding,’ she added a shade wistfully. ‘I used to go to a local riding school that took small groups hacking round suburbia.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I rode a black horse named Milord. Though he stood seventeen hands, he was as gentle as a lamb. The problem was, we were always trailing behind the others.’

‘Why was that?’

‘His mouth was so hard he was able to do exactly as he pleased. He used to amble along at his own pace, stopping whenever he felt like it to tear chunks from people’s hedges and snatch whatever he could reach from their gardens. I often spent a lot of my ‘‘lesson’’ apologising,’ she added wryly.

Watching the corner of his long, mobile mouth lift in a smile, she found herself imagining that mouth moving against hers.

As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, he turned his head and their glances met.

In that instant, as green-gold eyes looked into grey, desire flared between them with a white-hot furnace heat.

Damn! Simon thought, returning his gaze to the road. Normally his feelings were well under control, but that unexpected and unplanned explosion of lust had taken him by surprise.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Charlotte’s face was as red as a poppy and she was staring fixedly ahead.

It was clear that the feeling had been mutual, which in some ways was satisfying. But it had come too soon.

He had every intention of seducing her, but when the time came to put his plans into action, he didn’t want her to be on her guard. It would only make things more difficult.

Feeling as though her very bones had melted like candle wax, Charlotte gazed through the windscreen, while she wondered confusedly how so much strong feeling, so much mutual passion could be whipped up in just an instant.

And surely it had been mutual?

A surreptitious sideways glance confirmed that Simon’s jaw was tightly clenched, and a dull flush lay along his hard cheekbones.

But though he was obviously roused, he had made no attempt to take advantage of the situation. Rather he had backed off.

She felt a rush of gratitude. If he had stopped the car and touched her, she would have been lost, and to get involved with someone like Simon Farringdon would be madness.

He might be used to casual sex and one-night stands, but she certainly wasn’t. And while he would no doubt be able to walk away afterwards without a second thought, she knew instinctively that she wouldn’t be able to.

The experience would at best be unforgettable, at worst, scar her. Either way she would never be the same again.

For what seemed an age, but in reality could only have been a minute or so, they drove in silence. Then, unable to bear the tension a second longer, Charlotte rushed into breathless speech.

‘Just a moment ago I thought I glimpsed some buildings behind those trees…’

‘That’s Aston Prava…’ Simon’s voice sounded restricted ‘…it was purpose-built about ten years ago to house the estate workers. Though the hamlet looks in period, the houses are slap up-to-date with all mod cons, and the tenants even have their own village shop and post office. Until then the outside staff had been scattered in various small cottages throughout the estate, without mains water or electricity.’

‘How did they manage?’ she asked abstractedly.

‘With bottled gas, and water pumped from the nearest stream or their own well.’

‘I can’t imagine any of them minded moving.’

‘The majority were delighted.’ Simon’s voice sounded more normal now. ‘Only Ben Kelston, our old gamekeeper, asked to stay where he was. His two-up, two-down cottage is in the woods miles from anywhere, and, as he was turned sixty at the time and doesn’t drive, Grandfather tried to talk him out of it. But he said firmly that he’d been born and bred at Owl Cottage—his father had been gamekeeper before him—and he didn’t want to leave. While a move might have been in Ben’s best interests, it would be a real shame if Owl Cottage was allowed to stand empty. It’s a picturesque timber-framed, cruck-trussed building that dates from the early fifteen-hundreds.’

‘It sounds delightful.’

‘It’s a perfect little gem. Unfortunately it’s so isolated that it’s unlikely anyone else would want to live in it.’

Grasping at the conversation as she would have grasped at a lifeline had she been drowning, she asked, ‘So is Ben still there?’

‘He was until a few days ago, when he fell and broke his hip. Frank happened to call in as he was passing, and found him lying on the scullery floor. He’s in hospital at the moment, and Frank and his wife are looking after things until he’s well enough to return home.’

‘Will he be all right, do you think?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Up to now he’s looked after himself well enough, and he’s kept the cottage spotlessly clean.’

‘But surely he won’t be able to manage the stairs?’

‘A few months ago, when he had a minor accident, Frank and I brought his bed downstairs, so that won’t present a problem…’

To Charlotte’s great relief, by the time they reached the electronically controlled north gates any awkwardness seemed to be forgotten, and she began to look forward to the evening ahead.

In the event, it proved to be a great success. The food at the Oulton Arms was tasty and satisfying, and they both thoroughly enjoyed the concert.

Though earlier the threatened bad weather had manifested itself only as a brisk wind and some light rain, by the time they left the village hall it was blowing a gale and pouring down.

Simon took her hand and together they sprinted for the car, arriving wet and, in Charlotte’s case, breathless. A condition caused more by the touch of his hand than by the run!

Jumping in beside her, he switched on the engine and turned up the heater, before passing her a folded handkerchief. ‘I’m afraid this is the best I can do in lieu of a towel.’

‘Thank you.’ She wiped the rain from her face and hair, and handed it back.

He followed suit in a cursory manner before dropping the sodden ball of linen onto the floor.

His fair hair was darkened by water, and fine beads of moisture still clung to his eyebrows and thick lashes. She watched a single drop trickle down his lean cheek, and shivered as she felt a sudden mad urge to brush it away.

Noticing that involuntary movement, he said, ‘We’d best take the most direct route and get back as quickly as we can so you don’t catch a chill.’

