Page 25 of Mirrors of the Past

By now, he was out the front door of Pencradoc, clutching his document case and looking around him as he stood on the top step . . .

Clutching the document case.

Shit.

That was full of stuff he should have shown to Coren — but Tegan’s presence had thrown him and he’d totally forgotten to open it.

In his defence, nobody had reminded him though . . .

He hovered uncertainly for a moment, wondering whether to go back in and interrupt them, but then the view from the top of the steps caught his attention again.

It really was fantastic. The warmth of the day washed over him, the sun shining desultorily, the clouds casting slow-moving shadows across the gently undulating greenery of Bodmin Moor, the moorland melting into blues and purples in the far distance. The edge of the moor was just over there, straight across the formal gardens, and it was exactly the sort of place a person could ride a horse across as fast as they could. He peered into the distance and sure enough saw a small figure doing just that. He smiled and closed his eyes briefly, imagining it, putting himself in the place of the rider, feeling the power of the horse galloping across the moor . . . not something he’d do in his day-to-day life, but he could imagine someone of that era, of Lady Elsie Pencradoc’s era, loving it. Her brother, perhaps — Laurie, wasn’t it? — the one who had fought in the War. When he’d done that, ridden his horse like he’d had no cares in the world, had he realised what was coming?

Ryan opened his eyes and shuddered, a cold chill suddenly creeping across his shoulders despite the warmth of the September day. Unable to resist finding out Laurie’s fate after Tammy had mentioned him, he’d discovered from some military records that Laurie had come back from the War all in one piece, which was good — apart from the bullet wound in his leg, which had seen him invalided out and given a job at the War Office.

But at least the guy had survived.

He wasn’t going to think about it any more, though, because they’d decided not to do the War, and were going to do a wedding instead.

Well — Tegan had. He preferred the topic, but really, really hated it that she had been the one to suggest it! Never mind.

Ryan looked back across the gardens towards the moor and blinked. Hang on — he couldn’t actually see the moor clearly enough to identify lone riders galloping across it, or see shadows from the clouds drifting over the vast expanse — the trees looked much denser in that direction, almost as if they had grown in the few seconds he’d imagined Laurie riding his horse.

Was that who he’d been imagining then? It made sense, he supposed. He knew Elsie had written to her brother about the wedding, he’d been thinking about the wedding and about Laurie — so, yes. That made perfect sense.

He abandoned the idea of taking the documents back into the office and began to walk down the steps, still a little curious about the image he’d seen, but not worried. He’d head this way — towards the gothic rose garden that he knew the beautiful Rose, Duchess of Trecarrow, had created before her early death. It was just along here — if he followed the signs towards the Tower Tearoom, he feared he’d be walking straight into Tegan’s territory, because what if she was the sort of person who would grab a table in a full café — probably for four people — and set up their laptop and strew their paperwork around themselves. Perhaps she’d have no more than a bottle of water she’d actually brought in herself — along with a snack in a teeny tiny Tupperware box — and eventually get a small, black coffee, just to prove a point when it started getting busier . . .

He reflected briefly that he had absolutely no basis for that supposition, and she hadn’t flounced out of their meeting with a laptop, but she could possibly go and get a laptop, because there wasn’t much research she could do quickly about Edwardian weddings without an internet connection, and he didn’t think she’d want to take the time to look through the library at Pencradoc . . .

It was hard to find things on the shelves anyway — the little ones moved books around all the time — and all of his notebooks had to be well hidden or they’d go through them and read out his poetry and laugh about it, and then he’d lose his temper and the girls would look at him in horror and say, ‘Why did you get cross with us? It’s good for us to read—’

What on earth?

Ryan’s heart was pounding crazily and he honestly wondered why he’d just plucked that thought out of nowhere. Sybill was right — this place got a hold of you and it was clear that a little knowledge was dangerous, because your imagination apparently made up the rest.

He’d spent too long in those archives reading Elsie’s letters. That was the problem.

Ryan followed the pathway around to the gothic rose garden and went through the archway of Old English roses that formed a sort of secret tunnel into the garden. There were still big, blowsy flowers on the branches, along with one or two buds that promised to bloom before the frosts came. He sniffed appreciatively and thought that in the height of summer, this place would be magical. Even now, it was like a suntrap.

As he rounded the corner, he saw someone’s legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles as they, too, made the most of the weather. They were wearing smartly heeled, black shoes, and a long, pale pink skirt that was apparently hitched up to their knees and trailing on the ground. In fact, the hem was muddy and so were the shoes — which was odd as there was no mud on the ground.

But as he headed towards them and the path took a gentle sweep to the right, he pulled up short suddenly as the sitter came into view.

It was Tegan Burton — only she was wearing wedge-heeled sandals and black trousers, and there wasn’t a trace of a muddy pale-pink skirt anywhere. And far from being on a laptop, with paperwork spread out all over a cafe table, she was scrolling through her mobile, and writing notes down as she did so.