Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay

‘It is a bit of a shame it’s not as popular anymore,’ said Bob. ‘But it’s still a great opportunity for us all to promote our businesses. I was thinking we could have a stand of leaflets or something like that.’

Sparks began to fire in Hetty’s brain and intuition tied a knot in her stomach. Her body was telling her something. And if there was one thing Hetty Colman always did, it was listen to her intuition. Her brain quickly made a list of pros and cons, tallied costs against potential profit, calculated the work involved and went through a million and one other things, then she opened her mouth to speak.

‘I’ve a suggestion about the strawberry festival, actually.’ All eyes turned to her. ‘You all know how I’ve been looking for opportunities to expand my business, well, I’ve a gut feeling this is just the chance I’ve been looking for.’

‘Go on,’ said Bob with genuine interest. Gwen and Mary had gone quiet and everyone else waited for her to speak.

‘I think we should revamp the strawberry festival and bring it back to its former glory.’ Eyes widened a little but with Lexi and Stella’s encouraging expressions, Hetty confidently continued. ‘I think we should turn it into a giant food festival that lasts the whole of the bank holiday weekend.’

‘What?’ asked Gwen, the scornful tone returning to her voice. ‘You? Run a great big food festival? It’s a lot more complicated than a kid’s birthday party or ordering sandwiches for a wake.’

Hetty simply smiled in response. She didn’t take Gwen’s remarks personally, she was always like this. It was a wonder Gwen had any customers left with her gloomy, glass-half-empty attitude. And Hetty was incredibly thick-skinned. ‘As I said,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘this is just the challenge I’m looking for to boost my business. Strawberries would remain a focus, but I think if it’s expanded to other things too, we could have a really big food festival attracting regional, maybe even national attention. And we all know how business slows in the winter without the tourists. This would give us a final boost before the drop.’

Nell, the owner of a boutique bed and breakfast, Holly Lodge, nodded along. ‘I could definitely do with the boost, so anything that brings in the visitors is good with me.’

‘Still held in the town?’ asked Bob. ‘It’s in four weeks, though, Hetty. If you plan to keep it to the bank holiday weekend, I’m not sure we’d get permission from the council by then.’

It was true that time was short, but even though she was excited, Hetty’s logical and practical mind had, in the few minutes available, already mulled over several possibilities for locations. Bob was quite right that getting permission from the council to close roads, divert traffic and all that faff for the August bank holiday weekend was most likely not going to happen in the time she had available. To attract stalls and entertainment on the scale she was thinking of, she needed a firm location before approaching vendors, so the town was definitely out. That left two other options as far as she could see: the first was a large sports field on the east side of the bay, but it was owned and operated by a private leisure facility and they’d be unlikely to give permission at such short notice. The other was a difficult option too but more likely to succeed, and one that could turn out to be beneficial to both parties, if local rumours were anything to go by.

‘I was actually thinking of Thornhill Hall,’ Hetty said confidently.

The full tables surrounding her erupted into low mumbles and the incredulous shaking of heads. When they fell silent, Hetty again watched the dust motes dance down the shafts of light.

‘Thornhill Hall?’ asked Gwen, returning to her sarcastic tone. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? There’s absolutely no way John Thornhill will let you use his family’s land for a food festival. The Thornhills keep themselves to themselves these days.’

‘If rumour is to be believed,’ said Hetty, adopting her best don’t-mess-with-me voice and tucking her blonde pixie-cropped hair behind her ear, ‘he needs the money. If I offer him a share of the profits in exchange for use of his land, what has he got to lose? He hasn’t got to do anything. I’m going to do all the organising.’

‘And what about the costs?’ countered Gwen. ‘Who’s going to stump up for all this? As much as we love Swallowtail Bay, we can’t all volunteer, or pay for pitches. Or move our businesses to a different location for the day, hiring extra staff so we can have one of those pop-up shop type things. Then there are stewards and all that what-not.’

A few people nodded support then regarded Hetty with apologetic expressions. The meeting room suddenly seemed stuffy under everyone’s gaze and Hetty felt an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt. Adjusting her glasses, she pushed it down; it was a moment’s nerves, that was all. And nerves were a good thing. They kept you focused.

