A Summer of Secrets Read online

  “Yes.” She fought to control yet another blush. “If you don’t mind?”

  “No, not at all. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, following him to the door. “It was you yesterday, wasn’t it?” she added. He stopped and turned. “At the boathouse?”

  “That was you?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I’m sorry for trespassing.”

  He shook his head. “I apologise for…being rather short with you.”

  Still none the wiser as to what he had been doing there, she closed the door after him then went to the window and watched him walk back to his office. Moving to her right, she could see right inside and she saw him shrugging out of the jacket, pulling the black tie loose, and undoing the top button of his shirt before booting up a PC. He sat down, pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and began to type.

  Sophia pulled at her bottom lip as she tried to make some sense of her completely unexpected response to him. When was the last time a man had turned her into a gibbering mess? Lee, at the beginning? Not really. Never, really. No-one, really. Heaton intimidated her big time, but there was more to it than that. He was what Michelle in her pre-Tony days would have called, ‘A fine thing.’ More’s the pity. Why the hell couldn’t he look like a Tim-nice-but-dim type or a floppy-haired Hugh Grant clone? And what grown man would allow his sister to take him out for a haircut? Things were getting more and more curious by the minute. Reluctantly turning away, she unpacked her shopping before returning to the car for her suitcases and boxes.

  About to put a frozen lasagne in the microwave oven that evening, she went downstairs to answer a knock at the door, hoping it wasn’t Heaton back again. She’d made enough of an idiot of herself for one day, thank you. To her relief, a stocky man of about fifty gave her a grin.

  “Thought I’d come and introduce myself to my new neighbour. I’m Des Fields, Estate Manager.”

  “Fields?”

  He chortled heartily. “I’m out in them every day.”

  She groaned. “Oh, God, sorry, you must get that every time. I’m Sophia, the tour guide.”

  “You’ve met his Lordship, then?”

  “Yes, he kindly helped me with my shopping bags earlier.”

  “Bloody hell,” Des muttered. “Shopping bags? It’s a wonder he knows what they are. Helen gets everything delivered, and I mean everything.”

  “Helen?”

  “Helen, the housekeeper,” he explained. “And my wife.”

  “I must introduce myself.”

  “Do, she’s looking forward to meeting you. Anyway, I hope you like it here. Don’t mind his nibs, he’ll get used to the tourists eventually. Hasn’t got much choice, really. Have you seen the new website yet? Come and have a look.”

  She went with him to Heaton’s office and waited as he sat down at the PC, connected to the internet and accessed a website.

  “Wireless internet,” he explained. “There’s a mast on the roof of the farmyard apartments and a receiver on the roof here. The password is heatonabbeyhouse – all one word – if you want to try it out. Lord Heaton and Lady Heaton want to try and attract business people – you know – the type who can’t go five minutes without checking their email.”

  Sophia smiled. “I do.”

  “I’m getting a laptop with wireless stuff on it soon. Though, to tell you the truth, I think I’ll have to go on a course to learn how to switch it on. My old PC was pretty basic. Here we are.” He turned the monitor around so she could read the description.

  Heaton Abbey House – A Family Home

  Heaton Abbey House is not a ‘stately home’ as is generally understood – certainly, its occupants are not stately. A former 13th-century Cistercian Monastery, dissolved by King Henry VIII, it is very much a lived-in and loved family home, something it has now been for almost 500 years. The public will see most of the house including several rooms used by the Heaton family. We hope visitors will feel more like guests, in a private home, rather than visitors to a public institution.

  The gift shop sells locally produced crafts and the kitchen garden has over 600 species of herbs, with plants for sale in the garden centre.

  Tours of the house and gardens: 2:30 pm and 4:30 pm daily, with an additional tour at 11:30 am on Sundays, £15 including tea, coffee, and home-made cakes.

  “Who wrote it?” she asked.

  “Lady Heaton and her daughter, why?”

  “This bit.” She pointed. “Certainly its occupants are not stately. I take it they were only referring to themselves when they wrote that.”

  Des grinned. “He is a bit intimidating all right, but you’ll get used to him, don’t worry.”

  I don’t know about that, she thought. “A friend of mine works in the tourist office in the town. You should email them a link to the website.”

  “Not my department, I’m afraid,” Des told her, disconnecting from the internet and putting the PC to sleep. “You’ll have to speak to his Lordship about that.”

  “Okay, will do.” She followed him out of the office, picking up a business card from a small tray on the desk as she passed.

  After the awful rubbery lasagne, Sophia went to the house. Finding the side door open, and with only one wrong turn, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Helen?” she enquired, seeing a middle-aged woman kneading dough on a floury worktop. “I’m Sophia.”

  “The tour guide. Hello. Welcome to Heaton Abbey House. All set for tomorrow?”

  “Almost,” Sophia replied. “I’m going to do a walk-through of my tour to get it right in my head.”

  “Want a bun before you go?” Helen offered, nodding to some buns cooling on a wire tray. “You might need the energy.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, I will.”

  “I saw his Lordship speaking to you earlier. In a good mood, was he?”

  No. “Well, I…” she began.

