Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday. Cathy Kelly
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ripped off, though,’ Cashel said grimly.
‘Understood, loud and clear,’ said Mara.
They walked around the ground floor and Cashel found himself speaking slowly so Mara could take notes, rather than rattling off instructions in his normal shotgun manner. He didn’t know if it was this spiky, unusual girl who was having that effect on him or the fact that he was in Avalon House – the house he now owned.
Here, in the town where he’d grown up, he felt different, less like the captain of industry who expected minions to jump when he said so. If he sent Mara off scared, doubtless he’d get a reputation in the town for being a rich bastard, one of those people who’d let wealth change them beyond recognition. And he didn’t want anyone to think that, because it wasn’t true.
Money had changed him, to a degree. The absence of it was a nightmare, and he knew that, because he’d grown up that way. But having money didn’t necessarily change the person you had been from the start.
A billionaire Swiss friend had put it wonderfully when he said that having money merely emphasized what you were all along. If you were a poor son of a bitch, you’d turn into an even worse son of a bitch with money. But if you were fundamentally decent, then you’d stay that way – simply with a nicer bank balance.
‘One question,’ Mara asked, when they’d spent an hour walking around the house, talking, with her taking copious notes all the while. ‘Is this to be your home, or are you doing it up to sell?’
Cashel didn’t look at her.
He seemed a million miles away, in fact. It was as if he had to drag himself back to the present when he finally answered her: ‘I don’t know. Yet.’
When Mara had left, Cashel walked around the house and looked at it. It didn’t matter how much money you had if you weren’t happy, he knew that all too well.
And he knew that the Power family had loved each other, even though there wasn’t any money to go round. They were never too proud to be friends with the locals. Well, maybe Suki wasn’t friends with all and sundry, but that was because Suki had always been wild. Even so, the wildness didn’t come from her thinking she was a cut above anyone else. If anything, it was a fierce desire to do better that made her wild. To get herself out of Avalon. To be rich and famous.
But old Mr Power and Tess – even thinking of her name upset him – those two never thought they were better than anyone else. Maybe their ancestors would have thought so. It would have been bred into the De Paors: You are better than all the townsfolk. They are there to do your bidding. But old Mr Power and Tess weren’t like that.
He remembered Tess, years ago, getting angry with him as they passed through the gallery where all the portraits were. She had noticed that he was walking cautiously, as though he might get into trouble for being in this part of the house.
‘Would you stop comparing our backgrounds, Cashel, please,’ she’d said. ‘You know, your mother knows, we have nothing. We’ve barely been able to pay for electricity for the past three years. There’s no money in this house. Stop looking at it like it’s something different. It’s a big house, nothing more. So what if my father can trace his ancestors back for decades? What does that mean in real terms, exactly? You’re the one who’s making it different.’
These days he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her – not surprising, given that he was buying the house she used to live in. The house she’d lived in when he first kissed her. The house she’d lived in when she betrayed him.
He made a note to himself to talk to Mara in the morning. Not a penny was to be spared when it came to Avalon House. It was to be the best of everything. The very best.
Within weeks, Cashel found a strange peace in walking around the grounds of Avalon House. Mara had sourced a company of local tree surgeons, who were diligently examining the trees in the avenue. Some of the beautiful magnolias would have to come down, they’d told Cashel, because they were diseased.
Mara had also found a landscape gardener who specialized in the restoration of old gardens, and even though Cashel had meant to be in a meeting in London the morning she arrived, he’d found himself cancelling so he could join in on the walk around the grounds.
The gardener, a formidable lady named Judy, was in her sixties and wore sensible tweeds and a waxed jacket that looked at least as old as the house. She had a brusque manner and a small dog snapping at her heels, and Cashel found he was delighted to lope along behind her and Mara, wearing wellington boots and a heavy coat.
‘There’s a lot of work to be done here,’ Judy said. ‘Really serious work. It looks as though none of this has been touched for nigh on thirty years.’ Her tone conveyed the disgust she felt for those responsible.
‘It’s true that the place has been neglected,’ said Mara, who’d begun to research the history of the estate diligently and had learned how, thanks to her feckless ancestors, Tess had lost her home. And now the poor woman was struggling to hang on to her shop, as well as having to cope with her husband leaving. Though Judy was clearly the sort of woman who brooked no opposition to her views, Mara felt she owed it to her new friend to provide a more sympathetic account of Avalon House’s recent history:
‘For the past eighteen years, the house has been empty. The previous owners – the Powers, who’d owned Avalon House since its inception – lost all their money, so they hadn’t the resources to do anything to stop it becoming more and more decrepit.’
Cashel found himself compelled to intervene, although he didn’t know why he was sticking up for Tess’s family. ‘These huge houses are a nightmare to run,’ he said. ‘It’s the same story all over the country: grand old houses that were once the envy of everyone, handed down the generations until there wasn’t a ha’penny left to maintain them, for all that they could trace their ancestors back to the year dot and had the portraits in the hall to prove it. Not that it matters who your ancestors are, or anything,’ he trailed off.
‘Yes,’ said Judy, maintaining her brisk pace. ‘I can see that. I’ve come across many similar cases in my work. I take it you want to make sure this garden is restored in keeping with the property?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cashel, and he found himself wondering why he’d said anything positive at all about landowners in trouble.
It was as if he was standing up for Tess, Suki and their father, and the fact that they hadn’t a ha’penny. Bizarre. He kept pace with Mara and Judy, shortening his long strides so the other pair could keep up. Mara shot him a couple of interesting glances but he ignored them. There could be something on her mind, he decided. Mara was not like any other assistant he’d ever had before. In fact, he’d probably have fired any assistant who behaved as Mara did toward him. Not for any insubordination or lack of ability – far from it, she was marvellously efficient, clever, capable of thinking on her feet and coming up with fantastic ideas – but she didn’t kowtow to him at all. Of late, however, Cashel had changed; he found Mara’s attitude refreshing. It was as if she was saying, You may have lots of money and be my boss, but you’re no better than me, sweetie.
Cashel Reilly, who’d grown up feeling exactly the same way, admired that sort of spirit.
While he found Judy a joy, he couldn’t cope with being present for too many of the architectural meetings. The architect, a slender, respectable young man named Lorcan Reed, had been highly recommended, having been involved in the restoration of many such period houses. But after hearing him expound at length on the need to ensure that all renovations and improvements remained absolutely in keeping with the various periods of the building, Cashel had decided that Lorcan Reed was an almighty bore. The architect was also intent on getting his own way, which immediately put Cashel’s back up as he was accustomed to people deferring to his preferences, especially when it was his money they were spending.
Whether it was a question of choosing a particular flooring, a certain type of wood or stone, Cashel’s choice would invariably be rubbished by Lorcan as historically