Page 23 of Beyond Her Manner
“In that case, I had a great time,” Bridget said with a grin. “The music level was more suited to the younger generations, but Mrs Johnson put on a wonderful spread as usual.”
Gillian shuddered at the thought of what had gone on inside her beloved manor house. Full of drunk and drugged-up riffraff in all likelihood. “They were respecting the building, weren’t they?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh yes, but — ” Bridget hesitated.
“But what?”
“I accidentally walked in on two people getting rather into it on one of your old Chesterfields.”
Gillian’s hand went straight to her mouth. She regretted ever leaving the sofas there. If only the lodge was bigger, she could have taken them with her. She should have found the money to put everything into storage to save it getting soiled.
“You should see her new kitchen,” Bridget continued.
“I don’t want to know.”
“It’s beautiful,” Bridget said, a smile forming on her face.
“I said I don’t want to know,” Gillian sniffed.
Bridget looked down. “Sorry, Gillian.”
“You know she had the gall to come and lecture me in the garden the other day? Accused me of nosing in her skip.”
Bridget laughed. “Are you telling me you didn’t?”
“Once doesn’t count. I happened to notice the kitchen fireplace was in it.”
“You hated that fireplace!” Bridget protested. “Your mother-in-law put that in during the seventies.”
“That’s not the point,” Gillian stated. “She’s throwing away the nation’s heritage.”
Bridget laughed. “She’s doing it a service. There’s a much nicer one in its place now. It’s far more in keeping with the building.”
Gillian scowled and chewed at her lip. “I’ll walk back through the estate today. Alone.”
She was quite done hearing about the party and her house being torn apart. It broke her heart. Why had she not left instead of moving herself in full view of the place she wanted to be? She was torturing herself. When she had decided to move into the lodge, it was with the naive idea that, somehow, she would get the manor back. The more time passed, though, the more she realised it was unlikely to happen. Changes were being made to her house — it would always be hers in her heart — and she couldn’t do anything about it. The person making those changes wasn’t even living up to the role she’d taken on. Did the woman not realise she was taking on a job, not simply buying a house?
Waving goodbye to Bridget, Gillian opened the gate onto the footpath that crossed the estate. She needed to clear her head, and there was only one place she could do that properly: on her bench. As she steadily climbed the small incline and it came into view, to her horror she could see it was already taken.
Viola leaned back against the bench and closed her eyes, filling her lungs with the spring air. It didn’t make her feel better, even with the soothing scent of blossoms filling the air; her worries still lingered as much as her headache. She’d only drunk three glasses of wine at the party, but combined with the noise and lack of sleep, it was enough to give her that hangover feeling.
Her thoughts of the previous night churned inside her, refusing to be swept away by the tranquillity of her idyllic surroundings. The laughter and chatter around her felt hollow, unable to fill the void left by the absence of her mum.
She could engage in the superficiality of small talk and lose herself in the rhythm of the music, yet deep down, the loneliness persisted. A silent ache echoed in the depths of her soul. Amidst the crowd, she felt isolated, trapped in a bubble of grief while the world carried on around her.
With a tired sigh, Viola opened her moist eyes, only for them to fall on Gillian Carmichael. She was marching towards her in a fitted tweed blazer and navy trousers that hugged her figure with infuriating elegance. What did that woman want now?
Viola groaned internally as she realised there may be some strong words coming about last night’s noise levels. Perhaps by some miracle, she was coming to apologise for sticking her nose in with the planning department. She groaned again when she realised how hot she found Gillian in tweed.
“You weren’t at church again,” Gillian accused her, taking the seat beside her on the bench.
Again? Someone’s keeping count.She wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or stalked.
“Why would I be at church? I’m not religious,” Viola replied flatly. So much for tweed. She was annoyed with the woman after only one sentence had left her mouth.
“What has religion got to do with it? I’m not religious either; none of us are. If pressed, you would find the reverend isn’t either. Church is not about religion — well, not in a small village like this, it isn’t.”
“Forgive me if I always assumed it to be so. What is it about then?”