While Hetty’s dislike for Gwen was growing by the second, she had to concede that, again, Gwen had a valid point. With safety and security to think about, and stewards and equipment hire, there were going to be a lot of expenses, but grumpy Gwen had underestimated her. Hetty relaxed. To make this work she was going to have to use the capital from her own business, and as scary as that was, it was an investment in her future. One that she was more than willing to make. Hetty didn’t normally commit to things without a lot of forethought but something about this opportunity felt right deep down in her bones. She knew this was the right thing to do, the right step for her career. It was a cliché, but sometimes you really did have to speculate to accumulate.

‘Well?’ said Gwen again. ‘Who do you propose will pay for it all? You haven’t got time to find sponsors, have you?’

Matching Gwen’s gaze, with a carefree shrug Hetty answered. ‘I will.’

‘Are you sure, Hetty?’ asked Lexi, her forehead creasing in concern.

‘Absolutely. I really think this could be a great way for Swallowtail Bay to get back on the map. After all, we have some of the best food around. We have artisan bakers, cheese makers, vineyards, not to mention the best fish and chips in the land. By turning the food festival into a big weekend event, we could really get people coming back to Swallowtail Bay.’

‘It’ll be a lot of work,’ said Bob. ‘Especially with such a tight timescale.’

‘I think it’s a fabulous idea,’ said Lexi.

Stella nodded too. ‘I’d definitely be interested in having a stall.’

Hetty couldn’t help feeling like she was in a job interview under everyone’s expectant gaze. ‘I know this seems like a big deal, and it is. But I’m ready for the challenge. More than ready.’ Adrenalin was already pumping through her veins and she had a sudden urge to leave the meeting, grab a new notebook and get started. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Mary, the member who’d spoken earlier and was on the festival committee. Her head was bowed, but Hetty couldn’t quite make out her expression. Realising she may have overstepped the mark by getting too carried away, she said, ‘Mary, do you think the committee would agree to this? I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes or make any enemies. I just thought it would be a solution that worked for everyone.’

Mary’s head lifted and Hetty saw her face suddenly relax into a smile. ‘Thank you for asking, Hetty. While I’m sure they’d be relieved to have it off their hands, I think you’d better talk to the festival committee when we’re all together. I can’t agree to it on my own.’

‘Okay, Mary. Perhaps we can get something set up over the next few days?’

Gwen snorted. ‘Don’t jump the gun, Hetty. You still need to get John Thornhill on board first and there’s about as much chance of him agreeing to this as there is of me winning Miss World.’

Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out, Hetty hid the feeling of dread that was creeping up her spine with a confident beam. There was only one thing for it. Straight after the meeting Hetty would make a trip to Thornhill Hall and face the scary – and scarily handsome – lord of the manor. She had to convince him to agree.

***

Filled with excitement, Hetty didn’t waste any time after the forum finished, pausing only to steal a couple more mini croissants on her way out. Once outside, she swapped her glasses for sunglasses, jumped into Myrtle and drove to Thornhill Hall.

John Thornhill very rarely came into town but from the few visits he’d made he had gathered quite a reputation for himself. Insanely handsome, with green-blue eyes and thick dark hair, but with a rather too entitled and forbidding attitude, Mr Thornhill was known for being rude, irascible and a complete stick-in-the mud who also happened to be stuck in the past, obsessed with his ancestral home. Unlike a lot of country houses that were open to the public for at least a few days a year, the Thornhills kept themselves locked away and rarely mixed with the local riffraff. It hadn’t gone down well with the residents of Swallowtail Bay.

The slightest of sea breezes blew through the open window as Hetty drove the long road that ran along the seafront. Once she’d left the town centre and the boutique shops that lined the front, the bay opened up onto a wonderful pebbly beach. A long green ran parallel with the road and weather-beaten and well-used fishing boats sat between small white beach huts. At this time of year the huts were well used and doors hung open while children ran in and out.

