Mistress On Loan

It was basically a two-woman operation—herself, as designer, and Zelda March, who was a local girl and a brilliant seamstress. A to Z Design hadn’t lacked for work since it had opened its doors.

Although it certainly wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d completed her training, she admitted. Coming back to the quiet country town where she’d been brought up hadn’t been part of the plan at all. But her mother’s sudden death three years ago had caused her to rethink her future completely.

Adrien, rushing down from London, had had to face the fact that she was now alone in the world. But she’d also inherited Listow Cottage, and some money from her mother’s life insurance, which had given her a measure of independence for the first time.

Her life, she had realised bleakly, could change. But she hadn’t seen how until she’d run into Zelda at the funeral.

It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. They’d been in the same year at school, but not on the same track. Zelda had been the local wild child, always in trouble with the authorities for smoking, under-age drinking and hanging round with boys. In her final year she’d amazed everyone by winning the Home Economics prize with a baby’s wooden cradle, which she’d trimmed with handmade curtains and a beautiful embroidered quilt, as well as making a complete set of baby clothes.

Before she was seventeen she was pregnant by a local garage mechanic, and their hasty marriage had been followed by an even speedier divorce.

Adrien had been surprised to see her in the congregation at the church, and, on impulse, had invited her back to the cottage.

‘I thought the world of your mum,’ Zelda confided, when the other mourners had departed. She looked sadly round the sitting room. ‘It was only a couple of months ago that I made these loose covers and curtains for her.’

On the surface, Zelda didn’t seem to have changed much. The dark spiky hair was still much in evidence, and so was the nose stud. But as they talked Adrien sensed a new, quiet maturity about her. A strength to the set of her thin shoulders that impressed Adrien. And the workmanship on the soft furnishings was superb.

‘Do you work freelance?’ Adrien questioned.

Zelda shook her head. ‘I wish. I do customer orders for Beasley and Co in Enderton, but the pay’s rock-bottom. I’ve tried doing some work at home, but I’m back living with Mum and Dad and the kids, and there just isn’t room. Not with Smudge too.’

‘Smudge?’

‘That’s what I call my son. His real name’s Kevin, like his father, but I don’t want to be reminded.’

‘I suppose not.’ Adrien bit her lip. ‘It seems a shame that you can’t work for yourself. You’re really good.’

‘There’s no chance of that.’ Zelda shrugged. ‘Dad goes mad when the sewing machine comes out. And he’s not too thrilled to have Smudge around anyway, so I try not to rock the boat.’

It was only a brief exchange, but it stuck in Adrien’s mind.

During the days that followed, she set about working out a business plan. There was undoubtedly a gap in the market. Beasley’s were no real competition, and there was no one else within miles who could offer a complete interior design service. She could pinpoint all the genuine craftsmen in the area to use as sub-contractors, and with Zelda to cover the soft furnishing side…

Premises might be a problem, she realised. Until she took a good look at the cottage. It wasn’t large, and it needed modernisation, but around its rear courtyard there were old stables and outbuildings, unused for years and ripe for conversion. There was space for workrooms, an office, and a self-contained flat.

‘Are you serious about this?’ Zelda asked huskily when Adrien finally put the plan in front of her. ‘Really serious? Because it sounds too good to be true.’

‘I mean every word,’ Adrien assured her. ‘And the flat will have two bedrooms, so there’ll be plenty of room for you and Smudge,’ she added, knowing that they were currently sharing one small room with bunk beds.

‘A place of our own,’ Zelda whispered. ‘It’s like a dream. I keep waiting for someone to pinch me, and wake me up.’

The dream rapidly became a nightmare while the building work was being done. It threw up all kinds of unforeseen problems, and cost far more than anticipated. Adrien remortgaged the cottage, and raised a bank loan on the strength of her plan, while Zelda, overwhelmed at finding herself a partner, insisted on contributing the small settlement she’d received from her ex-husband.

Their faith in themselves seemed justified, she had to admit. The enquiries came in steadily from day one, and they had to rent some temporary work-space to cope with the demand. Soon they’d been in their new premises for nearly two years, and were already employing extra help with the sewing.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t have downsized,’ Adrien joked. ‘Perhaps we should have looked to expand, and put in a bid for the Grange instead.’

‘Except that the Grange isn’t for sale,’ Zelda said, frowning over some fabric catalogues. ‘What a shame—a lovely house like that, just standing empty.’

‘Yes,’ Adrien sighed. ‘When I was a child I used to go there all the time, while my father played chess with Mr Stretton.’

‘What did you do?’

Adrien shrugged. ‘Oh—read books from his library, played in the garden.’

‘All by yourself?’

Adrien hesitated, hearing faint alarm bells ring in her mind. ‘Not all the time,’ she returned. ‘Mr Stretton’s nephew, Piers, was there sometimes. His mother had married someone Mr Stretton disapproved of—a Brazilian—and there’d been a big row. But I suppose Mr Stretton had eventually to accept the fact that Piers was going to be his heir, and invite him to stay, although he’d still have nothing to do with his brother-in-law,’ she added, frowning. ‘My parents said he really hated him. Called him “a thoroughly bad lot”.’

‘Families.’ Zelda wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you think Mr Stretton will ever come back?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. He moved to Spain for the climate, and seems settled there.’ Adrien sighed again. ‘I couldn’t believe it. The Grange has been in his family for years. And he’d just got to know Piers properly, too.’

‘Perhaps he thought he was a bad lot as well.’

‘He couldn’t have done.’ Adrien drew a stormy breath. ‘He’s one of the kindest people I ever met. Saved me from pneumonia—or hypothermia, or worse.’

Zelda put the catalogue down. ‘How?’

Adrien bit her lip. ‘Oh, there was a treehouse in the wood at the back of the house. I climbed up there once when I was about nine and got stuck, and he found me. But I’d been there for hours, and I was frozen and sick with fright. I’m hopeless on ladders to this day.

‘But that’s not all,’ she added. ‘When I was eighteen, Mr Stretton gave a party for me at the Grange, and he presented me with a garnet pendant, very old and very pretty. During the party it was stolen, and Piers—found it. But it was dreadful. It ruined my birthday. And he was so sweet and understanding.’

‘Well, let’s hear it for Piers—the hero of the hour,’ Zelda said drily. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Oh, it was shortly afterwards that Mr Stretton closed up the house and went to live in Spain. I guess Piers went back to Brazil.’

‘Shame,’ said Zelda. ‘By the way, who pinched the pendant?’

‘One of the servants,’ Adrien said shortly. ‘No one important.’

Piers would be thirty-two now, she found herself thinking. And so would the other one. The one whose name she wouldn’t speak. The one who’d caused all the nightmares…

Well, all that was in the past, and the past couldn’t hurt her. Firmly, she slammed the gate of memory shut again, regretting that she’d allowed it to open even fractionally.

It was only ten days later that news came that Angus Stretton had died at his villa in Spain, and would be buried out there.

The vicar, however, decided to hold a memorial service at the parish church, and, to Adrien’s astonishment, Piers arrived to attend it.

It was assumed locally that, having done his duty, he’d simply put the place on the market and get on with his life elsewhere.

But how wrong we were, Adrien thought—smiling to herself as she walked down the long corridor which led to the master suite.

He came—we saw each other again—and suddenly everything was different and wonderful.

She opened the door and stepped into the main bedroom. It was a large room, with doors leading to its own dressing room and a bathroom, both of them completely remodelled.

There was no furniture yet in the bedroom, which smelled of fresh paint and newly papered walls, now the colour of thick cream. The floor had been sanded and polished, and a square of deep green carpet laid.