THE TRYSTING TREE by Linda Gillard Read Free Book Online

live here?’
    ‘She was born here, then later she lived up at the big house. Beechgrave. But her mother continued to live here.’
    ‘Your great-grandmother? You don’t say!’ Phoebe looked up at me and said, ‘Get the kettle on, Ann. And crack open a packet of chocolate digestives. I think this is going to be interesting…’
     
    ~
     
    When I offered Mr Grenville a towel for his wet hair, he took it saying, ‘Please call me Connor.’ I reciprocated and said he should call me Ann. The formalities over, I also suggested he remove his sodden jumper so I could put it in the tumble dryer. As he handed it to me I noted his check shirt had seen better days, but not an iron. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he thanked me and asked if he could help in the kitchen, an offer I declined.
    So it was in a spirit of friendly informality that we gathered round the wood burning stove to drink tea. It was dark outside now and the rain had turned to sleet, but Garden Lodge was always a good place to be holed up in bad weather. It wrapped itself around you. Its thick walls and wooden floors felt solid and timeless. They’d last another hundred years or more if left in peace. But, I reflected, the house’s new owner might have other, radical ideas. The thought was uncomfortable, so I pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on the potential buyer who was now our guest.
    When you’re an artist, it’s hard not to stare at things, including people. You’re always looking at the play of light on surfaces, observing shadow and texture. When studied, anything becomes interesting and almost abstract as a collection of shapes and colours. I wondered if Phoebe was already painting Connor’s face in her head. She was certainly paying him a lot of attention, but Phoebe had always had an eye for attractive young men and I supposed Connor could be called attractive. He looked fit and tanned, as if used to an outdoor life. His long, thick hair had darkened with the rain, but when dry, it was a warm mix of blond and toffee shades. He possessed steady grey eyes, a pleasant, open face and a manner that was engaging without being pushy. Nevertheless, I suspected he was used to getting what he wanted. Connor Grenville would be a hard man to ignore.
    I passed him the plate of biscuits and, as he took one, he asked, ‘Do you happen to know if your family had any connection with the Mordaunts?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The Mordaunts. They built Beechgrave and lived there for several generations. The house was sold by Hester Mordaunt in the 1920s, then it was requisitioned during World War II. Did you realise this was the Head Gardener’s house?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘My husband was interested in the history of the place. He was a keen gardener himself.’
    ‘But he had no connection with the Mordaunts?’
    ‘None that I know of.’
    ‘Nor the Hatherwicks?’
    ‘I’ve never heard the name. Who were they?’
    ‘Herbert Hatherwick was the Head Gardener before the First World War and he lived here with his family. His son, William started off as a pot boy in the garden and worked his way up to journeyman gardener before going off to fight in France. Herbert Hatherwick’s daughter, Violet – that’s my great-grandmother – had an illegitimate daughter, Ivy who was later adopted by Hester Mordaunt, the mistress of Beechgrave. Hester seems to have been quite a remarkable woman. She never married and ran Beechgrave on her own, turning it into a convalescent home for wounded Tommies.’
    ‘Was your great-grandmother impregnated by one of the toffs at the big house?’ Phoebe asked with a spectacular lack of delicacy.
    ‘No, not at all,’ Connor replied, unperturbed. ‘The menfolk were all dead. Killed in the war. That’s how Hester came to inherit. There was no one else left.’
    ‘So who was Ivy’s father then?’
    ‘Well, that’s just it. There are big gaps in the story because the family archive is incomplete. My