CHAPTER 1
Albie
Albie Curville’s late wife always said Little Beaubrook was magical, but he hadn’t known just how literal she was being. If only they’d been able to visit together, she could have prepared him, but fate had hastened them along a different path. Or maybe it hadn’t been like this before Rose was cruelly ejected as a child over eighty years ago? Maybe?—
‘Stop it, you need to focus,’ he muttered, shaking his head.
Because the manor was doing it again. At this rate, he was going to be sitting outside all day, directing people to their new home. Still, at least it was a bright mid-April morning the weekend after Easter and the sun was high in the achingly blue sky, swallows twittering in the trees.Spring is a time for exciting beginnings, Rose used to remark happily. He was counting on it, for all sorts of reasons.
A grumbling engine yanked Albie from his thoughts, a professional moving van barrelling through the gates, before braking with a screech. Sighing, he eased himself out of the camping chair, curling arthritic fingers in a beckoning wave to direct the latest arrival towards the car park.
The baggy-eyed man hunched over the steering wheel threw him a doubtful look, squinting up the winding gravel drivewayat the pastel pink cherry blossoms and immaculately manicured lawns.
Albie understood the man’s bewilderment, because a building should be visible on the brow of the slope. But instead of a grand Georgian property constructed from beautiful honey-coloured Bath stone, there was a thick haze, like a combination of mist and fog which glimmered strangely if you looked at it directly.
After a moment, the van crunched forward over the sand-coloured stones before drawing to a stop where Albie was standing on the grass verge. The driver buzzed his window down and scowled, gaze flickering over Albie’s tangerine trainers and maroon corduroys before meeting his eyes. ‘I’m looking for Beaubrook Manor?’
Albie nodded, stepping closer. ‘Yes, just follow the driveway.’
The man looked sceptical. ‘You sure? I’ve got better things to do than be part of some elaborate prank?—’
‘It’s a trick of the light. You need to approach it from the right angle, that’s all.’ It was the truth, sort of. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Albie prompted, hoping for the correct response. ‘You don’t get these scenic views in the middle of the city. The way the rolling green hills spread out in the distance like a patchwork blanket, and how the country lanes are edged with wildflowers, especially as you enter the village.’
The stranger blinked as he absorbed the comment, shoulders slowly unknotting. ‘Yeah, suppose you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘It’s pretty nice around here, once you get off the dual carriageway.’
‘It is. Well, off you go then,’ Albie urged, ‘you’ll find it easily now.’
Snorting, the man replied, ‘Okay then, thanks.’ However, there was a lightness to his voice and as he turned to face the front, there was a slight shimmer in the air and a quietwhooshsound. He stamped his foot on the brake pedal and stared out through his dusty windscreen. ‘What the—? How the bloody hell?—?’
Albie smiled at the manor house perched on top of the rise. The haze had vanished, and the building sparkled gold in warm greeting, honey stones bathed in daylight. The timeless grandeur made it look like the perfect setting for a romantic period drama. ‘I told you, it’s a matter of perspective.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. ‘Have a good day.’
Perhaps because of Albie’s self-assuredness, the man scratched his forehead and mumbled, ‘It was an early start, I probably need more coffee.’ Then, a gentle breeze honeyed with the scent of blossoms swept into the van’s cab, and after a moment, his face cleared. Giving Albie a small wave, he said, ‘You have a good day too.’
Waiting until he’d pulled away, Albie raised an eyebrow at the elegant property, which always heard him no matter where he was, so long as he was within the grounds. ‘I can’t spend all day running interference, you know. I have important things to do, including my five-year tradition and this afternoon’s meeting.’
This had been happening all morning, causing chaos and confusion. As people followed their satnav, the last part of the route to reach Little Beaubrook should be straight forward. Take the road gently curving to the left before it straightened onto the main street, and then turn a sharp right between twin piles of bricks. On the way in, they never noticed the lack of tumbledown cottages or missing black filigree gates marking the entrance to the grounds. Instead, they were distracted by the absent building until (with Albie’s help) the manor revealed itself in its majestic surroundings, and everything popped into existence as if it had always been visible to them.
Now, holding his palms out, and hoping no one was around to see him supposedly talking to himself, Albie pleaded, ‘Please stay in sight, everyone arriving today is supposed to be here. It’s time.’ He only hoped Rose could forgive him for the sacrifice he’d made to fulfil her last wish. The thought of disappointing her was unbearable. Spreading his hands wider, he raised his eyebrow at the manor. ‘Well?’
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, as if heaving a petulant teenage sigh, the honey-coloured stones gave an imperceptible ripple, and the foundations settled more firmly into the hill.
‘Thank you,’ Albie murmured, leaving the chair behind and beginning his slow climb up the driveway, ‘it’s appreciated.’
With his creaking bones and joints, it took several minutes to reach the car park hugging the front of the building. A sumptuous fountain carved from pale stone occupied the centre of the gravelled expanse, a period design with three circular tiers overspilling with water and stunningly decorated with lion heads entwined with roses. Occasionally, from the corner of his eye, he’d seen flashes of movement. Smiling at the fanciful notion, he stopped to admire the gold-tinged façade of the imposing manor. Georgian-style bar windows formed neat rows along the ground and first floors. A classic porticoed entrance with twin honeyed-columns and a porch welcomed visitors to the property, bookended by east and west wings.
Pushing through the oak front door, which looked heavy but opened without effort, he crossed the warm-toned marbled entrance hall. Eight post-boxes were fixed to the right-hand wall beside a large noticeboard, which was going to come in handy. Rose may not be here in body, but she’d always be with him somehow. He was looking forward to sharing her wisdom with the new residents.
Passing the grand staircase, balustrades gleaming, he turns right down the hallway past all the formal downstairs rooms, returned to their original layout and purposes. By the time he reached his ground-floor apartment overlooking the walled garden at the back of the property, he was wheezing. Letting himself in, he clicked the door shut and shuffled into the small kitchen without taking off his trainers, depleted of energy. He’d need all the strength he could get for what came next, so lunch was a priority.
As he prepared a simple cheddar and pickle sandwich, he recalled his first visit to Little Beaubrook back in frigid mid-winter. How befuddled he’d been that such a large property could vanish into thin air. Waiting for the Area Conservation Officer from the local council to arrive, he’d stared at the tattered map in his gloved hands, rheumy eyes narrowed on the faded lines criss-crossing the Dorset-Hampshire border. Tracing the winding roads, he’d pootled along in his eggshell blue Allegro since leaving the dual carriageway. The topography seemed correct: the position of nearby rural towns and villages, the areas of dense forest bisecting the green countryside, and the tiny brook meandering across land that dipped and peaked.
Rose had told him so much about this special place. It should be there. Maybe he was just an old man losing his proverbial marbles. Or – a terrible thought had struck, his stomach twisting with anxiety – had it been demolished? The idea of such destruction, and what it would mean for him, made his heart falter in his chest before resuming a quavering beat. Surely not demolished, it couldn’t be. No, he was just reading the map wrong. Perhaps it was upside down? Busy fumbling with it, his panicky breaths fogging the air in front of his face, he’d been oblivious to the car engine and slam of a door until a cheerful voice spoke behind him.
‘Mr Curville, I take it? Huh, we’ve both managed to end up in the wrong place. Must be an issue with the satnav.’
Spinning around, Albie dropped the map in a fluster to greet the man he’d only previously spoken to by phone. Ethan, there to ensure the restoration of the Listed Building was properly overseen in line with regulations and permissions.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he replied shakily, clutching his chest.
