Page 3 of The Last Casterglass
“Seph, come and have some tea,” Olivia entreated, and Oliver had the sense she was talking to some wild creature in need of taming. After a second’s pause Seph moved over to the enormous brown teapot and poured herself a mug. Oliver watched as she poured milk in and no less than three sugars. She leaned against the counter and sipped it, gazing around watchfully at them all over the rim of her mug.
The conversation moved back, unfortunately, to him and his circumstances.
“So what exactly are you hoping to do with Pembury Farm?” Althea asked and Oliver had the urge to squirm, which he thankfully resisted.
“Uh, well, keep it in the family, basically,” he said. “Some of the ideas you’ve implemented here could work on the farm, I think. The campsite, in particular, and the workshops. I’ve also thought about having pick-your-own vegetables and fruit—there are orchards on the property—apple, plum, and cherry.”
Althea’s expression had turned thoughtful as she sipped her tea. “Pick your own. I like that.”
“We’ve let the orchard go a bit, I’m afraid,” Walter told him with an apologetic smile. “I don’t think the trees are very productive anymore.”
“I don’t even know where the orchard is,” Olivia exclaimed. “Where is it, Daddy?”
“Across the river, on the far side of the wood, opposite the campsite.”
“Perhaps that’s something Oliver can help with,” a young woman—John’s daughter?—suggested. “Getting the orchard back into shape.”
“You can’t prune trees in autumn, I’m afraid,” John put in, with a commiserating look for Oliver, as if he would have known that. The truth was, he’d thrown the ‘pick-your-own’ idea out there a bit wildly, simply because Pembury Farm did have a somewhat productive orchard. He didn’t know the first thing about fruit trees, however. So great, yet another way he could feel like a fake.
“In January though,” Althea said musingly. “You’ll still be here then, won’t you, Oliver?”
The terms of his internship—unpaid as it was—had been decidedly ambiguous. “Possibly,” he said, trying to sound optimistic. Would Uncle Simon have decided on whether to sell by then? He kept making ominous noises, but Oliver didn’t know if that was just his way to keep him guessing. As long as he didn’t sell, he knew Oliver was beholden to him, willing to dance to his tune. But once he did…
Well, it simply didn’t bear thinking about.
Oliver straightened and smiled around at the group, determined to stay optimistic. Uncle Simon had said he needed experience to run Pembury Farm, and so here he was, gaining it. He’d work hard and learn along the way, and never mind the slight missteps he’d had so far. Too much was riding on this to let himself be dissuaded by a little disapproval.
As if sensing his thoughts, Seph caught his eye and gave him a scowl. Oliver’s benign smile faltered. For a second, she looked as if she actively hated him, and the optimism he’d been holding on to so determinedly slipped, just a little. Three months suddenly seemed like a rather long time.
Chapter Two
Oliver woke toa torrential downpour hammering the roof of his attic bedroom. Olivia had shown him to his room last night, slightly apologetic about the fact that he was being housed in the former servants’ quarters.
“All the rooms in the addition are taken at the moment,” she explained, “since everyone is living at home. But once Althea moves to Appleby Farm after the wedding, you might be able to have her bedroom.”
Take the intimidating Althea’s bedroom? No thanks. Oliver had assured her he was fine in the servants’ quarters; there was no one else up under the eaves, and the bathroom down the hall, with its Victorian tub and trickle of rust-coloured water, was his alone.
Now, in the morning, Oliver stared at the ceiling as a gloomy, grey light filtered through the curtains. He tried to recapture some of the ebbing optimism he’d felt last night. He was a bit overwhelmed by all the Penryns with their various eccentricities; he’d grown up with his one cousin Jack who had gone to boarding school at seven, when Oliver had been only five years old. Life at Pembury Farm with his uncle had been decidedly quiet, save for the dreaded intervals when his cousin came home. In between those times, however, his uncle had been a man of few words and his aunt Penny, who was a far more convivial character, had divorced Simon and moved to London when Oliver had been twelve. He still kept in touch with her, and she was as fun and enthusiastic as ever, if a bit distant.
The women in his life, he’d thought more than once, with a determined pragmatism, seemed destined to leave him—first his own mother, scarpering off to Australia when he was a kid, and then his aunt and virtual mother figure. And then there was Audrey, who had decided, regretfully it was true, that they had no future after two years together at Oxford. Hopefully it wouldn’t become a continuing trend, but the truth was he hadn’t had much luck in the romance department so far. For some reason this made him think of the mysterious Seph, with her blue-green eyes and ferocious scowl. No joy there certainly, he thought with a sigh, and yet he still wondered. Why had she seemed so angry?
Shaking himself free of such pointless, meandering thoughts, he rose from the bed to brave the icy, bare floorboards and then the barely lukewarm trickle of the shower. Five-star accommodation it was not, but he wasn’t going to complain. Free room and board had been generous enough for him.
Twenty minutes later, wearing a button-down shirt and brown cords, his hair still damp, he ventured down to the kitchen in search of breakfast and his boss—last night Althea had mentioned eight a.m. as a potential start time. It was twenty to now.
The kitchen was, somewhat surprisingly, empty, although people had clearly eaten, judging by the tottering pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Hesitating for a moment, unsure how at home he should make himself, Oliver finally went in search of toast and tea, thankfully finding both without too much difficulty. He’d just sat down to his breakfast when Althea blew into the kitchen on a wind of purposeful determination.
“Ah, Oliver! There you are. Making yourself at home?”
“Sorry—” Oliver began, his mouth full of toast, but Althea brushed aside his uncertain apology.
“No, no, I’m glad.” She glanced at her watch. “When you’ve finished eating, I thought you could have a wander around the property, poke your nose in where you like. Just to get the feel of the place. Then we can sit down and talk about what you’ll actually do. We’ve never had an intern before, so all ideas and suggestions gratefully accepted.” She let out a laugh, which made Oliver wonder if she’d been joking. She seemed like the sort of person to have a minute-by-minute timetable, which she would stick to down to the second.
“Great,” he said, since she seemed to be waiting for a response, and with a brisk nod she turned on her heel and walked out.
Oliver turned back to his toast. He munched in silence for a few minutes before the door banged open, just as it had last night, and Seph stood there, with the same scowl. Good grief, was her face frozen in that grimace? He was reminded of his aunt Penny telling him not to make funny faces, in case one of them stuck. Seph’s seemed to have done just that.
“Good morning,” he said, swallowing the last of his toast, and she just glared at him before striding, loose and long-limbed, to the kettle. Today she was wearing a pair of heavy work trousers, the kind you might wear while chainsawing, and a voluminous plaid shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal slender arms, skinny wrists. As she reached for the kettle, Oliver thought there was something strangely, endearingly vulnerable about the sight of those wrists—so pale and slender, so incongruous with the toughness of the rest of her.