Across the Sands of Time (24 page)

But oh, how she longed for John to whisper the words she wanted to hear.

Remembering the lad with sea-tousled hair and the love in his eyes for her, Polly's spirits sank. Somewhere along the way that love must have dwindled and died, for John had become a distant figure, whilst her feelings for him had strengthened – uselessly, it would appear.

‘Polly?'

She looked up from the cauldron of beef broth she was preparing for the boys' midday meal. Her father stood there, staunch and workmanlike in his leather breeches and stout boots, his freshly-laundered shirt open at the neck. She knew the boys thought much of him and she chose to turn a blind eye to the sweetmeats and other treats that sometimes found a way to the dormitory for midnight relish.

‘Why, Polly, lass. That was a great sigh from the prettiest maid in all Parkgate. Is ought amiss?'

Polly shook her head.

‘No, papa, not as such. I was merely thinking.'

‘Of wedding bells and pretty gowns, no doubt. Susanna made a bonnie bride, did she not? Edward made a good choice there. Who'd have thought it, Polly? Wallace Dakin's tearaway lad wed to the parson's daughter!'

‘And very happy they are, too. May they have a long life together.'

‘Amen to that. Your mama would have been proud – God rest her soul.' Briefly his face clouded, then he brightened. ‘Have you heard the latest news, Polly?'

‘No, though I'm sure I'm about to. Papa, I vow you are becoming quite a gossip!'

‘Not I!' Wallace gave his daughter a smile of deep affection. Neat and trim in her blue dress and white apron, she looked a picture.

‘'Tis your aunt, Mistress Uppity Jessica of Fernlea! It would seem that she and George Rawlinson are about to tie the knot. Poor man, he has my sympathies. She'll lead him a merry dance!'

Despite herself Polly pealed with laughter.

‘Papa, you are incorrigible. It's a perfect union and well you know it. Think what a handsome couple they'll make. I for one am pleased for them and so should you be.'

‘Aye, well, happen I am, girl. She was a good sister to your mama. Where are you going?'

Polly had set aside the iron pot of meat and vegetables and was reaching for her bonnet and shawl.

‘I thought to walk as far as the churchyard for a breath of air. I've picked some flowers for Mama's grave. You know how she loved her roses.'

‘Put some on from me and make it red ones, lass. She was a beauty in her youth, was my Marion. She'd have put any flower in the shade.'

Polly delivered a kiss on his bewhiskered cheek and left, walking smartly along the road and entering the lych gate of the little church where her mother lay.

That was where John found her. She was bent over the white
headstone, arranging flowers at its foot, and did not hear his soft tread over the grass.

‘Polly? Do I intrude?'

‘Oh, it's you, John. No, of course not. What is it? Am I required for anything?'

‘No more than always, and certainly not urgently.' John's face was solemn. ‘Polly, may I ask you something?'

‘Go ahead.'

She was mystified. What was he about to tell her? Was he … heaven forbid, was he thinking of getting wed? Two women in a kitchen.…

‘Polly. It's been in my mind to wait a twelvemonth before saying this, but I find myself unable to hold out any longer.'

‘Why, John, what is it?' Polly's knees had gone weak.

‘I can't go on like this! Having you there beside me, seeing you every day … I thought … dear me, I'm not putting this very well, am I? I'm as tongue-tied as one of the lads caught stealing apples!'

‘You thought?' Polly encouraged.

‘Last year when I went to Chester seeking you out, it struck me what a good position you'd held there. Your master wanted you back – in truth, the entire household wanted it. And I thought, who was I to stand in your way? You may have wanted the chance to return. Even now, it could still be possible. A secure position with a well-to-do family. It isn't to be sniffed at, Polly.'

She shook her head, her face brimming with emotion.

‘John, I'd give up a thousand such opportunities to remain here at your side. Always.'

‘Truly?' You will be my wife?'

‘I should be honoured. I love you, John. I always have.'

He took her in his arms.

‘My own dearest love. I have a confession to make. It was your papa sent me here. “Tell her what's in your heart, you young idiot,” he said. “I know my Polly. You don't want to lose her, do you?” After those words I couldn't get here fast enough!'

