Page 51 of The Last Casterglass
“I want to see it. I want to share in anything that’s important to you. It’s just…not always easy.”
“I know.” His arms tightened around her. He was glad she was going, even if he dreaded the thought of what his uncle was almost certainly going to say. At least then they’d both be free, he told himself, to face whatever the future held…together.
Chapter Nineteen
The North YorkshireMoors looked a lot like Cumbria, but gentler. Seph stared out at the rolling green hills and valleys streaming by and tried not to hyperventilate. According to the satnav, they were less than ten minutes from Pembury Farm. And she was terrified.
She’d agreed to accompany Oliver because she knew how important it was to him, but that didn’t mean she liked the idea, or was looking forward to the weekend in any way, shape, or form. Chitchat with strangers…being scrutinised…having to answer all sorts of questions about her unconventional childhood… It sounded like a living nightmare.
Yesterday Olivia had given her a crash course in basic etiquette, something she’d never actually learned the way her siblings had. How to hold her teacup, the right fork to use, when to put your napkin on your lap. Seph’s head had been buzzing with it all when Althea had come into the musty dining room that the family never used and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! She’s not going to meet the queen.”
“Oliver’s uncle is the grandson of an earl, though, isn’t he?” Olivia pointed out.
“An extinct title, and in any case, Seph is the daughter of a baronet. Look, Seph.” Althea had faced her straight on, brisk but smiling. “Just be yourself. I know that sounds stupid and clichéd, but I actually mean it. If you can’t be yourself, there’s no point, because your relationship with Oliver won’t last. Trust me, I should know. I acted like some airhead socialite for Jasper’s sake, and I was more or less miserable for twenty years.” For a second Althea’s expression tightened; Seph knew the years lost to her philandering ex-husband still stung, even though she was over-the-moon happy with John. “If you can’t be yourself, then you don’t want to be with him,” she stated with quiet definitiveness.
“I can be myself with Oliver,” Seph protested. “It’s his uncle I’m worried about.”
“Well, who cares about him, anyway,” Althea replied with a careless wave of her hand. “Especially if he’s selling the family farm.”
Well,shecared, Seph thought as they drew ever closer to the farm in question. As much as she’d appreciated Althea’s encouragement, she was still going to be spending the whole weekend with Oliver’s uncle, and even though Oliver’s feelings were complicated when it came to that particular relationship, Seph knew the man still mattered to him. The weekend stretched ahead of her, a minefield of awkward moments and mishaps, ones that could even threaten to destabilise her relationship with Oliver. Everything between them was so new, after all; what if a weekend away was the worst thing ever, not just for her, but forthem?
“Seph, it’s going to be okay,” Oliver said, reaching over to pat her hand. “Don’t panic.”
“How do you know I’m panicking?”
“Because you’re clinging to the door handle like we’re about to crash, and I happen to be going thirty miles an hour.” Seph managed a sheepish smile as Oliver slowed down and put on his indicator. “And here we are. Welcome to Pembury Farm.”
His voice held a warm note of pride and Seph took a deep breath as she turned to look at the lane Oliver was turning down. It was a narrow track that wound its way through the mellow hills, towards a house of golden stone nestled in a copse of beeches, with a small pond out front and an orchard out back, a few barns and outbuildings alongside.
“I know it’s not a patch on Casterglass Castle,” Oliver told her with a wry grimace, but Seph just shook her head.
Yes, the house was a lot smaller, with a row of only six mullioned windows rather than a round dozen, glinting in the afternoon sunlight, and not a crumbling turret in sight, but there was something so homey and welcoming about it all that already she felt more at ease, if, admittedly, only a bit.
“I can see why you love it,” she said, and he gave her a quick, searching look.
“Can you?”
Seph glanced back at the house, looking so snug and contented in its little spot. Everything looked neatly tended without being intimidating or showy; there was a comfortableness to the whole place that she instinctively liked. “Yes, I think so.”
“I’m glad.” He reached over to touch her hand briefly before they pulled up in front of the house; the front door, facing the pond and the road, looked the more imposing but was clearly little used; just like at Casterglass, everyone went through the back door, straight into the kitchen.
A couple of springer spaniels raced out as Oliver climbed out of the car and he bent to fondle their ears. “This is Clover, and this is Patch,” he said, introducing them both while they gave Seph a very thorough sniff. “They’re absolutely ancient, but they still have loads of energy.”
Seph gave them each a tentative pat; her family had never had dogs growing up, as her parents had been far too absent-minded to take care of pets along with children, but as the two spaniels frolicked and pranced around her, she thought she might like to have a dog, one day. A dog like these ones.
“Oliver.”
Seph saw Oliver spring to attention, a look of wary alertness coming over his features, and she turned to face the man who had come out of the kitchen to greet them. He was, she thought, more or less exactly what she’d expected him to be, without even having realised that she’d formed a mental image—bluff, red-faced, dressed in an old jumper, baggy cords, and expensive-looking brogues. He had an air of shabby gentility crossed with City banker, and he clapped Oliver rather heartily on the shoulder before turning to Seph.
“And you are—Persephone?”
“Please, call me Seph. Everyone does.” After a second’s awkward pause, Seph held her hand out to shake, knowing it would be clammy with sweat. Simon Belhaven shook it with the same heartiness with which he’d clapped Oliver on the shoulder.
“Lovely to meet you. Let me show you your room while Oliver puts on the kettle.”
He led them both into a kitchen that reminded Seph of Casterglass even though it really was rather different. Yes, there was the same sort of big Aga-style cooker, and a long, scrubbed table, a clutter of boots and a deep-silled window over the sink overlooking the garden, but it was a fifth of the size, and not nearly as messy. There was a hominess to it that the kitchen at Casterglass lacked, perhaps because of its size or maybe just its mess.