‘This is, Grace, Jemma.’ He held out his hand and Grace took it in hers, once again looking at Griff with so much love it tugged at Jemma’s heart.
‘Hello, Jemma. I’m so excited to meet you. I adore your books. And I love the TV series. Hi Hanna.’ She gave Hanna a friendly wave. ‘Shall we sit in the garden? It’s such a gorgeous evening and rain is forecast for tomorrow so we’d better make the most of it.’
‘Absolutely’ said Hanna. ‘I would kill for a glass of wine.’
‘No need,’ Griff said. ‘There’s a glass with your name on waiting in the garden.’
‘That’s exactly what you said,’ Jemma glanced from Hanna to Griff and back again, surprised they had used the same words.
Grace laughed. ‘That’s because there is an actual glass with Hanna’s name on. We bought it for her as a little thank you, gift.’
Griff and Grace led the way, still holding hands.
The rear gardens of Betancourt were even more impressive than the front. The gardens were enclosed by similar shrubs and trees to the ones at the front. The lawns weren’t as manicured and were dotted here and there with more shrubs and trees. On each side was a copse of trees and there was a formal knot garden in the centre. There was also a rose garden, a kitchen garden to the left and a wildflower garden to the right.
A raised terrace ran the width of the house and York stone steps led down to a broad path that zig-zagged down the centre of the garden, as far as the eye could see. Then there was a large lake with an impressively grand fountain the water of which shot high into the air. Beyond the lake were the cliffs and below them, the sandy beach of Betancourt Bay, and the sea. A pair of black, ornate iron gates, like the set at the front, sat to one side of the garden at the edge of the cliff, and steps led down to the beach.
The view from the terrace was breathtaking.
‘You can see the coast of France,’ said Grace as they sat around a large table, on extremely comfortable chairs with padded cushions.
‘I would never tire of this view,’ Jemma said.
‘It’s stunning, isn’t it?’ said Hanna.
‘That’s Locke Isle,’ said Griff, pointing to the island that seemed to be floating like a cloud.
Hanna grinned. ‘Shall we take bets on how long it is before Grace tells Jemma her favourite story?’
‘No time,’ said Grace, grinning back. ‘There’s a story I’ve always loved above all others,’ she said. ‘Legend has it that the Lockes and the Betancourts were once sworn enemies. Lord Locke, as he was before he lost his title and later his head, had three sons but only one daughter, called Elizabeth, who fell in love with a son of the then Baron Betancourt. But the fathers hated each other and forbade the union. Desperate and in love, Grifforde Betancourt, the Baron’s eldest son, and the namesake of my own darling fiancé here, took a boat to the island one dark night and Elizabeth Locke met him on the sands. They planned to return to the mainland and then to elope, but the weather turned suddenly, as it often does in this part of the English Channel, and a storm swept in with massive waves when they were halfway across. It cast the lovers into the bitterly cold sea. Grifforde’s younger brother was on his way home from a night in a tavern in Folkestone with some friends and as they reached Lookout Point, they heard Grifforde and Elizabeth call out to one another. They didn’t know the couple were in the water until one of them spotted the lovers floundering beneath the full moon. Grifforde and Elizabeth managed to find each other in the swell but the waves and currents were too strong for them. They clung to one another and kissed before the sea dragged them down to the depths and to their deaths.’
‘A cheery tale,’ said Hanna, taking a sip of the wine Griff had poured. Her glass did indeed have her name etched into it.
‘It’s said that you can hear the lovers calling to one another when there are storms and the wind is in the right direction,’ Grace added.
‘That’s such a romantic tale,’ Jemma said. ‘I wish I could use it in my book. I … I don’t suppose I could, could I?’
Griff shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. My friend, Ward Locke of Locke Isle won’t mind, and I have no objection. Unless Grace has.’
Grace shook her head. ‘No! I think it would be wonderful to see it in your book. I realise you’d change the names, of course.’
‘Please don’t let it be Ambrose who drowns.’ Hanna sat bolt upright. ‘I know I said I’d like him to find a woman he would be willing to die for, but I don’t want him to drown.’
‘Ambrose wouldn’t drown,’ said Grace. ‘Would he, Jemma? He’s too strong and powerful for that.’
‘The sea is far more powerful than you might think,’ said Griff. ‘My ancestor wasn’t the first to drown in that channel between here and Locke Isle and he wasn’t the last either. But on a jollier note. We’ll show you the rest of the house after supper, Jemma.’
‘Oh, thank you! I can feel my inspiration returning. And I’m not saying that to be polite. This beautiful house seems to be sending me good vibes.’
