The Last Casterglass (Keeping Up With the Penryns Book 4) Page 2

  “There are limits,” Walter replied genially. “And there have been Samuels in the Penryn line for over three hundred years. It’s my middle name,” he explained to Oliver, who could only nod. Seph still hadn’t taken his hand, and he had no choice but to rather sheepishly withdraw it.

  “Anyway, nice to meet you,” he said again, and then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he slunk back to his seat.

  She didn’t bother to reply.

  “Seph, come and have some tea,” Olivia entreated, and Oliver had the sense she was talking to some wild creature in need of taming. After a second’s pause Seph moved over to the enormous brown teapot and poured herself a mug. Oliver watched as she poured milk in and no less than three sugars. She leaned against the counter and sipped it, gazing around watchfully at them all over the rim of her mug.

  The conversation moved back, unfortunately, to him and his circumstances.

  “So what exactly are you hoping to do with Pembury Farm?” Althea asked and Oliver had the urge to squirm, which he thankfully resisted.

  “Uh, well, keep it in the family, basically,” he said. “Some of the ideas you’ve implemented here could work on the farm, I think. The campsite, in particular, and the workshops. I’ve also thought about having pick-your-own vegetables and fruit—there are orchards on the property—apple, plum, and cherry.”

  Althea’s expression had turned thoughtful as she sipped her tea. “Pick your own. I like that.”

  “We’ve let the orchard go a bit, I’m afraid,” Walter told him with an apologetic smile. “I don’t think the trees are very productive anymore.”

  “I don’t even know where the orchard is,” Olivia exclaimed. “Where is it, Daddy?”

  “Across the river, on the far side of the wood, opposite the campsite.”

  “Perhaps that’s something Oliver can help with,” a young woman—John’s daughter?—suggested. “Getting the orchard back into shape.”

  “You can’t prune trees in autumn, I’m afraid,” John put in, with a commiserating look for Oliver, as if he would have known that. The truth was, he’d thrown the ‘pick-your-own’ idea out there a bit wildly, simply because Pembury Farm did have a somewhat productive orchard. He didn’t know the first thing about fruit trees, however. So great, yet another way he could feel like a fake.

  “In January though,” Althea said musingly. “You’ll still be here then, won’t you, Oliver?”

  The terms of his internship—unpaid as it was—had been decidedly ambiguous. “Possibly,” he said, trying to sound optimistic. Would Uncle Simon have decided on whether to sell by then? He kept making ominous noises, but Oliver didn’t know if that was just his way to keep him guessing. As long as he didn’t sell, he knew Oliver was beholden to him, willing to dance to his tune. But once he did…

  Well, it simply didn’t bear thinking about.

  Oliver straightened and smiled around at the group, determined to stay optimistic. Uncle Simon had said he needed experience to run Pembury Farm, and so here he was, gaining it. He’d work hard and learn along the way, and never mind the slight missteps he’d had so far. Too much was riding on this to let himself be dissuaded by a little disapproval.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Seph caught his eye and gave him a scowl. Oliver’s benign smile faltered. For a second, she looked as if she actively hated him, and the optimism he’d been holding on to so determinedly slipped, just a little. Three months suddenly seemed like a rather long time.

  Chapter Two

  Oliver woke to a torrential downpour hammering the roof of his attic bedroom. Olivia had shown him to his room last night, slightly apologetic about the fact that he was being housed in the former servants’ quarters.

  “All the rooms in the addition are taken at the moment,” she explained, “since everyone is living at home. But once Althea moves to Appleby Farm after the wedding, you might be able to have her bedroom.”

  Take the intimidating Althea’s bedroom? No thanks. Oliver had assured her he was fine in the servants’ quarters; there was no one else up under the eaves, and the bathroom down the hall, with its Victorian tub and trickle of rust-coloured water, was his alone.

