Page 20 of Christmas Spirits at Honeywell House (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #3)

Sometimes, living in Rowan Vale was as awkward as hell. Not only could we not buy our own house on the Harling Estate, but delivery vans weren’t allowed to drive into the village.

I’d given up all hope of doing the Christmas shopping in town, or even at the market, and realising how close to the big day we were, I’d gone into full panic mode.

I’d quickly written a list of presents to get the kids, Jack’s parents, Callie, Brodie, Immi, and the kids’ teachers, as well as a few bits and bobs for Jack, and had placed a huge order with an online retailer, courtesy of my already groaning credit card.

I’d even, as an afterthought, bought a few baby vests and sleepsuits for our forthcoming arrival. In for a penny, in for a pound.

It had all been delivered within a couple of days, but as was the case with all deliveries to Rowan Vale, it had been left at the drop-off point not far from Harling Hall.

This particular piece of land, down a lane close to the village boundary, was also home to the garage, the taxi firm, the shop where you could hire mobility scooters and wheelchairs, the villagers’ car park, and the overnight storage depot for the vintage buses.

It made sense and I understood the reasons why we weren’t allowed to park our cars in the village, and why modern delivery vans couldn’t sail back and forth through our streets.

After all, this was a living history village, and the sight of modern vehicles would really break the illusion that visitors had stepped into the past.

The only vehicles allowed to move freely through the village – apart from the emergency services and any vehicles needed for building materials – were the vintage buses, a couple of taxis with wheelchair access, and a Fordson Thames delivery van from 1940, driven by a local man called Eric Edwards who, for a few quid, would collect your deliveries from the drop-off point and bring them to your door.

It had never bothered me much before. Yes, on rainy days, having to trawl all the way to Hall Lane to pick up the car was infuriating, but it was something you had to accept if you wanted to live here. Part of the deal.

In exchange, we were charged low rents, and repairs and maintenance were done quickly and for free on our homes.

Plus, we got to live in this stunning village.

Jack was right. We’d never have been able to afford to buy somewhere like Honeywell House.

Cotswold prices had shot up with an influx of celebrities and London commuters, not to mention holiday homeowners. People like us didn’t stand a chance.

I knew all that, and deep down I was grateful, but there was still a part of me that seethed with resentment as I took delivery of all the parcels from Eric that Thursday afternoon, all too aware that the news of my splurge would be all round the village within the hour.

No doubt people would shake their heads and condemn me for not supporting the local shops and businesses.

Well, I thought as I directed Eric to one of the outbuildings so the parcels could be dumped in there until Jack could get them safely upstairs out of the way of the boys, they can criticise me all they want.

I don’t have the headspace, or the physical energy to go Christmas shopping again this year.

The good mood that had come over me when I watched the Christmas lights being switched on had evaporated, leaving me as low as I’d ever felt.

With the model village – and my life – on hold for at least two years and potentially forever, I couldn’t see a way forward. The future held nothing but nappies and toddler groups and more money worries.

I’d barely purchased a thing for the baby and told myself I’d deal with all that in the new year, but at the back of my mind the fear nagged away at me. How was I going to buy all the things we’d need when I’d pretty much maxed out our credit cards on Christmas?

I didn’t even like to think about how I was going to pay them off as it was. And now winter was here the fuel bills would only increase.

I thanked Eric and paid him, then headed into the house. In the kitchen, Toby greeted me with hopeful eyes and an encouraging nudge. The hope turned to reproach when he realised I had no treats for him. As he sloped into the living room, I sat at the table, resting my head in my hands in despair.

Reluctantly, I had to accept that my low mood was partly caused by knowing that Jack was right.

It would be stupid for him to leave his job on the railways.

It was the only security we had, and walking out on a regular wage to set up a new and – being honest – seasonal business would have made things ten times worse, only adding to our stress rather than lowering it.

I knew that. I just didn’t want to admit it. I’d wanted so much to believe that we could run our own business, work together, have a stake in Rowan Vale…

My mind drifted back to one weekend, fifteen years earlier, when we’d discussed my forthcoming first visit to the estate.

‘Rowan Vale sounds like something out of a fairytale,’ I’d told him, as we’d sat together in my bed, eating our breakfast of bacon sandwiches. ‘A steam railway, no modern vehicles allowed, people wearing period costume to work.’

Jack had eyed me nervously. ‘It’s not for everyone,’ he’d said cautiously. ‘But it’s definitely an, er, special place.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to see it.’

He’d hooked his arm around me, and I’d snuggled against him, my mind full of thoughts of this stunning Cotswolds village that I’d heard so much about and had longed to visit ever since I could remember.

Now I finally had the chance. I just had to be very careful and keep my wits about me…

I mentally shook my head, not wanting to go back to those days.

Knowing how I’d behaved still filled me with shame.

I could only hope Jack never found out. Although, as the years went on, it seemed less and less likely that he would.

Which was a good thing, naturally. Except, I sometimes felt that Jack knowing my secret would be worth it. I was tired of keeping it.

As if compelled by some mystical force, I got up and ventured into the living room, where I quickly located the sketchbook I’d hidden under piles of old takeaway menus, shopping lists, out-of-date bills and everything else we’d casually tossed into the ‘junk drawer’.

I lifted it out and went back into the kitchen, placing it on the table while I made myself a cup of tea. Maybe, I thought, I should take up sketching again. Art had always soothed me. It gave me something to focus my mind on. Maybe that was what was missing from my life?

Finally settled, I was just about to pick up the book to leaf through it again when there was a knock on the door.

