A Year at Meadowbrook Manor: Escape to the countryside this year with this perfect feel-good romance read in 2018. Faith Bleasdale
no object, he had poured it into the house, using interior designers, the best materials; it had always been an amazing house both inside and out. Her father had updated rooms throughout their childhood as well, and Meadowbrook was such a part of him, Harriet could barely think of the house and her father as not being together. She was unsure how she would feel staying here without him. Wrong didn’t begin to cover it.
As she heard her heels echo on the chequered tiled floor, gazing as she always had as a child at the huge chandelier that commanded the impressive entrance hall, she turned and looked at her brothers and sister.
‘So, we made it. Now, shall we fortify with a drink before the hordes arrive?’ Harriet tried a smile but she feared it would be more like a scowl. She also hated how formal she sounded to her own ears. She was with her family yet it felt as if she was with strangers.
‘Good idea,’ Freddie said, breaking away and heading for their father’s study. Or what was his study, Harriet thought, wondering if she would get used to thinking of him in the past tense anytime soon.
‘Um, OK, Mark’s driving some of the villagers who didn’t have a car.’ Pippa’s eyes clouded; as the baby of the family she was probably feeling their father’s loss more keenly than the others. Pippa had always worn her heart on her sleeve, not like her older sister. For Harriet, emotions were something she tried to avoid like cheap shoes. Harriet knew she should give her a hug, but she could only manage a slightly weak pat on the arm.
‘Where’s Fleur?’ Harriet asked, having only just noticed her twelve-year-old niece’s absence.
‘Her mother felt it better to take her home. She felt going to the funeral was enough.’ Gus’s eyes strayed to his shiny black shoes. ‘She was so upset …’ His voice broke.
She knew she should offer some comfort, but she was at a loss where to start with each of them.
Freddie headed to their father’s old-fashioned drinks trolley as soon as they entered the study. It was definitely her father’s room. His personality stamped on every inch, from the huge imposing mahogany desk that had dominated the room forever – Harriet vaguely remembered when she couldn’t even see over the top – to the large wooden backed chair that she used to love spinning in until she was dizzy. The art on the wall, all landscapes – her father believed paintings should be only of landscapes, people or fruit – were achingly familiar. As were the antiques that he had carefully chosen, an old floor-to-ceiling map, a ship, a globe. Strange objects that had captivated her as a child; her father rarely travelled and he hated the sea. She glanced across at Gus, who was transfixed by the wall, and she wondered if he was thinking the same. Perhaps reliving their childhood, even just in their heads, would help them find their relationship with each other again.
‘Right, well, I think we should drink the very good stuff,’ Freddie announced in his usual dramatic way, selecting a bottle of expensive whisky.
‘I suppose I better go and see if Gwen is OK,’ Harriet said. The housekeeper kept a low profile, Harriet had barely seen her after the service.
‘Can you get ice as well, please, Harry?’ Freddie thrust an ice bucket at her.
‘I’ll get the ice, Harry can chat to Gwen,’ Gus said, sensibly, taking the bucket from her.
They walked across the large hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. The aroma of food hit them as soon as they entered. People, strangers, wearing black and white uniforms whirled around the large kitchen, unwrapping food, plating it up, polishing glasses.
‘Harriet.’ Gwen emerged from behind the crowd. ‘Are you OK, love?’ The closest thing Harriet had had to a mother figure growing up, she let Gwen hug her and Harriet was surprised by the warmth of the embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been hugged like that.
Gwen had been the family housekeeper for years. She’d arrived at Meadowbrook as a young single mother, shortly after their own mother had been killed, and she had never left. She was part of the family; her father’s companion in a way, although nothing romantic had ever happened between them. Just as her father maintained their mother was the only woman he would ever love, Gwen was the same about her son Connor’s father, Thomas, who had been taken far too young by cancer.
‘I was checking you were all right, actually.’ Harriet even at nine had liked to think she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. That was the character of her childhood, the oldest of four motherless children, she took her responsibilities seriously and along the way she had somehow forgotten to let anyone take care of her.
‘And I’m on ice duty. Freddie wants to drink all Father’s expensive whisky before the guests arrive,’ Gus laughed dryly, as he shuffled from foot to foot. He was wearing a smart black suit but Harriet couldn’t help but see him as the distraught nine-year-old who begged her not to go to boarding school. To her he would always be that boy. It had broken her heart to leave them when she was eleven, but her father insisted. Boarding school would be the making of her, he said, and wouldn’t listen to her pleas to let her stay at home with her siblings. Gus had followed two years later – a different school. Her father held old-fashioned ideas about education and was unmovable on the topic.
‘Here, I’ll get the ice.’ Connor, Gwen’s son, appeared, took the ice bucket and went to fill it. Although she had spoken to Connor at the church, seeing him, properly seeing him, now gave her a jolt. She immediately felt jittery and uncomfortable in his presence. Again, they used to be so close, he was her best friend growing up, but she hadn’t seen him for so long that familiarity had definitely faded. It was as if standing in front of her was a man she knew so well, but also a stranger. One that she wanted to reach out to but who made her feel unsure of herself.
‘Thanks, Connor,’ Gus said, taking the filled ice bucket from him.
‘Connor!’ Harriet breezed, collecting herself, a smile plastered to her face. ‘It’s been so long,’ she said, hoping her voice wasn’t as squeaky as she suspected.
‘Harry, you look exactly the same as you did ten years ago,’ he teased, wrapping his eyes around her. She disentangled herself from him as rapidly as she could without being offensive.
‘You git, I’ve aged horribly,’ she giggled. Goodness, that was the first time she had giggled in a long time. Connor had always had that effect on her. He was two years older than her, and she had adored him as a child, followed him around like a shadow. Well, the less said about that …
‘It’s really lovely to see you, Harry,’ he enthused.
‘So, you came back to Meadowbrook?’ Harriet said. She felt shy, awkward. Like the time she first got braces and refused to smile, lest Connor see them. That hadn’t turned out well of course.
‘You are the only one of the Singers I haven’t seen, and I’ve been back for three years, Harry.’ He shook his head reproachfully. ‘Living in one of the cottages, but anyway, I’ll fill you in later.’
Harriet opened and closed her mouth, goldfish-like, at Gus, who shrugged, and with his newly filled ice bucket headed out. And as she turned to follow him, she felt such a gulf between her life and her life. How had this happened? All her siblings had been part of Meadowbrook and only she had not. How and why had she let that happen?
‘Connor, Gwen, come join us,’ Harriet said, recovering, determined to resume control, of herself mainly.
‘Yes, it’ll be nice to toast your father, just the family,’ Gwen said, her voice catching as if on a rusty nail. Harriet felt her grief. It was all around her. In her siblings, in Gwen and Connor. She knew it was there, but even though she hurt inside, she was angry that she couldn’t see it in herself.
‘Goodness, how long does it take to get ice,’ Freddie cried, grabbing the ice bucket from Gus, as they returned to the study, and organising drinks for everyone. Finally, everyone had a very large, expensive whisky in their hands.
‘I propose a toast, to the old man,’ Freddie said, with a grin. They all drank.
‘And