Page 3 of Christmas All the Way

Something of her thoughts must have coloured her tone, because his mouth quirked. ‘I know, I’m disgustingly early. I wanted to get a feel for the house before we spoke. I didn’t realise you’d be on sentry duty.’

Was that how she’d looked, Keeley wondered. Stiff and guarded? ‘We’re a little short-staffed today,’ she explained. ‘But I enjoy talking to visitors. They’re always so enthusiastic about Eliza’s writing.’

Xander smiled and a distant part of Keeley’s brain observed that it caused dimples to appear in each cheek. ‘Apart from when they think they know more than you.’

‘Even then,’ Keeley said. ‘If I was a writer, I’d be in heaven. We see all sorts of characters here.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you have ambitions to write?’

She shook her head. ‘No. But Eliza’s novels are filled with big characters. Those two reminded me a little of Mr and Mrs Frogmore, in Manningtree Lodge.’

He nodded, but Keeley couldn’t tell whether he agreed or even if he knew the novel. Checking her watch, she saw it was just after eleven-fifteen. The flow of visitors from the coach seemed to have dried up; could she ask Jenny to keep an eye on both rooms while she met with Xander? The quicker she heard what he had to say, the sooner she could get on with the rest of her day. She really hoped it wasn’t going to involve a PowerPoint.

Once again, he seemed to divine what she was thinking. ‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a wander round and we can meet at twelve-thirty, as planned.’

‘No, that’s okay.’ She craned her head, trying to catch a glimpse of Jenny in the neighbouring room. ‘I’m sure one of the volunteers can take over here and I can give you a quick tour.’

‘That’s kind of you but I’d rather find my own way. I like to get a feel for a place, form my own impressions of what’s working and what could be improved.’ He offered her a crooked smile that caused a burst of fine lines to radiate from the corners of his sea-blue eyes. ‘Would you hate me if I turned you down?’

Keeley couldn’t prevent a flicker of irritation. The cottage was laid out in exactly the way it had been when Eliza lived there – nothing about it needed to be improved. And his choice of phrasing grated too; she’d offered to give him a tour, not buy him a drink. ‘Fine,’ she replied, determined to appear outwardly unruffled. ‘Shall I meet you in the gift shop at twelve-thirty, as previously agreed?’

‘See you then,’ he said, with a carefree wave that somehow only irritated her more. She watched him go, observing the frayed hem of his too-long faded jeans, dangling over the battered Converse he wore, and she found herself wondering exactly how old he was. Her initial guess had been late twenties but the laughter lines suggested he might be older, in spite of the way he was dressed. Younger than her forty-two years, that much was certain, and perhaps that was another reason for the prickle of annoyance that lingered between Keeley’s shoulder blades, for all Malcolm’s reassurance that his role was in no way senior to hers. But she’d never been one to judge a book by its cover, no matter how tempting it might be. Xander Jones had convinced the trustees that he could bring more visitors to Juniper Cottage, which meant Keeley was obliged to hear him out, in spite of a suspicion he had never so much as opened one of Eliza’s novels.

Her resolve to take refuge in professional courtesy was tested slightly when Jenny appeared in the doorway of the adjoining room to mouth ‘WOW!’ at Xander’s departing back. Thankfully, Keeley was saved from having to respond by the arrival of a fresh wave of tourists from the hallway behind her. When Keeley entered the gift shop shortly before twelve-thirty, it was to find Xander leaning against the ticket desk, nodding at something volunteer Elspeth was saying. Elspeth herself looked every bit as starstruck as Jenny had been; her eyes were wide and one hand fluttered at the string of pearls around her neck as she listened to his reply. Keeley kept her expression neutral as the volunteer let out a peal of girlish laughter that caused several shoppers to glance towards her. Another hour – less, if she kept questions to a minimum – and everything could settle back into normality.

‘Hello again,’ she said, sending a cool nod Xander’s way as she approached. ‘How do you like Juniper Cottage?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ he replied, and the warmth of his tone suggested he meant it. ‘I got a real sense of Eliza’s presence. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the scratch of her quill.’

Keeley gave him a sharp look because there had been moments, at the end of a long day when the house was empty and silent, that she’d also imagined she could hear the faint scratch of a quill on paper. Once or twice, upon entering a room to check everything was as it should be before closing up for the night, it had seemed to her that the still air had gently swirled, as though someone had departed a split second before she arrived. These were observations she had always kept to herself, however, mostly because it was difficult enough to find reliable volunteers and the last thing she needed were rumours that the cottage was haunted, but also because she had long suspected those almost otherworldly moments were born of wishful thinking on her part. She had read and reread Eliza’s novels and diaries so often that the writer felt like a friend, one she longed to meet in real life. The fact that their lives were separated by more than a century was neither here nor there. But she had no intention of admitting that to Xander, in spite of his unsettling echo of her own experience. ‘The rooms are arranged as closely as possible to the way they were in Eliza’s day,’ she said, determined to head off any thoughts he might have about rearranging the furniture. ‘Our visitors enjoy seeing how she lived and worked.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. That’s why they come. But I think there’s potential to offer them more than superficial engagement.’

