Page 15 of Beyond Her Manner
“Even better.”
Draining her cup, Bridget stood, scribbled a number on the paper, and pushed it over to Viola. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’d best go and give Gillian the news. Thanks for the coffee,”
“Can you take her cat with you? I found her on my bed this morning. It seems as soon as I open a door, she sneaks in. Either that or she morphs through the walls, which would be surprising in a three-hundred-year-old property.”
“Four hundred.” Bridget said, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, listen to me. I’m beginning to sound like Gillian.”
“You're nothing like Gillian, at least from what I've observed,” Viola remarked. She noticed Bridget's cheeks flushas she guided her into the drawing room. “Now you stay out, Agatha. This isn’t your home anymore,” Viola scolded the cat lightly, placing her into Bridget’s arms.
The cat eyed her suspiciously.
“May I ask why Gillian sold the estate?” Viola said as she led Bridget to the front door.
“Financial problems,” Bridget half whispered. “Her husband, Jonathon, died rather unexpectedly and left her with even more unexpected debt. It seems he’d remortgaged the house and made some bad investments.”
Viola felt a sudden pang of remorse. Was that the reason for the woman’s attitude? Was Gillian grieving a lost loved one like she was?
“Well, thanks for coming by, and whenever you get a moment to bring the vase, please do,” she said as she waved Bridget off.
She was already looking forward to the woman’s next visit. Bridget was likeable and came across as kind and harmless, endearing even. She also struck her as a font of all knowledge when it came to the village, and if she was going to be forced into village life, the least she could do was arm herself for it.
The crunch of gravel drew her attention up the drive: Her Porsche Cayman was finally being delivered. Now she could explore the village hidden behind metal — or, as much as you could hide in such a car.
CHAPTER 5
Gillian made her way down the staircase, negotiating the tight turns as best she could with a basket of dirty laundry. It was bad enough having to do one’s own laundry, let alone dealing with a staircase as narrow as the back stairs at Kingsford Manor.
The bell rang out as she reached the bottom. Instinctively placing the basket down, she looked at it, picked it back up, and popped it into the kitchen. She may have been living in the equivalent of a rabbit hutch, but standards still needed upholding. Keeping her laundry out of sight was one of them.
“Morning. I hear you’ve met our new neighbour,” Bridget said as soon as Gillian opened the front door.
“Yes, I had a bit of a run-in with her yesterday.How did you know I met her?”
“I’ve just come from there,” Bridget replied.
Gillian’s face dropped as she closed the front door. “You visited her before me?”
Bridget bit her lip. “To be honest, it was a force of habit. It wasn’t until the door opened and she wasn’t you that I remembered you’d moved.”
“Honestly, Bridget.” Gillian frowned then, realising her friend was cradling Agatha. “Please tell me Agatha wasn’t at the manor too.”
Bridget nodded. “Curled up on your old Chesterfield.”
“Traitor.”
Agatha leapt from Bridget’s arms and ran into the kitchen.
“And I expect you still want me to feed you,” Gillian called after her. “Come on through, Bridget. Could you pop by again sometime and ask her about holding the flower show in the hall?” She kept her tone as casual as possible, not wanting Bridget to pick up on how desperately she didn’t want to be the one asking.
“I’ve already asked her,” Bridget said as she followed Gillian into the sitting room.
“What did she say?” Gillian asked, turning so abruptly Bridget almost walked into her.
Taking a step back, Bridget replied, “That you should ask her yourself.”
Gillian’s hands shot to her hips. “Well, really! That settles it then. The village hall it will have to be. I’m not going cap in hand to her. She should know her duty to the village. It will fall on her if the show is ruined.”
The village hall, although functional, was on the small side, and it failed to meet Gillian’s preferred aesthetic for events. A rather unappealing addition to the village from the seventies, its steel girders and flimsy plasterboard walls contrasted starkly to the charm a Tudor hall effortlessly provided.