It was Callie. She looked a bit pensive as I greeted her, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what mood I’d be in. I could hardly blame her, given how up and down I’d been recently, not to mention that the last time I’d seen her I’d stormed off and hadn’t even said goodbye.

‘Brought you these,’ she said, waving a bag in front of my nose. ‘Peace offering.’

‘You don’t need a peace offering,’ I said, smiling in spite of myself. ‘What’s in there?’

‘Churros,’ she said. ‘Hot and crunchy and utterly yummy. I may have eaten one on my way here.’

‘Only one? Well done.’

I stepped aside and ushered her in.

‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ I told her, feeling embarrassed as I led her into the living room. ‘I should never have left like that. It was childish.’

‘You were upset,’ she said, sitting on the sofa. ‘We understood. All of us. Let’s just forget it for now, shall we? I haven’t come here to go over all that again. Actually, I was wondering how you got on at the antenatal appointment. It was yesterday, wasn’t it? Did Jack go with you?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept him away.’

‘You two have made up then?’

I blushed. ‘I apologised to him, too. And he apologised to me. We’re both under a lot of pressure right now, what with finances, and lack of space, and the shock of a new baby. I know he was just trying to be practical, and he knows I’m disappointed. It is what it is, I guess.’

‘And the appointment?’

‘Everything’s progressing well. My blood pressure’s fine, though God knows how. Of course, there were some amused comments about me not realising I was pregnant. All very tactful, naturally, but I felt an idiot. As if it’s not bad enough that I’m referred to as a geriatric mother.’

Callie laughed. ‘The main thing is you’re healthy, and everything seems to be going well with the pregnancy. And at least you’ve got a few weeks to get your head around everything. I was going to organise a baby shower for the new year, but it might be cutting it a bit fine. What do you think?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Believe me, that’s the last thing I need. I’ve got enough to worry about.’ I nodded at the bag of churros. ‘We should eat those before they get cold. I’ll put them on plates. Would you like a cup of tea to go with them?’

‘Love one,’ she said, beaming. I left her in the living room, while I quickly made her a cup of tea and fished out two plates for the churros.

Opening the bag, I was met with the most divine smell, and my mouth watered in anticipation of the taste and texture. Crunchy cinnamon sugar coating, a fluffy centre, all drizzled with chocolate. I could hardly wait.

I made the tea and divided the churros up onto two plates, then reached for the tray to put everything on. As I lifted it and turned to take it into the living room, I nearly dropped it in horror.

Callie was in the kitchen. I hadn’t heard her come in. And she was browsing through my sketchbook!

‘What – what are you doing?’

She gave me an apologetic look. ‘Sorry. I came to see if you needed any help, and I just couldn’t resist when I saw it lying there. Your drawings are so good, Clara. They really are. This one of Lawrie is amazing!’

Before I could stop her, she’d flipped the page over and I watched, unable to move or speak as her eyes narrowed in confusion. Then they widened and her mouth fell open as she slowly lifted her head to look at me.

‘I don’t… I mean, how?’

I put the tray down and leaned against the worktop, taking a deep breath.

I knew my face was burning and that I had no way of avoiding what was coming.

No explanation would satisfy Callie. I knew that.

It was obvious that I’d have to come clean, and that, if I handled this badly, it could be the end of everything for me.

‘It’s – it’s not what it looks like,’ I murmured, my heart thumping in alarm.

‘Well,’ she said, clearly perplexed, ‘it couldn’t be, could it? Because what it looks like is a sketch of Aubrey Wyndham. And that’s just not possible, is it?’

* * *

Callie carried the tray into the living room and settled it on the coffee table while I followed her, clutching the sketchbook in one of my shaking hands, and my tea in the other.

‘Okay,’ she said, as we settled onto the sofa. ‘So how come you’ve managed to sketch one of our resident ghosts?’

I swallowed. ‘I think I saw his portrait when I first moved here. I can’t remember where.’

Callie shook her head. ‘There’s only one portrait of Aubrey that I know of, and it’s in Harling Hall. And before you tell me you saw it on the night of the ball, remember it was only discovered very recently, as I told you.’

‘Maybe there was a picture of him in a library book,’ I said desperately. ‘I did look up the history of this place when I moved here, you know. Yes, now I think about it, that’s where I saw it. I must have copied it from that.’

‘Lawrie told me the portrait we have is the only one of Aubrey that’s known about. If there was another one that had been used in a book, I’m sure we’d have heard about it,’ she said suspiciously. ‘What’s going on, Clara?’

My eyes filled with tears. I had nowhere left to hide, and I was terrified.

‘Please, Callie. Can you just drop it?’

She bit into a churro, surveying me as she chewed, her mind obviously ticking over as she tried to work out what was going on.

‘You can see him, can’t you? Aubrey, I mean.’

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. I lowered my head, nodding miserably.

‘Is he the only one, or can you see others?’

‘Only Aubrey,’ I whispered.

‘And the reason for that is…?’

I took a deep breath. ‘And the reason for that is, we’re related. I’m his great-great-great-great-granddaughter.’

Callie stared at me. ‘You’re a Wyndham?’

‘Descended from his son James,’ I said. ‘Callie please, please don’t say anything.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she admitted. ‘I thought the Wyndhams had left the area. Lawrie said?—’

‘They did,’ I said desperately. ‘It’s just me. I came back. And it was purely accidental.’

She said nothing, simply staring at me, and I suppressed a sob. ‘Okay,’ I admitted eventually, ‘it wasn’t purely accidental. But please, hear me out. It really isn’t as bad as it sounds.’

‘Okay,’ she said, taking a sip of tea. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘I guess I’d better go back to the beginning,’ I said slowly. ‘It all really started when I met Jack.’