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the kitchen—for that was undoubtedly where her daughter had run off to. Hattie loved her ballet lessons and she would sulk for a month if she had to stop.
Personally, Josie couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. There was no freedom in it, no exuberance. Twisting yourself into unnatural positions and stuffing your feet into hard little shoes that were two sizes too small. No way.
Still, Hattie seemed to like torture in a tutu and Josie wasn’t about to stop her doing what she loved. That was what good parents did—they supported their children’s choices and let them blossom into the unique creatures they were meant to be. She was not going to impose her own likes and dislikes on her daughter as if they were the Ten Commandments.
Just as she’d predicted, Hattie was sitting at the kitchen table looking expectantly at Mrs Barrett, Elmhurst’s cook. And just as her husband would answer to nothing other than “Barrett”, Mrs Barrett was conveniently deaf unless she was addressed as “Cook” by most people. Josie got away with Mrs B, but only if she wasn’t being too cheeky and the older woman was in the right kind of mood.
‘And will it be your usual, Miss Hattie?’
Josie smiled. This was a game they played, Cook and Hattie. She thought it reminded the loyal servant of the glory days of the hall when she’d had staff to boss around and ‘at homes’ to cater for.
There were no prizes for guessing why Hattie liked the game. It was every girl’s dream, wasn’t it? To be Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty and live in a castle. And she wasn’t going to stop Hattie having her dreams, even if she knew the reality was pretty grim.
Most people didn’t realise this, but living in a fantasy castle could drain a girl’s spirit. It wouldn’t be long before she’d go stir-crazy. She’d start snoozing all day, or losing her shoes, and do a Rapunzel—grow her hair so she could get the heck out of the stuffy old mausoleum.
Hattie folded her hands on her lap. ‘Yes, please, Cook.’
‘And can I tempt you with a freshly baked gingersnap to go with that?’
Josie tried hard not to laugh as Hattie considered the offer, her head tipped to one side, eyes focused on the ceiling. She looked so prim and proper sitting there, her back perfectly straight and her ankles crossed.
‘I think I would like that very much, Cook.’
Mrs B nodded and poured Hattie’s juice into a delicate little teacup, complete with saucer, reserved exclusively for that use.
‘Hi, Mrs B,’ said Josie, ruffling her daughter’s hair. The action was rewarded with a scowl as Hattie removed her tiara and smoothed down the fluffy bits.
‘Afternoon, dear. Catch any trolls today?’
Josie chuckled and slid into the chair opposite Hattie. ‘Not exactly.’
Cook gave her a quizzical look as she placed a mug of tea in front of her.
Hattie was happy to fill in the gaps. ‘We met a man in the gardens. His name is Will. I think he likes fairies,’ she said through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.
‘I took him in to see Barrett,’ Josie added. ‘Not that he’ll have much joy until the new lord is traced. Even then he’s going to have to join the back of a very long queue if he wants his money.’
Mrs Barrett parked her ample bottom in the chair next to her. ‘Barrett told me today that they’ve found him. Working overseas, he said. The late Lord Radcliffe’s great-nephew. Apparently he will be arriving some time this week. There’s an emergency staff meeting at four-thirty. I’ll look after Hattie while you go. Barrett can fill me in later.’
Josie took a sip of her tea. ‘I didn’t think Edward Radcliffe had any sons. I thought you told me he gave up trying after four daughters.’
‘No, Edward was Lord Radcliffe’s youngest brother. The new lord’s grandfather would have been the middle of the three Radcliffe brothers.’
‘I never knew there was another Radcliffe brother. I don’t remember seeing anything in the genealogy.’
‘No, well, you wouldn’t. It happened long before you were born, Josie. Some big family falling-out between Harry’s father and his youngest son. The whole family disowned him. The man the solicitors hired discovered that he’d changed his name, which explains why his descendants have been so hard to trace.’
Josie gave a wry smile. ‘Another black sheep, then.’
Mrs B just changed the subject. ‘You’d better hurry along or you’ll be late for the meeting.’
Josie leaned back in her chair, kicked her booted feet up to rest on the table and ignored the disapproving stare she got from the other two. ‘I’ve got a few minutes left. Time to drink my tea, at any rate.’
So, the black sheep’s grandson had inherited Elmhurst. There was no doubting that life at the hall had fallen into a rut as deep as the Cheddar Gorge. It could do with a good shake-up.
Only she didn’t want some Hooray Henry storming into her territory and causing a ruckus. If there was going to be an uproar, she’d jolly well cause it herself.
Josie returned from the staff meeting feeling a little foolish. Scratch that; she felt a whole lot foolish. Not that she’d let Will Whatever-his-name-was see how she was feeling.
She stomped back to the kitchen. How dared he walk in here, looking all ordinary? He wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all. Anyway, it was his own fault she’d been a bit off with him. He shouldn’t go sneaking up on people in the gardens and expect them to know who he was.
It was still niggling her the following Monday morning as she was preparing the display of cakes for the tearoom with Mrs B.
‘Who is this guy, anyway? And where did he go after the meeting on Friday? He hasn’t been around all weekend.’
Mrs B sighed and carried on cutting a carrot cake into even slices.
‘Barrett says he’s a businessman of some sort, quite successful too, by all accounts.’
‘What kind of business, that’s what I want to know?’ Josie muttered to herself. Mrs B shrugged and placed the newly carved cake into the display case. Her baked goods were the most popular things on sale in the tearoom.
‘Oh, something to do with old buildings,’ Mrs B replied.
There was no point in pursuing this line of questioning further. To the loyal cook he was Lord Radcliffe, and that was that.
Nobody knew anything about him. Old buildings. That could mean anything. He could be a property developer planning to raze the hall to the ground and build a horrible modern housing estate.
Josie wiped her hands on a tea towel and took her apron off. ‘I’m off to the cash-and-carry to stock up on crisps and suchlike. I should be back before noon.’
Mrs B nodded and returned to arranging a tray of muffins in a pleasing manner. Josie put her coat on, pulled a stripy hat out of the pocket and plonked it on her head, tucking her hair behind her ears.
She drove through the village of Elmhurst and joined the main road that would take her to the nearby town of Groombridge. After she’d loaded up the boot of the old Morris Minor with provisions for the tearoom, she decided to take a little detour. Not exactly work-related, but it was in the interests of all those employed at the hall, so it almost counted.
The public library was only a five-minute walk away. She ignored the rows of books and headed straight for one of the computer terminals where she could get internet access. It was conveniently ready at the home page of a search engine and she sat down and typed in William Roberts with two fingers. She’d finally learnt his surname from Barrett.
Almost instantly a long list popped up. She discounted the first few—results from family history sites—and scanned down the list. A very long list.
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