  Now, in the morning, Oliver stared at the ceiling as a gloomy, grey light filtered through the curtains. He tried to recapture some of the ebbing optimism he’d felt last night. He was a bit overwhelmed by all the Penryns with their various eccentricities; he’d grown up with his one cousin Jack who had gone to boarding school at seven, when Oliver had been only five years old. Life at Pembury Farm with his uncle had been decidedly quiet, save for the dreaded intervals when his cousin came home. In between those times, however, his uncle had been a man of few words and his aunt Penny, who was a far more convivial character, had divorced Simon and moved to London when Oliver had been twelve. He still kept in touch with her, and she was as fun and enthusiastic as ever, if a bit distant.

  The women in his life, he’d thought more than once, with a determined pragmatism, seemed destined to leave him—first his own mother, scarpering off to Australia when he was a kid, and then his aunt and virtual mother figure. And then there was Audrey, who had decided, regretfully it was true, that they had no future after two years together at Oxford. Hopefully it wouldn’t become a continuing trend, but the truth was he hadn’t had much luck in the romance department so far. For some reason this made him think of the mysterious Seph, with her blue-green eyes and ferocious scowl. No joy there certainly, he thought with a sigh, and yet he still wondered. Why had she seemed so angry?

  Shaking himself free of such pointless, meandering thoughts, he rose from the bed to brave the icy, bare floorboards and then the barely lukewarm trickle of the shower. Five-star accommodation it was not, but he wasn’t going to complain. Free room and board had been generous enough for him.

  Twenty minutes later, wearing a button-down shirt and brown cords, his hair still damp, he ventured down to the kitchen in search of breakfast and his boss—last night Althea had mentioned eight a.m. as a potential start time. It was twenty to now.

  The kitchen was, somewhat surprisingly, empty, although people had clearly eaten, judging by the tottering pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Hesitating for a moment, unsure how at home he should make himself, Oliver finally went in search of toast and tea, thankfully finding both without too much difficulty. He’d just sat down to his breakfast when Althea blew into the kitchen on a wind of purposeful determination.

  “Ah, Oliver! There you are. Making yourself at home?”

  “Sorry—” Oliver began, his mouth full of toast, but Althea brushed aside his uncertain apology.

  “No, no, I’m glad.” She glanced at her watch. “When you’ve finished eating, I thought you could have a wander around the property, poke your nose in where you like. Just to get the feel of the place. Then we can sit down and talk about what you’ll actually do. We’ve never had an intern before, so all ideas and suggestions gratefully accepted.” She let out a laugh, which made Oliver wonder if she’d been joking. She seemed like the sort of person to have a minute-by-minute timetable, which she would stick to down to the second.

  “Great,” he said, since she seemed to be waiting for a response, and with a brisk nod she turned on her heel and walked out.

  Oliver turned back to his toast. He munched in silence for a few minutes before the door banged open, just as it had last night, and Seph stood there, with the same scowl. Good grief, was her face frozen in that grimace? He was reminded of his aunt Penny telling him not to make funny faces, in case one of them stuck. Seph’s seemed to have done just that.

  “Good morning,” he said, swallowing the last of his toast, and she just glared at him before striding, loose and long-limbed, to the kettle. Today she was wearing a pair of heavy work trousers, the kind you might wear while chainsawing, and a voluminous plaid shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal slender arms, skinny wrists. As she reached for the kettle, Oliver thought there was something strangely, endeari
ngly vulnerable about the sight of those wrists—so pale and slender, so incongruous with the toughness of the rest of her.

  “I just filled it,” he told her, keeping his tone bright. “It should still be hot.”

  In reply Seph switched the kettle on, with a loud click. Oliver blinked. Stupid to feel like turning on a kettle was something of a rebuff, and yet…was it?

  “What do you do around Casterglass?” he asked, reaching for his tea. “From what I learned last night, everyone seems to have their own area of responsibility.”

  She turned around to face him, leaning against the counter and folding her arms as the kettle, having boiled, clicked off almost instantly, which gave Oliver a small, perverse, and rather childish sort of pleasure.

  “I run the woodworking shop,” she stated, and then turned around again to make her tea. Oliver watched her, wondering if she was like this with everyone, or if it was just him.