  “He didn’t want the house opened up to the public but didn’t really have much of a choice,” Helen explained. “It was either this or face the possibility of losing it all. So if he’s a bit rude, don’t mind him. He’s had it rough when you realise what he’s had to cope with. His father died not long after he’d left university so he couldn’t have been much more than twenty-two or three. For umpteen years he’s had the burden and responsibility of all this on his shoulders and it’s taking its toll on him from what I can see.”

  “What happened to his father?” Selecting a currant bun, Sophia took a bite. It was delicious.

  “Lung cancer.”

  “Oh.”

  “On the surface, he seems to have everything, but actually he’s not been dealt that great a hand in life when you think about it. You can’t really blame him if he appears to be a little irritable and unapproachable at times. We just have to have a lot of patience with him. He and Lady Heaton are not long back from a funeral. He doesn’t like those either. Well, who does? And, of course with what happened to Stephanie last week… If he’s grumpy…just don’t take it personally, will you?”

  “No,” Sophia replied. “How is she? Lady Stephanie? I didn’t know whether to ask.”

  “It’s just Stephanie.” Helen corrected her with a smile. “Baron’s daughters or sisters aren’t referred to as ‘Lady’.” Sophia flushed. She should have known that. Visitors could ask her anything. “She lost a lot of blood but she seems to be on the mend. Physically, I mean. Mentally, who knows? Losing a baby…none of us can understand why she won’t leave her boyfriend. It’s not the first time he’s hit her and it won’t be the last, you mark my words.”

  Going upstairs to the marble-tiled hall, Sophia looked at her watch, then began the tour in her head. Starting with the basic history and layout, first of the monastery, then of the house and buildings modified and built on the site after the dissolution and in subsequent centuries.

  Then get the visitors moving. In one door to the drawing room, out the other door, and into the dining room. Then
bring them up the main staircase, past the portraits of the former Barons Heaton. On the first floor, they would see a bedroom with a seventeenth-century four-poster bed, a bathroom fitted early twentieth-century style, and the nursery, complete with vintage toys.

  The servants’ quarters were located on the second floor. Visitors would see two spartanly-furnished bedrooms before she would bring them down the back stairs to the enormous main kitchen where the tea, coffee, and cakes would be served by Helen and any questions answered.

  After that, visitors would move on to the gardens where Jack Halewood, the head gardener, would take over before returning them to their coach or car via the gift shop and garden centre. Standing just inside the huge back door, Sophia looked at her watch again. Forty-five minutes. Good.

  Returning to the main staircase, she went to the portraits. Lord Heaton’s father was near the bottom and was a rather intimidating man, too, but without his son’s scowl. She sat on the steps and re-read her tour before folding the sheets of paper and putting them in the back pocket of her jeans.

  A door opened and she watched as, across the vast hall, Lady Heaton peered out of the drawing room. Clearly not having seen her through the ornately-carved oak bannisters, Lady Heaton slipped out of the room, clutching something in her hand. She hurried along the hall before turning down the dark corridor towards the library. Sophia stared after her then shrugged. What was it with the family creeping around the place?

  “Is everything in context?” Hearing a voice, she twisted around. Lord Heaton was coming down the stairs and she got up. The black tie was gone, the jacket left open, and the white shirt was now open a couple more buttons but despite this, he only appeared marginally less intimidating than before.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Would you like to see some etchings of the old abbey?” he asked. “They might help you in your description?”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  He nodded. “Follow me.”

  In the library, he retrieved a cardboard wallet from a shelf, and brought it over to a desk, before switching on the reading lamp.

  “This is an aerial view,” he told her, extracting the etchings, and placing them on the desk. “Showing the layout of the monastic buildings. You probably know that most Cistercian monasteries were built to more or less the same plan. It was quite a small abbey. This is the church and a view of the cloister. Then along comes King Henry VIII…”

  He was very knowledgeable and seemed to relax when he spoke of the past but with a temper like his, his chances of being a good tour guide were very slim.

  “You’re from the town, aren’t you?” he asked, returning the etchings to the folder.

  “Yes, but I’ve lived in Leeds and then in London until quite recently.”

  “What brought you back? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  “No,” she replied, giving him a weak smile. “My mother is ill. She had a stroke and is in Rich Hill Nursing Home. She suffers from dementia, so she couldn’t live at home anymore. She kept wandering off and Dad couldn’t cope. I didn’t want to be too far away so I came back. To the mining museum originally, but then someone took a dislike to it.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It must be very hard on your family.”

  She noticed a book on Renaissance women in the desk drawer as he opened it and placed the wallet inside. “I’m an only child but, yes, it is hard. She used to be such an active woman. She and Dad married late in life. When the mine closed, Dad—”

  “The mine?” he interrupted sharply. “Your father worked in the mine?”

  “Yes, he did. And when it closed, he put his heart and soul into the museum. I don’t think there’s a single family in the town that doesn’t have a miner in their family history somewhere.”

  “I must have met him at one point or another. What’s his name?”

  “William Nelson. He gave a very long-winded speech when the museum opened a few years ago.”

