The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl
with separate utility room and pantry.’
‘Pantry!’
‘Well, a walk-in food cupboard, really.’
‘And what will you do with all those bedrooms?’
‘Convert one to an en-suite,’ said Simon, returning with a wooden spoon, painted with the number seventeen. ‘There’s only one bathroom and I think it definitely needs another.’
‘Nan, I’m having a room on the top floor,’ said Lauren, looking up from her game.
‘Lovely, dear!’
‘We’ll be able to have a proper guest room, Mum,’ I said. ‘So you can come to stay without being stuck on the living room floor.’
‘Christmas at yours next year, then?’ asked Mum.
That was a nice idea. ‘Why not?’
‘As it’s an old house, I guess there are proper fireplaces so Santa can come down the chimney instead of through the back door?’ Dad winked at me over Thomas’s head.
‘I saw Santa,’ said Thomas. ‘On a bicycle.’
‘That was just someone dressed up,’ said Lewis. ‘Not the real one.’
Thomas’s lip quivered and I frowned at Lewis to shut him up. Mum put her arm around Thomas. ‘I’ll take you to see the real Santa,’ she said. ‘He’s going to be at the shopping centre next week. He might give you a present, if you’re good.’ She looked at me. ‘I can’t wait to see the house. When will you move in?’
‘When we’ve sold our place,’ Simon said. ‘We’ve not even put it on the market yet. With the way the market is at the moment it might take ages to sell.’
Trust Simon to put a dampener on things. I hadn’t really given much thought to selling our current house. But of course he was right. I shouldn’t get too excited about moving to North Kingsley. What if we couldn’t sell our place, and meanwhile the Delameres got fed up of waiting and sold to someone else?
I must have looked worried, because Dad reached over and patted my hand. Simon picked up his pint.
‘Don’t fret, Katie,’ he said. ‘Since the Delameres have agreed such a good price for their house, we can price ours to sell quickly. They’re moving into an empty retirement flat. We could be in by Easter, with a following wind. As long as the survey’s OK. We’ll have to think hard if it turns out to be riddled with dry rot or rising damp.’
I didn’t listen to that last bit about surveys. Simon wasn’t going to spoil it for me. I was too busy considering the totally gorgeous idea of moving in spring. Simon, Mum and Dad began a discussion on house prices while I allowed my mind to wander, imagining the fields around North Kingsley bright with the fresh green growth of a new season, the hedgerows laden with elderflower and hawthorn blossom, cute rabbits hopping along the verges, swallows dipping and diving overhead. The kids would be out in the woods, exploring the countryside, learning the names of wild flowers and birds. We’d get a dog – with such wonderful country walks all around it’d be a crime not to. I’d plant up the garden with hollyhocks and lupins, and Simon would make the kids a tree house in the branches of the beech. And of course, I’d be living in the very rooms where Georgia and Bartholomew once lived.
It would all be so perfect.
‘Katie, how’s the old family tree research coming on?’ Dad’s voice broke into my thoughts. He’s the one person in my family who is truly interested in my genealogical research. I guess because he’s a St Clair too. But now wasn’t a great time to discuss it.
‘Um, I haven’t spent too much time on it lately …’
‘Like hell you haven’t,’ said Simon. ‘You’ve barely done anything else. Didn’t you go taking photos of some old house to do with your ancestors a few weeks ago?’
‘Oh, really?’ said Dad. ‘Fascinating! You must show me them. Where was the house?’
Trust Simon to remember that now. I felt myself blush. I hated keeping secrets from him but I wouldn’t put it past him to pull out of the house purchase if he thought I was only interested in it because of its connection to my family. I had to wait until the deal was secure before telling him.
‘Oh, er, it’s not far. Twenty, thirty miles away, something like that. I’m still researching other St Clair facts, too. Like where they’re all buried. I want to find their gravestones, and get some photos of those, too.’
‘So have you drawn up the family tree yet? I’d love to see it,’ said Dad.
‘It’s all on Ancestry.’ For once, I was desperate to steer the conversation away from genealogy.
‘Email me the link, will you? I’ll have a look at it this week, see if I can find any more details for you. I wouldn’t mind getting involved in all this research now I’m retired.’
I smiled and nodded. I’d have to forget to send him it. Otherwise he might follow up links and find Kingsley House, and recognise it from the estate agent details Simon had shown him. That would be awkward, to say the least.
For the thousandth time, Bartholomew patted the pocket in which he’d stowed the trinket, to make sure it was safely tucked away. It wasn’t the first gift he’d given Georgia, but it was by far the most expensive. A silver hair comb, set with emeralds along its spine. He’d had it made in London by a Bond Street jeweller, and hoped she would love it. As the stagecoach rumbled southwards along the bumpy Brighton road, Bartholomew was glad he would be able to deliver this gift in person, rather than send it as he’d done with the last few presents.
It had been a few weeks since he’d last been in Brighton. Trouble with his investments had called him to his Mayfair townhouse, and it had taken him longer than expected to get everything back on track. His agent, Collins, should be able to take care of business from here on, freeing Bartholomew to live the idle life of a gentleman, as was his right. More than ever, he needed capital, and that could only come from marrying someone with money. Like Georgia Holland. There were rumours of a substantial inheritance, currently in trust for her but which would pass to her husband on the occasion of her marriage. She was pretty and charming, if a little immature, and could be a good choice of wife. He had not renewed the lease on his Brighton lodgings – Charles Holland had invited him to stay in the Brunswick Terrace house.
Well, he’d see the pretty little Georgia soon enough, and would ask for her hand at the earliest opportunity. If he played his cards right, he could be out of debt within a few months. And, of course, there was the added attraction of Georgia’s alluring lady’s maid. He felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of seeing her again.
The countryside passed by in a rush of bright new foliage, sweet white blossom, rich earthy scents of newly ploughed and planted fields. The spring sunshine cast a glow of hope for the future over everything. Bartholomew smiled. There was a world of possibilities ahead of him.
When he arrived at Brunswick Terrace, the door was opened by the footman, Peters. ‘Welcome, sir. The master is awaiting you in the drawing room. I shall take your luggage up to your room.’
‘Thank you.’ As he gave his hat and travelling cloak to Peters, Bartholomew noticed the maid, Agnes, on the turn of the stairs. He caught her eye, and raised one eyebrow. In return, she gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head, sending a thrill rushing through him. What did she mean by that nod? Could it be – an invitation?
‘Miss Georgia said to inform you she is indisposed,’ said Peters. ‘I believe her maid is attending to her now.’ He held the drawing-room door open.
Bartholomew