  “I look forward to seeing it,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so…enthusiastic. It was a habit he had learned in childhood, to overcompensate for his uncle’s silences. He turned just the tiniest bit manic, hyper-friendly, ridiculous. It had not been a good look in primary school, and it wasn’t now, either.

  Seph was giving him a rather disbelieving look, which made him explain, a bit stiffly, “Althea mentioned that I’d be spending time with each area of the estate’s interests. So I suppose I’ll make it to woodworking at some point.”

  She snorted—actually snorted—and then dumped her teabag into the sink before striding back outside without a word. Good grief. Oliver’s irritation at such behaviour warred with a needling hurt he told himself to dismiss. Persephone Penryn clearly had the attitude problem, not him. He’d try to steer clear of her as much as he could, and get to know some of the other dozen or so people who seemed to be living on site.

  And he’d start by doing what Althea had said, and exploring the estate—making sure to avoid the woodworking shop, of course.

  *

  Seph gritted her teeth, fighting a flush of mortification as she strode as quickly as she could from the kitchen, back to the safety of her shop. She’d handled that badly. Really badly, if the shocked expression on Oliver’s face was anything to go by. He probably thought she was unbelievably rude, not to mention pathetically lacking in social skills. Both, she thought dispiritedly, were true, although it wasn’t just a lack of social skills that had made her be so abrupt with Oliver Belhaven; it had been fear. It was always fear, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone.

  She was afraid of actually trying with someone and being rebuffed. Rejected. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime, and so over the years it had become easier not to try, with anyone. A few people had managed to breach her defences—John Braithwaite being one, when he’d let her help out with the farm as a moody teenager. But with most people Seph knew, her default was to act like she didn’t care, because the more she acted like she didn’t, the easier she could convince herself it was true. And now it basically was…sort of, except too often things still hurt, even if she tried not to let them.

  Anyway, Oliver Belhaven was a random stranger who would be gone in three months, so she really didn’t care what he thought. Right? Except last night he’d seemed so—well, like Alice had said, cute. In an endearing way, weirdly lovably eager to please, and yet also…undeniably fit. There was that, Seph couldn’t deny.

  When it came to romance, her experience with the opposite sex was next to nil, and yet she’d still noticed. The floppy dark hair. The bright green eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. The body, that even in boring button-down shirts and cords had looked lean and well-muscled. Yes, she’d definitely noticed, even if she’d done her best to act as if she hadn’t, as if she couldn’t care less, which she couldn’t, of course, because…well. There was absolutely no point thinking about Oliver Belhaven that way. She had made just about the worst impression she could have, and that was probably a mercy. He’d certainly steer clear of her now. A fact that should bring relief—and did—along with a tiny, irritating, needling disappointment.

  Seph pushed that feeling away as she shut the door of her shop and reached for her safety goggles, determined to lose herself in her work for a good few hours—and not think of Oliver Belhaven once.

  *

  By eleven o’clock her muscles were aching, her face flecked with sawdust, as she turned off the lathe, took off her safety goggles, and gave a long, languorous stretch. The flower box was finished, and it looked good, if she did say so herself. She put her hands to the small of her back as she peered out the window of her shop at the courtyard that was still swathed in gloom, although the downpour of earlier had downgraded to a mizzling drizzle. Still it was—as it always was in November, as well as about nine other months of the year—cold, wet, and grey.

  She wondered what Oliver Belhaven thought of the good old Cumbrian weather, and then was annoyed at herself for immediately going there. She hadn’t thought of him once while working, absorbed in the smooth flow of wood underneath her hands, but the minute she’d stopped, her brain inevitably went to that place. Why? Just because he was a good-looking guy? Admittedly she hadn’t come across many of those, stuck at Casterglass for her entire life.