  “I remember now.” He smiled and glanced at her curls. “Red hair.”

  She grinned. “There must be Irish or Scottish in us somewhere.”

  “Could you give him and your mother my best wishes the next time you visit?”

  “I will, but there are days that I could tell her I was the Queen of Sheba and she’d believe me.” Don’t cry, she ordered herself, but she couldn’t stop the tears coming. “I’m sorry,” she gasped and fled from the room.

  She ran blindly through the hall – almost colliding with Lady Heaton – hauled the heavy front door open, and staggered out onto the steps before halting to catch her breath. Pulling a paper handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped her eyes. Oh, God, what the hell will they both think of me now? A hysterical, nosy idiot who doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut, that’s what.

  She blew her nose, took a few deep breaths, then turned and went back inside to grovel and apologise. Turning down the corridor to the library, she heard voices and slowed her pace. The door to the library was ajar and she crept forward, peering inside, and hoping she wouldn’t tread on any loose floorboards.

  “So my blood group gave me away.” Lady Heaton was speaking quietly.

  Heaton nodded. “I asked Dr Morrison whether it was unusual for both sibling and mother to not be suitable donors and he told me that with your blood group it was impossible that you could be my mother.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want you discovering I knew in this way.”

  “Well, now you know. I am not your mother.”

  “So who is? Who is my father? The postman?”

  “No,” Lady Heaton replied firmly. “Your father was your father.”

  “And Stephanie?”

  “He was her father, too. Thomas, your father and I were married five years and we still had no children. I went to see a doctor about it who referred me to a specialist. It turned out that I am infertile. I would never have children. Your father desperately wanted children so I offered him a divorce but he refused. So we came to an arrangement.”

  “What sort of arrangement?” Heaton frowned.

  “That your father would find a surrogate mother,” Lady Heaton told him matter-of-factly.

  Sophia’s eyes bulged and Heaton gasped. This would have been before test tube babies or anything of the kind.

  Lady Heaton gave him an icy smile. “I know. For my husband to father a child by another woman, he would have to do it the old-fashioned way, so to speak.”

  Heaton’s face contorted in disgust. “With whom?”

  “An unmarried young woman from the town.”

  “What is her name?” Heaton demanded.

  Sophia strained her ears to hear then almost jumped out of her skin as a door closed frighteningly close to her and Helen began to hum to herself.

  “Is everything all right, Sophia?”

  Sophia turned and stared in consternation at the housekeeper while hearing footsteps approaching the door. It opened, and Heaton looked first at her, and then at Helen.

  “How long have you been there?” he demanded.

  “I’ve only just come up from the kitchen, sir,” Helen replied.

  He stared down at Sophia and she squirmed. “Come inside.”

  Silently, she followed him into the library, and the door was closed in Helen’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” she began. “I only wanted to apologise for—”

  “I suppose you heard everything?”

  “Well…yes.” There was no point in lying.

  “Do you know Danielle O’Hara at all?”

  “Danielle O’Hara?” Sophia repeated slowly.

  “Thomas, stop it,” Lady Heaton, seated in one of the leather wingback armchairs, snapped at him but he ignored her.

  “Well, do you? She may be married now, of course?”

  Sophia’s stomach contracted and for a horrible moment thought she was going to be sick.

  “Ms Nel
son?” Heaton grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

  “She was Mum’s best friend. Her daughter is my best friend.”

  “Your best friend’s mother?” Lady Heaton enquired. “How extraordinary. What a small world.”

  “Is she definitely my mother?” Heaton demanded, his hands leaving Sophia’s shoulders, and sliding down her arms.

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Heaton replied. “When Stephanie was born we knew she would have to have another child, despite the cost.”

  “How much?” Heaton added.

  “Five thousand pounds. Each.”

  “Our house cost three thousand pounds,” Sophia whispered.

  “Yes,” Lady Heaton nodded. “It was quite a substantial amount back then but she gave us two beautiful children.”

  “And she just handed us over?” Heaton was incredulous.

  “Yes. No baby, no money. Please believe me, Thomas, that I love both Stephanie and yourself as though I had borne you myself.”

  “Were you ever going to tell us?”

  “No,” Lady Heaton told him. “Your father and I both agreed on that.”

  “But illnesses?”

  His mother waved a hand dismissively. “You were both as strong as an ox. How was I to know that Stephanie would take up with a junkie? I take it that you knew?”

  Sophia saw Heaton wince. “Yes, but I only found out on their last visit here.”

  “I see.”

  “Do not try and make me feel any worse than I do already,” he snapped.

  “I could say exactly the same thing,” Lady Heaton replied coolly.

  “So I have been working all the hours God sends for the past umpteen years to pay for my sister and myself?”

  “I’m afraid so. We had to pay her enough to go through with it and then to move away. Your poor father did not have your head for business. We’re now on an even keel, aren’t we?”

  “Just about; now that the farmyard has been turned into a holiday camp.”

  “Holiday apartments,” she corrected him.

  “How could you?” he cried, startling Sophia. “How could you stand knowing that your husband was fathering children with another woman?”