Of course, she’d made friends with Helen that way too. If Orla hadn’t taken a chance and put herself onto the platform, she would never have had the joy of knowing Helen and that was worth so much to her.
She spent a little more time looking at some of her favourite accounts, then took one more look at Trees and Dreams, smiling sadly at the last image of Helen’s beloved oak tree, her fingertips hovering over the picture before switching her phone off and sitting in sad silence for a moment, unable to believe that her friend was truly gone, her eyes misting with tears once more.
And that her friend’s husband was in her home.
She got up and returned to the kitchen to check the soup, lifting the lid of the pan and sniffing appreciatively. It was just about ready, but she was anxious not to disturb Luke before he was ready to get up naturally. So she took the pan off the heat and returned to the great hall, picking up a book to read.
As with cooking, reading was something which Orla really hadn’t had time for in her previous life, and she regretted all the wasted years that she hadn’t spent with her nose in a book. It had been her mother, Bernadette, who’d encouraged her to read, during all those long, painful months spent in hospital. At first, Bernadette had read to her because Orla’s vision had been compromised. Bernadette had then bought her a Kindle and had loaded it with audio books. It had been the most thoughtful of gifts and had got Orla through some pretty dark days. Those books – those wonderful books – had been a sort of portal out of the pain.
Now, she found that good old-fashioned paperbacks were her favourite way to read and she had stacks of them around the castle. She’d bought three beautiful antique bookcases and was enjoying the process of filling them with novels, autobiographies, natural history and gardening books. As with all her other purchases, Orla sourced them online and had them delivered to the castle. She couldn’t help regretting that a little bit, because she instinctively felt that she would find browsing in a bookshop a wonderful experience. But the virtual shelves had to do for her.
Opening the paperback now, she tried to lose herself in the fictional world while painfully aware of the stranger sleeping in her spare room.
Chapter 6
Bill Wilson was still a little shaken up about the incident on the beach. Picking up his daily newspaper from the village store and making his way back to Oyster Cottage with his Jack Russell, Bosun, he wondered if he should have insisted on staying at the castle. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Miss Kendrick alone with a fainting stranger. Perhaps he should call the police or a doctor. But she hadn’t wanted that, had she? Well, she was a grown woman. She knew her own mind but, all the same, he was glad he’d given her his number.
Arriving home, he opened the neat front door to the little red-brick cottage, kicked his boots off in the hallway and grabbed a towel to give Bosun a quick rub. The little dog was clean and dry, but it was a habit of Bill’s just to make sure before Margy yelled at him about the mess the little dog had trailed in.
‘Margy?’ he called as he walked through to the kitchen to give the dog his breakfast. ‘Where are you?’
‘What is it?’ Margy asked as she came into the room, holding her knitting. Margy never went anywhere without her knitting. It seemed to be a natural extension of her hands.
‘I met her.’
‘Met who?’
‘Miss Kendrick.’
Margy’s mouth dropped open and she stopped knitting. This was serious. ‘What was she like?’
Bill popped Bosun’s food into his bowl and waited for the dog to sit before putting it down.
‘Well, we didn’t have a conversation or anything. We were kind of preoccupied.’
‘With what?’
‘Getting that fella off the beach.’
‘What fella?’
The two of them went through to the sitting room, although Bill felt too restless to sit down. But sit down he did.
‘There was this fella and he just collapsed on the beach. We took him back to the castle.’
‘He was with Miss Kendrick?’
‘Not really. She knew his name, but I don’t really understand any more than that.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘He was pale. Didn’t look too good, but he was resting when I left him.’
Margy seemed to take this information in, her knitting needles working overtime as they always did when she was agitated. ‘And Miss Kendrick – tell me about her.’
Bill shifted uneasily on the sofa. He didn’t rightly know if he had the words to describe her.
‘She’s – well – she’s got . . .’ His voice petered out as his hand did an odd sort of movement in front of his face.
‘What?’
‘She’s – her face is kind of . . .’
‘Kind of what?’ Margy’s knitting needles were fairly flying now.
‘I’m not sure. Burnt, perhaps. Scarred. It was hard to tell. Her hair covered half her face, and there was so much going on with that lad that I didn’t think about what might have happened to Miss Kendrick. But it shook me when I saw it.’
Margy paused in her knitting. ‘Poor woman. And is that why she hides away in the castle? Is that why nobody’s seen her?’
‘I don’t rightly know.’
‘But she seemed nice, did she?’
‘Oh, nice enough, yes. Saw that big dog of hers.’
‘I’ve heard about her dog. Size of a horse, they say.’
‘He’s big all right. Friendly, though.’
‘I think I’d want a big dog guarding me if I lived in that draughty old castle by myself,’ Margy said just as Bosun walked in. ‘No offence, Bosun, but I’m not sure you’d be up for the job.’
Bill