There was a loaded silence, during which Keeley fought to smother a burst of indignation. From the guileless expression on Xander’s face, he had no idea he’d just insulted both her and her team of dedicated volunteers. ‘Well,’ she replied, managing to compose herself, ‘I look forward to hearing your ideas. Would you like a coffee? I thought we might find a quiet table outside the cafe, since it’s a lovely day.’ She glanced at the rucksack slung over his shoulder and wondered again if he was going to subject her to a slide show. ‘Unless you need power.’

‘Outside is great,’ he assured her easily. ‘And so is coffee.’

It wasn’t until they reached the cafe that Keeley began to wonder whether Xander might be expecting something more substantial than coffee. The tables were filled with visitors tucking into sandwiches and snacks they had bought, and the air was rich with the aroma of toasted bread. There was also a lengthy queue snaking along the counter towards the tills, but that was less of a problem since they didn’t actually need to join it. She turned to Xander. ‘How do you take your coffee? I can recommend the cherry Bakewell slice to go with it, or there are sandwiches and toasties if you’d like something more filling.’

He shook his head. ‘Just a flat white, thanks. I’ve got somewhere else to be at three o’clock and it’s a bit of a drive.’

Throwing up a silent prayer of thanks to the patron saint of harassed museum curators, Keeley deposited him at an empty table in the shade of a large oak tree and went to make the drinks. As she stepped outside again, the sun slid from behind a cloud, causing golden light to dapple through the leaves of the oak tree, bathing Xander in a gently rippling amber glow in a scene that might have caused Leonardo da Vinci to reach for his paintbrushes. She slowed, momentarily transfixed, until she saw he was tapping at a laptop, and the beguilement vanished. It looked as though her worst fears were correct. There was going to be a presentation.

‘So,’ she said, sliding the tray of drinks onto the table and taking the seat opposite him. ‘I hope you won’t mind my bluntness but I’m not sure I understand why you’re here.’ He started to speak but she held up a hand. ‘Obviously, the trustees want to increase visitor numbers and raise Eliza’s profile as one of our great literary treasures, and I assume you have some expertise in that area, since they appointed you as creative director. But what are you actually going to do? Other than suggest the current Juniper Cottage visitor experience is superficial.’

She hadn’t meant her final sentence to sound so snippy but the irritation she’d felt in the gift shop bubbled to the surface and escaped before she could prevent it. A faint blush warmed her cheeks, even as she forced herself to hold his gaze. But he didn’t look discomfited by her questions. Instead, he closed the computer and eyed her steadily. ‘First things first, I’m not here to step on your toes. You’re the foremost expert in the life and work of Eliza Norton – you know more about her than anyone and I’d be a fool not to respect that. I certainly didn’t mean to suggest that anything about the brilliant way you’ve preserved Eliza’s legacy isn’t up to scratch. But the way people interact with the past is changing, which means the way we engage them has to change too.’ He leaned back in the seat, his expression almost apologetic. ‘It means we have to offer more than a walk around an old house.’

‘We do offer more than that,’ Keeley replied, stung all over again. ‘We run a programme of events throughout the year, including a wealth of talks from notable speakers, and we encourage families with child-friendly activities.’

‘And all those things are great,’ he said, nodding. ‘The sensory trail in the garden is particularly good – I bet toddlers and younger children really get into it, and the way you’ve tied it into scenes from Eliza’s books is clever. But lectures by dusty academics won’t increase your visitor numbers by much. Not because they’re not interesting, but because the people who come to hear those speakers already know Eliza’s work.’

Keeley took a sip of tea, fighting the urge to glare at him. ‘We encourage everyone who visits Juniper Cottage to sign up to our mailing list, to help spread the word.’

Xander smiled. ‘Again, that’s great. Do you have a regular newsletter? Who monitors the engagement rate? Do you prune subscribers who delete without reading?’

She stared at him. ‘They’re people, not roses. Why would anyone prune them?’

‘To avoid contact fatigue, for a start,’ he said, shrugging. ‘You want subscribers who are happy to hear from you, not ones who automatically hit the delete button because they’re not interested in what you have to say.’