When finally the pebble beach curved away to the left and the road she was on took her to the right, Hetty drove until she reached the outskirts of town to be surrounded by fields and winding country lanes. Though the salt air faded, overtaken by the strong aroma of manure, if she looked in the rear-view mirror, she could see the bright blue of the sea on the horizon. Hetty watched as the fields rolled by, dotted here and there with enormous circular hay bales. Closing the window but cranking up the air-con, Hetty swung Myrtle past a tractor and down the road to Thornhill Hall. Though it was such a large country house, it nestled amid such sprawling acres of land that made it seem small by comparison.

According to the town gossips, John’s father, Rupert, had expensive tastes which had lost most of the family fortune and now the place was falling into disrepair. As excited as she was to get the festival planning underway in earnest, Hetty was also keen to see if any of the rumours were true. No one got to see Thornhill Hall up close, only sighting its beautiful columned façade from gaps in the hedges lining the roads.

As a child she’d imagined what it would be like to live there, running its lengthy halls like an orphan in a Victorian gothic novel. There’d be butlers, cooks, maids and governesses – a house full of staff serving the masters of the house. At one point, before she started grammar school, Hetty had decided that one day she’d live in a house like this. The thought made her chuckle now as she adjusted the sun visor. Obviously, that hadn’t happened, but she loved the small cottage by the sea she’d ended up in, with its rickety front gate and tiny kitchen. From the seat in her bay window she could sit and watch the tide – strong and fierce in the winter and serene and calm in summer.

Finally reaching the boundary of the grand estate, Hetty pulled off the single-track country lane into the drive, surprised to see the large wrought-iron gates had been left open. Her rickety front gate paled in comparison to the eight-foot tall, dark black metal with gold patterning at the top. The long gravel drive lay before her, lined on either side with mature trees whose verdant haws offered only a little shade on this hot, cloudless day. The light shone through onto her windscreen and she drove slowly, following the winding path towards the house. About halfway down the drive, the mature trees were replaced with formal gardens. High, unkept privet hedges now lined the driveway but what lay behind them, Hetty couldn’t see.

Behind her owl-like sunglasses, Hetty felt her eyes widen at the enormity of the house as it finally came into view. She slowed the car. She’d always imagined seeing Thornhill Hall up close for the first time as something akin to the moment Elizabeth Bennett first sees Pemberley. But somehow, up close, it managed to be even grander than she had thought. The great grey Palladian façade was a mass of windows, covered in wisteria. Though not a gardener, wisteria was one plant Hetty knew the name of. Even in winter it made a house look enchanting and magical. The pale brown vines reached out over the front of Thornhill Hall in long winding fingers, and a few spring blooms dotted the front, hanging down here and there like lilac lanterns. She wasn’t exactly boned-up on architectural design, but Hetty supposed the house would be called Neo-classical in style. The two recessed wings on either side of the main building housed six windows each and the front door, which was in fact enormous, appeared small nestled behind four columns on top of which stood a large vaulted gable. Behind the house, great swathes of fields spread out and the sea became a vista of hazy lines of blue.

The drive ended in a turning circle, in the middle of which was a massive stone vase overflowing with flowers. Hetty parked just down from the front door. As she climbed out of the car her eyes remained fixed on the house. It was utterly beautiful and perfectly situated in the middle of the overgrown ornate topiary that formed the formal gardens. They clearly weren’t paying a gardener right now.

Being of a practical nature, Hetty could well see that as lovely as the place was, the heating bills alone would be astronomical. Would it really be wonderful to live somewhere like this, she thought, or more trouble than it was worth? Before her mind could answer, she spied the name sticker from the business forum just about holding on to her shirt and pulled it off, screwing it into a ball and stuffing it in her jeans pocket. Hetty suddenly wished she’d worn a skirt or shorts as the sun beat down on the backs of her legs. Though June had been a bit patchy, the sun had shone relentlessly since the beginning of July, causing hot, sticky days and long, frustratingly sleepless nights. Taking a deep breath and swapping her sunglasses back to normal glasses, Hetty rolled her shoulders and readied herself to face John Thornhill.

