The Daughters Of Red Hill Hall: A gripping novel of family, secrets and murder. Kathleen McGurl
de Witt boy, Charles, when she grows up.’ Rebecca put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from reacting to this. She had met Charles de Witt on a couple of occasions when the de Witts had visited the Winton estate, or vice versa. The boy was the son of her father’s oldest friend and was several years older than herself. She had paid him very little attention. So her father intended her to marry him when she was older? That was interesting, and a little bit frightening.
Mama nodded, but didn’t look sure.
Mr Winton continued speaking. ‘So, Sarah stays with us. Agreed, Charlotte?’ Mr Winton stood and towered over Mama as he spoke. Rebecca had seen him do this before to signal the end of a discussion. There was never any point trying to argue further.
Mama looked up at him. ‘Yes, of course my dear, whatever you say.’ But her lips were firmly pressed together, in a gesture Rebecca knew meant she didn’t agree but would not argue any further.
Papa nodded and left the room. Rebecca waited a moment and then followed him out. She ran to Sarah’s room in the housekeeper’s apartment, and found her friend lying tucked up in bed, asleep. Spencer must have put her there. She sat beside her and stroked a stray lock of hair from her face, considering all that she had heard. Was Sarah perhaps not an orphan after all, and Spencer was her father? She tucked the secret away inside her head.
‘One good thing has come of this, Sarah,’ she whispered. ‘You are to be my sister. Papa said so. I will be married to Charles de Witt, and you are to be my companion. You will stay with me for the rest of my life, Sarah. Isn’t that truly wonderful?’
April 2015
‘So did you find out anything more about those duelling pistols today?’ Ben asked, as he paid the bill. Gemma and Ben had eaten out in their favourite Italian bistro, as was their habit on a Friday night.
Gemma pushed back her chair and slipped on her leather jacket. ‘I made a start. There’s a sketchy history of Red Hill Hall on the hotel’s website, but it’s only a couple of paragraphs and doesn’t mention a shooting.’
‘Did you try googling “Red Hill Hall” and “duel” together?’ Ben held the door open for her and they walked out into the mild spring evening.
‘I did, yes. I know how to do this research lark, you know!’ Gemma laughed. ‘Couldn’t find anything about it.’
‘Aw, shame. Erm, shall we walk the long way back to yours? Via the park?’ Ben shuffled his feet as he spoke and seemed unwilling to catch Gemma’s eye. She wondered why he wanted to go that way round. It was certainly a lot further. Usually they went straight back to her flat, drank a glass of wine and spent the night together if neither of them was working on the Saturday. Although very often one or both of them would be working – that was the trouble with jobs in public services like museums and sports centres.
‘OK then, if you like,’ she said, and linked her arm through his. It was certainly a pleasant enough evening for a night-time stroll.
‘So, is that it? If nothing comes up on Google about the infamous shooting does that mean you won’t be able to find out any more about it?’ Ben asked.
‘Not at all. Next step is to search the newspaper archives. Thankfully a lot of old newspapers have been digitised and are available to search online. You need a subscription though, and the museum doesn’t have one. So I need to talk to Roger on Monday, and see if he’ll agree to fund one. If he doesn’t, I’ll probably buy a month’s subscription myself and research it from home.’
‘Do you think he’ll agree? Better if you can do this during work hours, isn’t it?’
Gemma laughed. ‘Better for me, definitely! The more time I spend on this the less time I have to spend on boring fossils. Yes, I think he’ll probably go for it. He seems as interested as I am in finding out the background to these pistols.’
They turned away from the street and into the park. An inviting path meandered through well-kept flower beds, and the scent of early roses filled the air. Ben led the way, and Gemma realised they were heading towards ‘their’ bench. It was where they had sat for an hour or more on the night they first met. Gemma remembered it so clearly. She and Nat had been sharing a bottle of wine in the pub, when Ben and some of his colleagues from the sports centre came in and sat at the next table. Nat had been chatted up by a hunky lifeguard, and had left early with him, leaving Gemma feeling stranded amongst people she didn’t know. She’d ended up talking to Ben, and when he’d offered to walk her home she leapt at the chance.
On that occasion it was Gemma who’d led him the long way home, just so she could spend a bit more time with him. They’d sat on this bench in the rose garden at the edge of the park and talked for hours under the moonlight. It wasn’t until the early hours that they decided they ought to go home. By the time Ben left Gemma at the door to her flat, kissing her deeply as they said goodbye, she’d fallen well and truly in love with him.
At the bench, Ben stopped. ‘Shall we sit down for a moment? Remember the night we met and sat here talking for hours?’
‘I’ll never forget it,’ Gemma said, snuggling up to him. It was a cool, clear night, with a crescent moon casting just enough light to see by. But Ben pushed her gently away.
‘I, erm, there’s something I want to say, Gem.’ Once again he was looking shifty. Gemma wondered what he was holding back. Surely he didn’t want to call time on their relationship? They were good together, they never argued, they made a perfect couple – all their friends said so. Nat always said they were made for each other. And he wouldn’t have chosen to come here, to this bench with so many memories, to finish with her, would he?
He clasped her hands on her lap. ‘Gem, darling, it’s been six years…’
‘Seven,’ she interrupted.
‘Seven? OK then, seven years. Gem, they’ve been the best years of my life. But, it’s not enough for me any more.’
Oh God, he was going to say he didn’t want their relationship to be exclusive, wasn’t he? Gemma felt a pang of dread course through her.
Suddenly he dropped to his knees in front of her. ‘Gemma, darling, will you marry me?’
‘Marry you?’
‘Yes, you know, I mean, like, put rings on each other’s fingers, walk up the aisle of a church together, all that stuff. Live together. Have kids. Grow old together. The works.’ He looked up at her, his deep brown eyes beseeching her to say yes. Relief flooded through her like a tsunami. Well of course she was going to say yes! She’d been making up her mind to propose to him, next leap year, hadn’t she?
She slipped off the bench to kneel in front of him, and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Darling Ben. Of course I would be absolutely delighted to marry you! I’ve been hoping you’d ask me for the last six years!’
‘And now I have! Oh wow, you said yes! Really? You’ll marry me? Wahey!’ He pulled her to her feet and enveloped her in a huge hug. Gemma couldn’t help herself – she began bouncing up and down with joy and Ben joined in, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, the two of them jumping up and down together, squealing with laughter.
A late-night dog walker passed by, staring at them. ‘We’re getting married, we’re getting married!’ Gemma squealed. The dog walker grinned and gave them the thumbs up. When he was out of sight, Ben pulled Gemma still closer and kissed her, deep and lingering.
‘Mmm,’ said Gemma. ‘You are the best, and soon you will be mine.’ She sighed happily. ‘I can’t wait to tell Nat that we’re engaged! And Mum and Dad, and your parents! And Anna and Jake!’
She skipped, clinging on to Ben’s arm and stopping every few steps for another kiss, all the way back to her flat, which occupied the top floor of a converted Victorian