The wipers, even going at top speed, barely managed to keep the windscreen clear as they eased carefully through the crush of home-going cars and headed out of the village.

Once they were through the Hall gates and into the wooded area of the estate, the road became littered with torn-off twigs and small branches.

Their lights making a dazzling tunnel between the trees, he drove with even greater care, picking his way through the fallen debris.

Charlotte had turned her head to look at a swollen brown stream rushing past, when all of a sudden they swerved and left the track, coming to a halt halfway up a shallow, mossy bank.

‘It’s all right,’ he assured her quickly, ‘there’s no problem. I just had to swerve to avoid a badger.’

He turned the ignition key to restart the car.

She waited for the reassuring roar, but apart from the wind and rain there was silence.

As he tried again the headlights abruptly died, leaving them in total darkness.

‘Hell!’ he swore softly. ‘I’m afraid we do have a problem after all.’

‘What’s wrong?’ She managed to keep her voice even.

‘Frank said that last week the electronics had developed an intermittent fault, but this looks more like the battery. He took the car into the local garage, and when he picked it up the head mechanic assured him the fault had been fixed. But it seems he was mistaken.’

‘Can you phone for help?’ she asked hopefully.

‘I could if I had my mobile with me. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring it.’

‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice.

‘The last time I took it to a concert I’m afraid I forgot to switch it off, and it rang in the middle of ‘‘Silent Worship’’.’

She laughed, then asked as cheerfully as possible, ‘So what do we do now? Walk?’

There was a rending, splintering sound, and a sizeable branch crashed down close to the car, making her jump.

She saw the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. ‘I think not. It’s a devil of a long way, and apart from the fact that neither of us are equipped for it, it wouldn’t be safe to walk far in this kind of weather. Our best bet would be to shelter until morning, then reassess the situation.’

‘You mean stay in the car?’

‘No. As we’re already wet and the heater’s not working, that would be much too cold and uncomfortable. Our best bet is Owl Cottage.’

‘Is it far away?’

‘Not more than a hundred metres or so. It’s on the other side of the stream we’ve been running parallel to, but the bridge is just up ahead. Once at the cottage we’d be able to light a fire and have a hot drink of some kind.’

Though the thought of having a fire and a hot drink was more than welcome, she asked practically, ‘Won’t it be locked up?’

‘Yes, but as Frank and his wife are looking after the place there should be a key on his bunch.’ Having felt through the keys, he said, ‘This might be it. You wait here while I go and make sure.’

From the glove compartment he took out a big, rubber-covered torch. Adding, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he forced open the car door, struggling to hold it against the wind. A second later it slammed behind him, and she saw the beam of his torch moving away along the track.

It was already getting uncomfortably cold, and she found herself hoping against hope that it was the right key.

As though the fates were against them it seemed to be raining harder than ever, and fierce gusts of wind were buffeting the car. Somewhere close at hand she could hear more branches crashing down, and, fearful for his safety, prayed silently, Please God, don’t let anything happen to him…

Feeling alone and vulnerable, she waited in the darkness for what seemed an age, surrounded by the noise and violence of the storm.

A movement close by that seemed to have nothing to do with the wind made her imagination run riot, and she was absurdly relieved when she saw the beam of the torch returning.

Opening the car door, Simon said, ‘Quick as you can. Thank the lord this is the leeward side.’

The torchlight lit his face from beneath, giving it strange hollows and weird angles, turning it into a Hallowe’en mask.

Clutching her bag, she stumbled out.

Throwing an oilskin around her, he gathered her into the crook of his arm, and together they began to pick their way along the track, avoiding the fallen debris as best they could.

Now that she was away from the comparative shelter of the car, rain lashed into her face and the wind beat against her like a malignant force, tearing at the oilskin, taking her breath, sapping her strength.

Hampered by high heels, she knew she would hardly have been able to battle against the storm without his help.

‘Almost there; just across the bridge.’

His words were whipped away by the wind almost before she’d heard them. A second later the torch briefly illuminated an old humpbacked bridge spanning the turbulent water.

They fought their way across the bridge, and almost immediately she saw a welcome gleam of light ahead, then the dark bulk of the cottage and a low stone wall surrounding a garden.

‘Here we are.’ The gate was swinging wildly, and he caught and held it before propelling her through. Latching it securely, he added, ‘Don’t want it banging all night.’

Perhaps it was half-hysterical relief that made his comment seem funny, but she found herself giggling as he hurried her up the path.

When he opened the cottage door they were swept inside by a gale of wind and rain and leaves. Shouldering the door shut behind them, he lifted the streaming oilskin from her shoulders and hung it on a peg, where it immediately began to form a puddle of water on the black oak floorboards.

Glancing around her, Charlotte saw a white-walled, black-beamed room, simply but pleasantly furnished, with a pine table and two chairs, a chintz-covered two-seater settee, several overflowing bookcases and a wheel-backed rocking-chair.

On the far side of the room was an old-fashioned double bed with gleaming brass rails and knobs. It had a comfortable-looking mattress and a small pile of pillows. Standing alongside it was a sturdy bedside table with a candle in a brass candlestick and a box of matches.

As well as lighting the two oil lamps on the dresser, Simon had put a match to the fire, and flames were already leaping and crackling round the logs in the old black-leaded range.