  Letting out a groan of frustration at her own thoughts, Seph decided to take a break and grab a coffee from the café across the courtyard. Her brother Sam’s girlfriend Rose had transformed it into a cosy and welcoming space, with leather sofas and shelves full of books, plus a full menu of cakes and pastries, as well as some truly delicious coffee. Since it was November, the café was closed but Seph had learned to operate the espresso machine—not all that different from a lathe, if you looked at it a certain way. One big piece of machinery was very much like another.

  She stepped into the empty café, flicking on the lights before turning to the espresso machine. The sound of the machine was loud in the stillness of the empty café, and as she waited for the coffee to brew, she felt a sudden, familiar sweep of homesickness—a feeling that came over her at unexpected times, in quiet, solitary moments, like being lost in a fog, or carried away on a tide. How could you be homesick when you were already home? Seph wondered, far from the first time, and yet she knew she was.

  Homesick not so much for a place, but for a feeling or maybe a situation. For something, and she hadn’t yet figured out what it was. The Germans had a word for it, she’d learned—sehnsucht, defined as a wistful longing for a place or time, an indefinable yearning or desire. More and more Seph found herself experiencing this, like an ache that ran right through her, which left her feeling emptier than before and yet longing to be filled, and she didn’t know how to make it go away.

  Shaking her head at such foolishly fanciful thoughts, she poured the foamed milk on top of her espresso and added her usual three sugars. She’d get back to work and stop indulging these stupid emotions. She didn’t know why she’d turned so fanciful all of a sudden. It was definitely out of character.

  She turned off the machine and the lights and then headed back to the comfort and safety of her workshop—only to stop stock-still in the doorway, in complete and horrified disbelief, at the sight of Oliver Belhaven nosing around her things, completely unashamed of his unabashed prying.

  He was wandering around her shop, touching her tools, inspecting her pieces, as if he had every right to be there. As she stood there, utterly shocked, she saw with an icy sort of incredulity that he was lifting a dustsheet from a sculpture tucked away in the back corner of the shop—one that was not for sale or public consumption. She watched as he ran his hand down the side of it—Out of the Wild, her most private, personal piece; one she could hardly bear to look at herself, because it felt so revealing.

  Her whole body was trembling and yet she could not make herself speak. Standing there, without him even seeing her, she felt utterly exposed, as if she were stark naked. Oliver turned then, a look of surprise on his face, as if he hadn’t expected her to
show up in her own workshop.

  “Oh, hello! I was just having a look around. This is quite nice—what do you call it?”

  He ran his hand down the length of Out of the Wild again, and Seph had the unsettling sensation that he’d just touched her. Intimately. Unasked, unwanted, like an assault.

  For another few seconds she couldn’t speak. She was holding her coffee cup so tightly that the hot liquid had sloshed out, burning her hand. She felt stripped down, laid bare, her most intimate self unbearably scrutinised…and he didn’t even seem to realise it, which was both a relief and even more of an affront. How could he expose her like this and not even know?

  “Get—out,” she finally managed to squeeze out of her constricted throat. Oliver looked startled, then bemused.

  “Sorry, should I not have come in? I did knock—”

  “Get—out—now.” It was all she could manage. She turned away from him, tears blurring her eyes, her whole body shaking. It was an overreaction. She knew that full well, and Oliver wouldn’t understand it at all, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t keep herself from it. No one had seen that sculpture. No one. She’d carved it out of her own soul, created from the deepest, darkest parts of herself formed into wood, and he was looking at it as if it were some pretty trinket. Next he’d be asking her how much she wanted for it.

  “Seph, look, I’m sorry—” He sounded both taken aback and genuinely apologetic, but at this point she didn’t care. Couldn’t.

  “Just get out!” she half-screamed, the words torn from her throat. Tears were starting in her eyes, but her back was to him, so she hoped and prayed he couldn’t see. “Please.” She managed to lower her voice to something that almost sounded rational. “Please, just…leave.”

  A few seconds passed, taut and quiet. The only sound was Oliver’s breathing—or maybe that was her own, coming in ragged gasps. Her heart was thundering. He was going to think she was an absolute basket case, beyond hope or help, but in this moment Seph knew she just needed to be alone. Immediately.