back for Beth. And Beth’s email said Esmond was coming back tomorrow.
Emily was fantasizing, thought Michael determinedly. So was Charlotte when she talked about Esmond. Beth has simply met someone with the same name. It’s just a local name, that’s all it is.
Then he thought, But supposing it’s more than that?
SEVEN
N ell had managed to forget about the eerily insubstantial music, and she had managed to convince herself that there was nothing sinister about finding the piano open last night. Probably it had never been locked in the first place and the lid had been jammed. And there was nothing sinister about the music with Esmond’s name on it, either. It was twenty-five years since Brad had known Esmond, so if the music had belonged to Esmond, of course it would be old and a bit faded.
She and Beth had slept well in the deep old beds, and the kitchen was warm and friendly. As she made toast and poured cereal into bowls, Nell thought how impossible it was to believe in disembodied piano music, or figures made of rain or cobwebs who peered through windows.
How about that other ghost, though? How about Brad? If he was here at all, he was very faint and faraway. I’m not exactly over you, said Nell to Brad in her mind, and I probably won’t ever be, not completely. But I can think of you without that wrenching despair and loss.
After breakfast she and Beth drove to Caudle Village where she was able to phone Michael, and leave a message on his voicemail. After this she and Beth bought more candles and matches from the tiny supermarket, along with two electric torches.
Back at the house, she worked her way through the downstairs rooms, listing furniture and silver and china, photographing several more pieces, and making notes. The house was warm and filled with morning sunlight and it was remarkable how little the lack of electricity mattered, although sorting through some beautiful damask table linen stored in an old sideboard, Nell thought it might soon become irritating. But for a couple of days it was quite fun to camp out.
Beth spent almost an entire hour typing an email to Michael on the notebook computer which was her most prized possession. When Nell reminded her the notebook was on battery and could not be recharged until they got home, Beth said, solemnly, that an email to Michael had to be properly written on account of Michael knowing about English and stuff. You had to spell words right and things for him.
‘You have to do that for everyone, not just for Michael,’ said Nell, smiling. ‘But I know what you mean.’
At half past twelve they returned to the village, where the landlord of The Pheasant was happy to let them use the Internet connection. Beth sent her email and Nell sent various photographs to colleagues, mostly of items that were a bit outside her area of expertise. There were some paintings, and a pair of what she thought were patch boxes – tiny enamelled containers that would have contained beauty patches for elegant eighteenth-century ladies. There was also the piano, of course; that was a very specialized area. She wondered if she would want it herself and thought she would not. If Beth’s interest in music progressed she would buy a brand new one, with no vagrant memories embedded in its depths.
There were a couple of emails in her own inbox, one from Henry Jessel and one from Michael, but Henry only said there was no word yet from the Japanese customers about the Regency desk, and Michael’s message merely said he looked forward to hearing from her soon.
The Pheasant was bright and welcoming and the landlord, whose name was Joe Poulson, was interested to hear they were staying at Stilter House. A grand old place, that was, and everyone had known and liked Miss West.
‘Lived at Stilter all her life,’ he said, proffering the menu, which modestly announced itself as providing fresh, home-cooked food. ‘A very nice lady. I dare say the house will have to be sold, will
Emily was fantasizing, thought Michael determinedly. So was Charlotte when she talked about Esmond. Beth has simply met someone with the same name. It’s just a local name, that’s all it is.
Then he thought, But supposing it’s more than that?
SEVEN
N ell had managed to forget about the eerily insubstantial music, and she had managed to convince herself that there was nothing sinister about finding the piano open last night. Probably it had never been locked in the first place and the lid had been jammed. And there was nothing sinister about the music with Esmond’s name on it, either. It was twenty-five years since Brad had known Esmond, so if the music had belonged to Esmond, of course it would be old and a bit faded.
She and Beth had slept well in the deep old beds, and the kitchen was warm and friendly. As she made toast and poured cereal into bowls, Nell thought how impossible it was to believe in disembodied piano music, or figures made of rain or cobwebs who peered through windows.
How about that other ghost, though? How about Brad? If he was here at all, he was very faint and faraway. I’m not exactly over you, said Nell to Brad in her mind, and I probably won’t ever be, not completely. But I can think of you without that wrenching despair and loss.
After breakfast she and Beth drove to Caudle Village where she was able to phone Michael, and leave a message on his voicemail. After this she and Beth bought more candles and matches from the tiny supermarket, along with two electric torches.
Back at the house, she worked her way through the downstairs rooms, listing furniture and silver and china, photographing several more pieces, and making notes. The house was warm and filled with morning sunlight and it was remarkable how little the lack of electricity mattered, although sorting through some beautiful damask table linen stored in an old sideboard, Nell thought it might soon become irritating. But for a couple of days it was quite fun to camp out.
Beth spent almost an entire hour typing an email to Michael on the notebook computer which was her most prized possession. When Nell reminded her the notebook was on battery and could not be recharged until they got home, Beth said, solemnly, that an email to Michael had to be properly written on account of Michael knowing about English and stuff. You had to spell words right and things for him.
‘You have to do that for everyone, not just for Michael,’ said Nell, smiling. ‘But I know what you mean.’
At half past twelve they returned to the village, where the landlord of The Pheasant was happy to let them use the Internet connection. Beth sent her email and Nell sent various photographs to colleagues, mostly of items that were a bit outside her area of expertise. There were some paintings, and a pair of what she thought were patch boxes – tiny enamelled containers that would have contained beauty patches for elegant eighteenth-century ladies. There was also the piano, of course; that was a very specialized area. She wondered if she would want it herself and thought she would not. If Beth’s interest in music progressed she would buy a brand new one, with no vagrant memories embedded in its depths.
There were a couple of emails in her own inbox, one from Henry Jessel and one from Michael, but Henry only said there was no word yet from the Japanese customers about the Regency desk, and Michael’s message merely said he looked forward to hearing from her soon.
The Pheasant was bright and welcoming and the landlord, whose name was Joe Poulson, was interested to hear they were staying at Stilter House. A grand old place, that was, and everyone had known and liked Miss West.
‘Lived at Stilter all her life,’ he said, proffering the menu, which modestly announced itself as providing fresh, home-cooked food. ‘A very nice lady. I dare say the house will have to be sold, will
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