The Daughters Of Red Hill Hall: A gripping novel of family, secrets and murder. Kathleen McGurl
with a garden, and a spare bedroom or two. Maybe they’d have children in a few years’ time. They’d need space to expand into. She was completely lost in her daydreams when she realised that she was still standing there, outside the door to Ben’s flat, and no one had answered. She rang the bell again, and rechecked her watch. He definitely wasn’t on a late shift today. He should be home. She pulled out her phone and dialled his mobile. There was no answer, so she left a voicemail, then, frowning, walked home to her own flat and stuffed the Prosecco and chocolates in the fridge. They’d do for another day.
Gemma ate a lonely dinner, and tried Ben’s phone a couple more times, but it went straight to voicemail. Then she tried Nat’s. She was in need of some company now; maybe Nat could come round and share the Prosecco. But Nat’s phone also went to voicemail. What was the point of having a mobile phone if you didn’t leave it switched on? Gemma felt oddly annoyed with Ben. While they’d never lived in each other’s pockets, now that they were engaged she felt she ought to be able to contact him at any time, or at least know where he was and why he couldn’t answer the phone. She’d have to talk to him about this. She decided to have a soak in the bath with a good book – always her favourite way to unwind. She’d hoped to be able to tell him all she’d found out about Red Hill Hall.
Half an hour later, submerged in bubbles up to her chin and with her Kindle in a resealable food bag to protect it from splashes, Gemma was just beginning to lose herself in the latest Barbara Erskine novel when her phone rang. She hauled herself out of the bath, cursing, and wrapped a towel round her to go and answer it.
‘Hey, Gemma. Just returning your call.’ Ben sounded weary.
‘Where’ve you been? I called round earlier and have been phoning you all evening but your phone was switched off after the first call.’
‘Sorry, love, it ran out of charge. I’m home now. Did you need me for something? What’s happened? Are you OK?’
‘Nothing’s happened. I was just hoping to spend a bit of time with you this evening. Just, you know, to celebrate our engagement. Again.’ Gemma tried desperately not to sound as though she was whinging or bitter. She didn’t see herself as the possessive type – even when they were married she wanted to think they’d be able to do their own thing, lead their own lives, without always having to answer to the other. Except – she did want to know where he’d been.
‘Ah. Sorry. Actually I wondered where you were. Poor Nat, eh?’
Gemma frowned. ‘Nat? What do you mean, poor Nat?’
‘Haven’t you spoken to her?’
‘No, what’s up?’
‘She’s ill. I mean, really poorly, the poor thing. She could hardly get out of bed today. Flu, or something. I thought she said she’d phoned you and asked you to pick up some medicines and drop them round in your lunch hour?’
‘No, she didn’t call. Oh, poor Nat.’
‘She swore she had. Then when you didn’t call her back or text her, she called me and asked me to get them. So I did, after work. Stayed at hers for a while making sure she was all right.’ Ben paused. ‘You sure you didn’t get a phone call from her?’
‘I think I’d remember. I’ll call her in a minute, see how she is.’ Gemma felt irritated that Ben didn’t seem to believe she hadn’t heard from Nat.
‘Erm, I wouldn’t if I were you. She was going to try to sleep. And, well, she’s a bit pissed off at you for not responding to her cry for help.’
‘Cry for help?’
‘Her words.’
‘I told you, I didn’t get a call from her. How was I supposed to know she needed me?’
‘Hey, calm down. I’m just the messenger. Anyway, she’s got what she needs now, and I changed her sheets and put a bottle of water by her bed. If I ever want a new career I’d make an excellent nurse, though I say it myself. Maybe you should pop round tomorrow after work? I can do Wednesday. We could take it in turns until she’s better. Must be shit for her not having a flatmate or boyfriend or relative nearby to look after her. She says her mum doesn’t care and wouldn’t lift a finger to help her. At least she’s got us.’
‘Yes.’ Gemma couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why was Nat so convinced she’d called her? Perhaps she was so ill she’d been hallucinating. That was a worrying thought. Poor Nat.
‘Well, love, I’m pretty knackered now and haven’t eaten yet. I’m going to call for a takeaway then get an early night. If you see Nat tomorrow, let me know how she is. And if there’s anything more I can do.’
‘Sounds like she’ll phone you if she needs you, in any case.’ That just slipped out. Gemma hadn’t meant to say anything so snippy.
‘Yes, I suppose she will. Right then, goodnight, love. See you soon.’
‘Night.’ She hung up, and shivered. Realising she was still wet, wrapped in her towel, she went back into the steamy bathroom and climbed into the bath. She lay there for another twenty minutes until the water had cooled, pondering the conversation with Ben. Maybe she should phone Nat after all, and apologise for – for what? There was definitely no message from Nat on her phone, either voicemail or text. So how was she supposed to know Nat was ill? And once Ben had found out, why didn’t he ring her to say he was going round? Gemma would have dropped everything to go and help her friend; he must know that. Presumably he hadn’t called because his phone had been out of charge. But he could have used Nat’s phone, when he got there.
The interrupted bath had not had its usual calming effect on her. She climbed out, dried off and got into a pair of warm pyjamas. What a rubbish evening this had turned out to be! But she shouldn’t think like that. Poor Nat. Maybe her odd behaviour at the weekend had been because she was already sickening with this bug. Gemma got into bed, promising herself she’d pop round to Nat’s in her lunch hour tomorrow. She’d do whatever she could for her. And she’d go again after work. Nat was a good friend. She remembered a time, many years ago now, when the boyfriend before Ben had dumped her. She’d phoned Nat in tears; Nat had cancelled her own date and come rushing round bearing a bottle of wine and a DVD, to help take Gemma’s mind off her woes. They’d ended up having a fabulous, giggly girlie evening. It was the sort of thing Nat always did – put her friendship with Gemma first. ‘You’ll be around when the blokes are all long gone,’ she’d said. ‘So I’ll always put you ahead of them, in your hour of need, any time.’ The least Gemma could do was put Nat first when she was ill, to pay her back for all her support in the past.
March 1838
Rebecca was still in mourning for her mother, nine months after her tragic accident. The household had been much subdued ever since it had happened, although Charles, who had leased a house in nearby Bridhampton, was a frequent visitor and did what he could to lift their spirits whenever he was there. He would go riding with Sarah, sit and discuss books and poetry with Rebecca, or try to engage Mr Winton in talk of business or politics. It was Papa who needed the distraction most, Rebecca thought. He had shrunk into himself since the death of his wife. He had lost weight, had a grey pallor to his skin and was seemingly uninterested in his estate and investments. Poor Papa. Mama’s loss had hit him so hard.
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