John's lips came down on hers. And then, leaving that quiet
place to the rippling breeze and the scent of roses, the couple walked back home together.

 

A door slammed from somewhere at the front of the house, jerking Thea awake.

‘Thea? Are you in here?'

‘Yes, Dad. I'm in the kitchen.'

Chas came stomping into the room in his heavyweight rubber boots, leaving a trail of dried mud in his wake.

‘I saw your car outside. Been having a look round?'

‘Yes, I was just thinking—' Thea broke off, disorientated.

‘About the house and what's to be done with it?' Her father sighed heavily. ‘Blessed if I know!'

‘Me, neither. It's such a lovely house. I'd hate it to go out of the family.'

‘I daresay that's inevitable at some point. Funny old place. I wouldn't mind betting it's got a few tales to tell.'

‘You could be right.' Thea shot him a wry look. ‘It's the history group meeting tonight. One of the members is bringing in some early parish registers. I'll see if there's any mention of this house. It'll be interesting.'

‘It won't find us a tenant, though, will it? Not to worry. Something's sure to turn up,' Chas said comfortably. ‘Are you coming? Those ponies are tearing round the field shouting their heads off. They must know you're here. You look frozen, lass. A bit of mucking out will no doubt warm you up!'

That evening at the meeting, confronted with pages and pages of closely scripted copperplate, Thea's task seemed impossible. She tried a second volume and had more luck. About a quarter of the way through she found recorded the marriage of Edward Dakin, lawyer, to Susanna Marsdon, spinster of the parish. It was dated 3 August, 1835.

In the spring of the following year John Royle had wed his Polly.

In another leather-bound book Thea came across the baptism of Polly and John's only daughter. How the name Royle had become Partington was also made clear. The daughter had married a
certain Charles Partington of Woodhey Farm, Parkgate, thus joining the two properties.

Thea stared, hardly able to believe what she saw, a monumental relief rippling through her. She wasn't going out of her mind. The people she had dreamed of really had existed!

She wanted, badly, to ring Dominic and tell him of her discovery. He'd be interested.

Later, back home again, Mae had some news.

‘Tracey rang shortly after you'd left. She couldn't speak for long. They were at a gig – oh, the background noise! I could hardly hear what she said.'

‘Was it something important?' Thea asked.

‘Worrying, I'd say. She wants me to look in on her mother. Apparently Jenny Kent's been given notice to quit. Her landlord has plans for the cottage and wants her out. The very idea!'

‘But surely he can't do that? Jenny's been there for years. As a sitting tenant she'll have rights.'

‘That depends,' Chas put in behind the evening paper. He put it aside, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with his fist. ‘Rentals can have small print that's easily overlooked – especially by those desperate for a roof over their heads. Jenny Kent was left with a small child – Tracey – to bring up, wasn't she?'

Thea nodded.

‘That's right. Tracey never speaks of her father. He upped and left … I think.' She stopped, awareness blazing in her face. ‘That's it!' she gasped. ‘The Harbour House! It can go to Richard and Tracey.'

Chas shook his head.

‘I don't think so. What'll they want with a house? If what Richard says is right they'll be spending the next few years on tour,' he said.

‘But not all the time.' Thea gestured excitedly with her hands, words tumbling from her lips.

‘Mum, Dad, don't you see? It'd be ideal for them. It's big, great for entertaining. They could even make a recording studio there if they wanted. It's isolated, no neighbours to be disturbed. Best of
all, Jenny could live there and look after the house for them while they're away!'

‘Of course!' Mae said wonderingly. ‘It's all so obvious I can't think why we never came up with it before. Darling, you're brilliant! '

‘I know!' Thea grinned at her mother. ‘There's room for Jenny to make a flat if she prefers it. The old stables would do a great conversion.'

‘Stables?' Chas frowned. ‘You mean the garages and outbuildings? '

‘Well, yes,' Thea said, thinking back, her smile broadening. What a story she'd have to tell her grandchildren one day. Always supposing she ever had any!

