“But I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Yes, you have. You’re having dinner with me.”
“Thank you, Troy. Really, you’re a good friend,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“That’s what friends are for. Remember, you’re not the only one looking for a man. We’re in it together and thank heavens we’re not in competition. I’d lose out to a treasure like you!”
Miranda walked down the path towards the river. The sun shone enthusiastically upon the wild grasses and weeds, catching the droplets of rain that had fallen during the night and turning them into diamonds. The wind had blown wildly in the early hours of the morning and yet orange and brown leaves clung to the branches, not yet ready to relinquish the last remains of summer. A couple of squirrels played in the oak tree that dominated that side of the house, its trunk as wide and stout as the vicar’s. The way was trodden by deer and her own inquisitive children so that it formed a damp path through the field to the river. She had been there once or twice but it hadn’t held the enchantment it did today. Perhaps it was the sunshine, the bright blue sky and the sense of belonging that had so far eluded her.
She stood a moment on the stone bridge, gazing down into the clear water below. She could see weeds and stones and the occasional fish that floated lazily across the sunbeams. She imagined her children playing there, throwing sticks into the water. Then she glanced over to Gus’s secret house. She hadn’t looked at it properly before. The estate agent had simply mentioned a cottage in need of repair, and, as she had no immediate use for it, she had thought nothing more about it. The cottage stood neglected in a small copse of chestnut trees. There was no driveway. Perhaps there had once been a track from the main house through the field and over the bridge. Now there was just grass. There was something wonderfully romantic about its isolation. It was a secret hideaway that time had left behind.
Miranda turned the key in the lock. It was a rusty old thing, but it opened with a low squeak, like the irritable yawning of an old man disturbed in sleep. Inside, the hall was tiled with dark stone slabs, the staircase narrow with a little landing where it turned the corner. She went into the sitting room. The room was full of furniture, yet the air smelled damp. No one had lit a fire in a long time. The bookshelves were heavy with books stacked in tidy rows from floor to ceiling. She ran her hand along the top of one. It wasn’t as neglected as she had presumed. There was only a light coating of dust. The books were a mixture of old and contemporary, from Dickens to Sebastian Faulks. To her surprise there was a shelf of French novels.
She took in the whole room. The empty stone fireplace framed by a wooden mantelpiece that was clearly very old and beautifully carved, the pale yellow striped wallpaper tarnished by years of wood smoke. She noticed it was peeling in one corner from a leak. The carpet was worn and stained and clearly needed changing and the rug had been eaten by moths. However, there wasn’t a great deal to do. The sofa was intact, the armchairs, too; the glass coffee table just needed a good wipe. She walked over to the chest of drawers, a pretty antique walnut, and opened the drawers. The house had an inhabited feel about it. If it hadn’t been so dirty she would have been happy to curl up on the sofa with one of the books. With a cheery fire and a glass of wine it would be cozier than her own more formal drawing room.
She explored the kitchen. It would need new appliances but the crockery was complete. She noticed the table laid for two and thought how odd it was that the cups and plates were still there, as if the inhabitants had been spirited away in the middle of tea. She resisted the temptation to clear them away. She’d get her rubber gloves on, hire some help, and do it all at once. The children could help her. It would be fun for them.
The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she climbed the stairs. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was very old-fashioned and needed to be completely gutted. The iron bath was stained, its enamel worn away, and the taps were tarnished. One of the bedrooms was completely empty except for a box that sat in the middle of the floor, as if it had been forgotten. Before she had a moment to look inside, a rattle from the bedroom next door distracted her. Her heart jumped. Surely she was the only person in the cottage.
For a second she thought it might be Gus. Her irritation mounted as she stepped across the landing to the other bedroom. A mischievous squirrel startled her as it shot back out the window, carelessly left ajar by her son, no doubt. She put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath, relieved that it wasn’t an intruder or, worse, a ghost. She looked around. There was a large iron bed, made up with sheets and quilted bedspread in a pale green flowered material. Two bedside tables with tall pillar lamps, the shades stained with yellow patches. A faded trunk at the end of the bed, a cherrywood chest of drawers with a Queen Anne mirror on top, a prettily painted pine wardrobe against the wall. Pale linen curtains hung from large wooden poles, their linings torn and discolored. The carpet was dirty but intact. She wondered why the Lightlys hadn’t bothered to take all this furniture with them. Perhaps they had downscaled and hadn’t the room. She opened the window wider and looked out over the field. She could see down the river to the field of cows—Storm’s cows. Her spirits soared, stirred by the strange magic of the room and the glory of the view.