Page 13 of The Last Casterglass

They were smilingat each other like a pair of fools and Oliver liked it. He found he didn’t want to break Seph’s gaze, even though his eyes were beginning to water. He hadn’t expected her to share so much, and he was glad she had, because he was starting to understand her so much better.

And he’d thoughthe’dhad an unorthodox childhood! Seph clearly won that prize. He couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like, to feel so, well,forgotten. He suspected she’d tried to downplay it a bit, so he wouldn’t feel too sorry for her—hadn’t he done the same thing? What a pair they were.What a pair.He found he liked that thought.

“And what about now?” he asked. “Now that everyone has come back? Do you like having a full house—or should I say castle—again?”

“I don’t know if it’s ‘again’ for me,” Seph replied after a moment. “We never really had it before, at least not during my lifetime.”

“Didn’t everyone come back for holidays?”

“Sometimes, but Sam was often travelling, and Althea was married to this rotter, Jasper—they got divorced last year—who didn’t like coming up here. So, the family get-togethers were pretty few and far between, to be honest.” She crumbled off a bit of flapjack and popped it into her mouth. “I didn’t mind too much. I’ve always been a solitary person.”

She’d had to be, and so she’d learned to like it, Oliver surmised. “Needs must, I suppose,” he replied. He sat back in his chair as he gazed at her, considering. There was a spark of defiance in her blue-green eyes, as well as a shadow of vulnerability. Her arms were folded, her chin tilted—ready to take on the world, or hide from it? Maybe both.

“What about you?” she asked. “Are you close to your aunt and uncle? You said you always felt like the nephew. What did you mean, exactly?”

The questions came thick and fast, with a hint of challenge. Oliver took a sip of his coffee, mainly to stall for time. Seph had been pretty honest in her answers, even if he suspected she’d tried to keep stuff back. He supposed he could, too.

“My cousin Jack has always been one of those sporty blokes,” he said slowly, “if you know what I mean. First eleven this, first eleven that, rugby all through secondary and then rowed all through university in his college’s first boat, at Oxford.” In case he was sounding spiteful, as if this was nothing but envy, he added quickly, “And, I mean, good for him, absolutely. But he didn’t have much time for me.”

Seph’s eyes narrowed as she cocked her head. “Was he a bully?”

“Not as such,” Oliver replied carefully. Jack had never hit him; he hadn’t had to, because Oliver had cowered beneath his cousin’s scorn anyway. “He just always let me know he was better than me, I suppose, and my uncle did, as well. I mean there was no question—I couldn’t compete, not even a tiny bit. He was the captain of the rugby team; I was a geek.”

Seph’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “A geek?” she repeated. “You don’t seem like a geek to me.”

He laughed, clasping one hand to his heart. “Words to treasure. Trust me, I was—I was five foot four until I was seventeen, and then I had a massive growth spurt. Someone mistook me for a year seven in sixth form. Ouch.”

She let out a soft laugh and he grinned, glad he could joke about it now. It had been pretty hard at the time, especially with Jack a strapping six two, swanning home from his boarding school with his posh friends while Oliver had been slinking back from the comp, alone.

“What about Pembury Farm?” Seph asked abruptly, and he could tell from her narrowed expression exactly what she was thinking. “If things were the way you’ve said, surely your cousin will inherit it?”

“Ah.” Oliver took the last forkful of Victoria sponge, chewing slowly and swallowing before he answered. “Well, he would, and that was my uncle’s great hope, of course. But Jack has zero interest in living at Pembury—it’s not as remote as Casterglass, but it’s in the North Yorkshire Moors and it feels quite rural. He lives in London, works as a banker in the City. He wants my uncle to sell it, since it’s his inheritance. He’d rather have a million pounds or so, free and clear, than a draughty old house up in the moors, definitely.”

“And you want your uncle to keep it,” she said, a statement.

“Yes.” Oliver heard the throb of passion in his voice and smiled, abashed by his own emotion. “I do. I love Pembury Farm. It’s the only home I’ve known—like Casterglass is to you.”

Seph raised her eyebrows, saying nothing, and Oliver continued, “I’m sure we could make it a going concern. It wouldn’t give Jack a million pounds, it’s true, but it could provide a stable income of sorts.”

And now she was shaking her head. “But he’ll inherit it anyway, won’t he? Even if your uncle agrees to let you run it for a time? It’ll be his in the long run.”

“Ye-es.” He rotated his empty coffee cup between his hands, the reality of his circumstances depressing him yet again. Was he crazy, to think he could change his uncle’s mind? “My hope is that I could buy Jack out, in time. If he agreed. All he wants is the money, so it’s not impossible. If I had the money, I mean.” Although virtually impossible, Oliver acknowledged, especially if his uncle didn’t leave him anything in his will, which he doubted he would; it probably wouldn’t even occur to his uncle. All Oliver wanted was the farm, but it still felt like too much.

He pictured the place now—its weathered stone and smoke-stained beams, the huge fireplace in the low-ceilinged living room, the rumbling Rayburn in the kitchen, with the dried herbs dangling from the beams, the long refectory table where he’d had almost every meal of his childhood. He thought of the rolling hills, the twisted, knobbly apple trees, the big stone barn that still smelled of hay and animals even though they hadn’t kept horses in twenty years. He loved every inch of that place, had found solace in its quiet corners, in roaming its meadows and fields. His uncle knew that; he knew Pembury was in Oliver’s blood, his very bones. How could he sell it, just to give Jack, who was already raking it in, a bit more dosh?

“I admit, it’s not a dead cert,” he said with a rallying sort of smile. “But I’ve got to try. I asked my uncle if I could try to turn the place into a going concern, but he said I didn’t have any experience. I asked him if he would consider the matter if I gained some experience, and he said yes. So here I am.”

“You must really love that place,” Seph said slowly. There was a faraway, wistful look to her face.

“Yes, I do, just like you love Casterglass, I think.” He smiled, but the glance she gave him was strangely sharp. “I mean, you stayed,” he said, with a hint of a question in his voice.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I stayed.” She glanced at the chunky watch strapped to her wrist in a deliberate sort of way. “It’s nearly five. We should get back.”

“All right,” Oliver replied, even though he wanted to askwhy? He’d been having such a good time. He thought Seph had too, until something he’d said seemed to have spoiled it, just a little.

“Thank you for the coffee.” The words were formal as she rose from the table. “It was very kind of you.”

“It was my pleasure.” He hesitated and then added, a bit recklessly, “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. I hope to have the opportunity to get to know you more, over the next three months.”