She drew out her mobile.

‘I'd better text Tracey. I'll tell her to stop worrying, we've hit on a perfect solution, and suggest she rings back the moment she's free.'

 

Bryony wanted to hug herself. Her wedding dress had been delivered that morning and now hung in all its splendour in her old bedroom at Woodhey.

‘It's gorgeous!' Liz pronounced soberly.

Doing the rounds of bridal boutiques and department stores with her mother, Bryony had discarded the modern look and gone for tradition. The gown was pure Victoriana, high-necked, long sleeves, frilled and flourished, a whisper of ivory silk and lace.

The one break with tradition was the reception, which was to be held at the groom's house instead of the bride's, Roseacre having the space to house the marquee next to Helen's celebrated rose garden.

‘I'm so pleased with my dress, too.' Liz grinned. ‘But when you insisted on the old-fashioned frock, I wanted to back out. I mean, ringlets, flounces and gold satin?
Me
?'

‘Amber satin,' Bryony corrected merrily. ‘The colour's perfect for you, especially now your hair's grown back to its natural shade.'

‘Boring brown.' Liz made a little face, but her eyes were smiling. ‘Wish it would grow longer. It's taken ages to get just to jaw length. D'you think Michelle will be able to do something with it on the day?'

Michelle, an old school friend, worked in a salon in town and was delighted to be second bridesmaid.

‘Sure to,' Bryony said. ‘She's got magic in her fingers, trust me – and anyway, you've time yet. Still six weeks to go. You'll look terrific, both being so dark.'

‘Well, it'll make a contrast to the blonde bride! What colour's your mother wearing?'

‘Ice blue. Thea's chosen a sort of silver-grey. A trouser suit with a long jacket, terribly elegant.'

‘Thea's got class. That sort of look never dates.'

‘I know. Just think, she'll still look a million dollars when the rest of us are grey and wrinkled!'

‘Best make the most of things, then.' Liz grinned. ‘You'll stun Geoff in that dress. He'll be knocked speechless!'

‘He'd better not be. I want those marriage vows ringing out for all to hear.'

Sweeping up the dress, Bryony held it to her, suddenly serious.

When Liz left, Bryony hung up the dress under its layers of protective wrapping, headed for the sitting-room and sat down at her mother's polished kneehole desk. On the top of the desk was a stack of neatly written invitations that were stamped and ready for posting.

Checking off the names against the list she and Geoff had painstakingly compiled, Bryony picked up the pen and completed those that remained.

Her sister's face swam before her mind's eye. Tranquil, arresting, the eyes somewhat withdrawn of late, the chin upheld in typical Thea pose. She had been terrific over the events leading up to all this. What could Bryony do in return.

On impulse, she drew forward a final invitation card and wrote Dominic Shane's name on it. She had to scan her pocket book for the address. It came to light at last scrawled on the inside back
cover – a coastal town in the Republic of Ireland. Having addressed the envelope, she realized it would have to go through the post office instead of the post-box.

It looked like rain and Bryony put the envelope aside, wondering whether to bother after all.

‘Going to the post-box,' she called to her mother in the kitchen. ‘Won't be long.'

‘Right. Take your coat. It's April showers.'

Bryony had gone halfway down the farm track when her steps faltered. It was a pearl of a day, not raining yet, the air fresh and sweet. A walk would do her good.

Retracing her steps to the house, she snatched up the abandoned small, white envelope and set off again, cutting across the fields. She was smiling as she entered the village.

 

‘How on earth,' Thea murmured to herself in the mirror, ‘do I get through today?'

It was a perfect June morning, the birds singing, the sky gloriously blue and gold. As on the day before, the old farmhouse teemed with guests. Voices and laughter issued from the next bedroom, where the bride and bridesmaids were preparing for the big event.

The flowers had arrived. The horse-drawn carriage Bryony had insisted upon was waiting in the yard that had been hosed and swept to a pristine cleanliness by Chas. In the distance, the grey-green sweep of saltmarsh met an estuary sparkling in sunlight.