The deep stone steps that led to the front door were of the same grey as the house and seemed smooth, almost soft, worn by time and the feet that had trodden them over the years. A sense of history imparted with every step and Hetty was curious to know how long the Thornhills had owned the house. Picking up the heavy iron knocker on the large wooden door, a sudden rush of nerves swamped her normally confident demeanour. It was too late to go back now though, she thought, glancing back at the car. She’d committed herself at the forum and here she was on John Thornhill’s doorstep. Hetty reminded herself that her business needed this boost, and as steely determination rose up, she tapped three times, hearing the deep bass note resonate around her.

Chapter 3

John sighed with relief when he heard the loud knock echo through the hall; the delivery was finally here. At least one thing was going right this morning. So far today he’d had another final demand, a row with his brother, Felix, over the best way to raise funds for the roof repairs, his mother was almost packing her bags, so utterly terrified of losing her home, and his dad – well, his dad had been pruning in the garden since 6 a.m. A completely unhelpful task and one he was performing with increasing regularity as a way of avoiding the mess he’d got the family into.

John ran a hand through his short dark hair, then down his chin, feeling the neat, trimmed beard beneath his fingertips. As the silent house filled with the echo of the knock, he made his way from the study to the front door in time to see Jaz, his PA, running down the stairs faster than a whippet to get there before him. Her black hair was tied in a tight high ponytail and bobbed as she descended. When he’d been her age, he’d had energy too.

‘You beat me to it,’ he said with a grin, his deep voice echoing almost as loud as the heavy lion-shaped knocker on the front door. She returned his smile with one of her own.

‘I’m surprised you left the study. I thought you’d be waiting for that call from Christie’s. Do you want me to ring them for you and chase them once I’ve dealt with this? Oh, and don’t forget you’ve got Mr Stevens ringing at ten about that Ming vase. It might be best if I ring Christie’s so you don’t get stuck on another call.’

John was struck by his assistant’s bright eyes and impressive organisation skills. He couldn’t remember now how he’d managed to run his antiques business on his own. As it had grown, he’d found the admin side too much to handle but had resisted needing an assistant. He found it hard to delegate and give up control. Considering how reticent he’d originally been to hire someone, particularly someone so young, Jaz Simmons had more than proved herself capable. She’d been 24 when he’d hired her. Now, two years later, he had no idea what he’d do without her. ‘If you could, that’d be great. I’ve still got fifteen minutes before Stevens though, which should be enough time to deal with this delivery.’ Jaz took a step back, leaving John to answer.

Turning the handle, he pulled open the heavy oak door, beautifully weathered by time. At moments like this, the magnificence and history of the house would grab him, and he’d feel the hard work was all worthwhile. He shouldn’t ever forget how much that meant to his family even though it was often the case that his ideas and the hours of work all came to nothing.

Expecting to see a middle-aged man in overalls delivering a large wooden crate, John was surprised to be faced with an attractive woman wearing a dark red shirt tucked into tight jeans and with pink ballet pumps on her small feet. Her pale blonde hair was cut short, which suited her gamine face which was made all the more attractive by a cute pair of spectacles. Momentarily lost for words – not a state of affairs he was used to and one that put him on his guard – he barked, ‘How did you get in?’

However, the beautiful woman before him didn’t seem in the least bit offended as she brushed her hair over her ear. ‘The gates were open, Mr Thornhill. I was quite surprised myself; I know you usually keep them shut, but I’m taking it as a sign.’

The gates were normally kept firmly shut so people didn’t just randomly decide to visit the house. They used to be left unlocked all the time but then visitors would come and knock on the front door, asking to look around like their home was in some kind of estate agent’s open-house session. His mother used to be terrified and over the years had become increasingly jumpy at the sound of a rat-a-tat-tat and would run upstairs like a frightened rabbit. Still, he didn’t welcome this interruption to his day. ‘A sign of what?’

Smiling, she replied confidently, ‘You’ll find out if you let me inside.’

A light warmth rose in him that he put down to the heat of the day. This woman probably just wanted a donation to some local charity event or other and they had nothing to give, even if they wanted to. The do-gooders they normally met were little old ladies with grey hair, not attractive self-assured women. He glanced around hoping to be saved by his delivery driver and the sun shone on his face making him hot. ‘Listen, you can’t just drive onto private land, this is trespassing.’

‘Oh, hush, don’t be so dramatic,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m not doing anything of the kind. I’ve come to speak to you, Mr Thornhill.’

Taken aback, John tried to regain control of the conversation. ‘How exactly can I help you?’

‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ The woman thrust out a hand. ‘Good morning, Mr Thornhill. My name’s Hetty Colman and I have a business proposition for you.’

‘Really?’ Slightly amused but also conscious of the time and the calls he was expecting, not to mention the chaotic morning he’d endured so far, he scowled. He didn’t have time for a ‘proposition’ that would inevitably be for a charity bake sale or some such local event. ‘I don’t have time right now, but if you’d like to make an appointment with my assistant, I’d be happy to speak to you another time.’

Disappointment and annoyance flashed over her features, but Miss Colman, it seemed, was not to be deterred. Her hand dropped back down to her side and he realised in his flustered state he hadn’t taken it. A wave of embarrassment hit him. ‘I’m afraid time is of the essence, Mr Thornhill and I’ll only take a moment of your day.’ She edged a little closer to the door, which irritated him even though the sparkling confidence in her eyes made him hesitate.

‘I’m very sorry, Miss Colman.’ He really didn’t have time for this now. ‘Another time.’ John backed away from the door, leaving Jaz to speak to her, but the woman didn’t move. Normally he’d consider it an admirable quality, but not today.

‘What I’m proposing,’ Hetty called out to him, ‘could be of great financial benefit to you, just as much as me, Mr Thornhill. And I’ve heard that’s something you require right now. I really would prefer to speak to you, rather than your assistant, if that’s at all possible.’

The words ‘great financial benefit’ and ‘heard’ stopped him in his tracks and he turned, feeling his hackles rise. Had the town been gossiping about his family and their situation again? It was true that thanks to his father’s obsession with French vineyards, the family fortune had been lost and, as a result, most of the paintings and anything made of precious metal had been sold to try to claw back some much-needed funds. Where they’d been removed from walls leaving squares of bright wallpaper, the rooms now looked bereft and sorry. Damp was creeping in everywhere, creating corners full of black mould and a general smell of dust. Now the roof of the east wing needed repairing, and some of the tapestries were in danger of being lost forever because they couldn’t afford a conservator. The place was already re-mortgaged to the hilt and the chance of repaying anything other than a token amount that wouldn’t even touch the interest was remote.

At 44, and with his own business going well, he should have been enjoying life. Maybe finding time for love and having a family, like Felix. Instead, half his time was spent researching possible income streams to raise money for the house, but with his mother against opening to the general public, and Felix always suggesting some outlandish scheme or other, it was proving virtually impossible.

Jaz was attempting to mollify the bossy woman, who from her polite, but dogged expression, wasn’t having any of it, and he only had twelve minutes now until his ten o’clock call. Jaz’s voice was harsh. ‘Miss Colman, I assure you, as Mr Thornhill’s assistant I’m quite capable of dealing with anything to do with his affairs.’ Jaz flicked her ponytail over her shoulder, something she did, he’d noticed, when she was asserting her authority.

‘I’m sure you can, Miss …?’

‘Simmons.’

‘Miss Simmons.’ Miss Colman’s voice was warm and friendly, not patronising, he noticed, just assured. ‘But I really would prefer to speak to Mr Thornhill directly.’

‘As Mr Thornhill has already explained, he has business to attend to this morning. But I can help you. Or we can arrange a more convenient time.’

‘Miss Simmons—’

Jaz’s voice took on a steely edge and for a second this battle of wills was far too close to call. ‘Miss Colman, as I’ve already explained Mr Thornhill—’

‘Mr Thornhill hasn’t actually gone anywhere, Miss Simmons. I can see him quite clearly hiding in the hallway over there.’ The woman pointed to him and met his gaze. ‘So I can only assume he is in fact, still interested in what I have to say. Aren’t you, Mr Thornhill?’ She tipped her head slightly as she said his name and John turned away, hiding the smile that was pulling up the corner of his mouth.

He checked his watch and without quite knowing why, found himself saying, ‘I can give you five minutes. Follow me into the study.’