Page 90 of Beyond Her Manner
“That’s how you’ve been getting in,” she groaned, realising the cellar door, which never closed properly, didn’t have a faulty catch at all. Someone was using it to sneak inside unnoticed. She was going to miss the quirky little cat too.
As she stood, her eyes caught the bench where she often sat with Gillian. She approached it, hesitating before finally taking a seat. The memories rushed back — Gillian’s smiles, their shared honesty, the way her presence felt both calming and electric. Viola would never regret getting to know her; those moments had shaped something in her.
As for falling in love with her, that she might regret. Gillian Carmichael wasn’t the kind of person you could forget easily, no matter how hard you tried. It scared Viola the most — knowing no matter where she went, part of her would always feel tethered to Gillian.
CHAPTER 21
TEN WEEKS LATER
Gillian walked down the drive towards the manor, a box of china under one arm. It was a huge relief that the sale of the painting had gone smoothly, allowing the contracts to be completed as winter set in. It was the time of year when the building looked most regal; it was often draped in a blanket of snow with the flickering lights of the fires inside casting a warm glow through the windows. Today there was neither snow nor lights, only a quiet stillness.
Her pace slowed as she neared the familiar facade, each step feeling heavier. It loomed larger than ever, its walls holding stories that refused to fade. She had thought she would be ready, but now standing here, on the cusp of entering the life she thought she had left behind forever, uncertainty gripped her.
Agatha followed a few paces behind. Perhaps she was eager to return home without the threat of eviction by an irritable mezzo-soprano. To Viola’s credit, since they had become friends,she appeared to have accepted the cat’s wandering ways, allowing Agatha to come and go as she pleased.
Friends. The word cut through Gillian. She couldn’t even describe them as that anymore. The emptiness inside her served as a daily reminder. The only contact she’d made with Viola since she left was through their solicitors, although she saw her once — or believed she did. On the day of the auction, when she looked around the very crowded room, a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap stood out to her. She was sure it was Viola. Following the auction, there was no sight of either a baseball cap or sunglasses, and there was no Viola.
Turning to see if Agatha was still following, she noticed the cat was retracing her steps back along the path. Something Viola once said came to mind:Our lives have multiple paths, all with multiple destinations, and we can’t walk back along them, only accept the path we have walked.She also admitted later,Maybe we can walk back along a path after all.Looking down at her boots as they crunched into the gravel, Gillian realised she was literally walking back along her path.
The thought of getting the estate back had once felt all-consuming. Viola may have distracted her from those thoughts for a time, but they were always there, lingering under the surface. They lessened over time, as she became used to her new life or at least grew to accept that her return may never happen. The anger that had once resided inside her was no longer there; she was unsure when it had left her.
Unlocking the porch door, she placed the box inside and locked it again. Before going inside, she needed to do something and made her way to the church.
Wending her way through the churchyard she searched for Jonathon’s grave. Having forgotten its precise location, she realised she’d not visited it once since the funeral. She found what she was looking for, though, thanks to the clean headstonestanding out like a beacon amongst older ones. Standing beside it, she dangled the keys off her finger, over Jonathon’s grave.
“I got it back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the rustle of the wind. The sound of her words made her recoil.
What was she doing here? Had she really come to gloat over a grave? A pang of nausea rose in her stomach. She took a deep breath, willing it to fade, but the unease lingered. Looking around, she noticed the other graves. Each was carefully tended, adorned with fresh flowers that brought vivid bursts of colour to the grey headstones. Jonathon’s grave was bare, with no flowers, no signs of visitors, only the cold, hard stone and earth.
Her fingers tightened around the keys as she stood there in the silence, wondering what she’d become. Their marriage had been far from perfect, but Jonathon did share Kingsford with her. He’d allowed her to fall in love with it, probably all the while knowing it was the only reason she stayed.
She hadn’t exactly entered the marriage honestly. If anything, she was the one who had manipulated him into believing they were something they weren’t and that a happy future together was possible, all at a time when her love for Hen was so strong and her loss so raw. The need to escape her mother was so present, so urgent, as was her hatred for herself. She had been desperate. Could she blame herself for the actions she had taken? Could anyone? She left the grave feeling empty, a sensation she was growing accustomed to since Viola left.
As she walked back, a dream from the previous night came to her. She was in a rowing boat beside the bank of a lake in the dead of night. Jonathon helped her in and then pushed it away from the bank. She begged for him to pull her back, but he ignored her, so she floated around the lake with no direction and only the light of the moon to guide her. Viola appeared on a bank in the distance, waving at her, beckoning her and telling her touse her oars. When she hadn’t got any closer to the bank despite what felt like a night of rowing, Viola suddenly appeared in the boat beside her and helped her row. By the time she got to the bank, she was alone; Viola and Jonathon were both gone. It had left her in rather a panic when she woke.
Arriving back at the manor, she stepped into the porch, where she removed her coat and boots. It wasn’t her first time there since Viola left. She had gone in to turn on the heating once the temperature dropped. Today was the first time she’d been in, though, since retaking possession of the property.
Picking up the box of china, she made her way to the great hall, where the familiar scent of aged wood hung in the air. It carried traces of Viola too, and while part of her wanted to push it away, another part of her ached for it to linger. The grand piano she had left behind would serve as a permanent reminder of her.
Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor, amplifying the stillness in the cool, draughty air. It was quite the contrast to the warm, intimate, cosy lodge she’d grown fond of. The vastness of the space felt oppressive now; it was something she’d never experienced before, but the void carried a weight. It was all hers, every inch of it, but she was still directionless. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it would be, standing in this grand space with everything she’d ever wanted. She should be feeling more — more excitement, elation, drive. Instead, the same hollow ache resided within.
Everything would feel better after a cup of Earl Grey, and with Bridget due soon, she needed to get a move on. Gillian carried the box to the kitchen, setting it on the smooth marble worktop. As she unpacked the delicate china mugs and teapot, her gaze wandered around the room. Viola’s renovations really were impressive.
Her eye caught the window, where the two of them had enjoyed coffee together. Where she had discovered sapphic romance, a quiet passion that had blossomed over the last few months — not that she had told Viola as much. Exploring these stories was something she would keep private, a place where she would lose herself in worlds that felt foreign yet familiar.
She removed the kettle and filled it with water. Leaving it to boil she made her way to the drawing room and pulled back the curtains. The painting that had always hung above the fireplace was back where it belonged. The thought of Viola rehanging it for her before she left made Gillian smile. It was more suitable for the space than Viola’s choice, not that she regretted her fishing it from the attic — that she would be forever grateful for. She wished she’d been able to thank Viola in a better way and that things could have ended differently between them, not as abruptly as they had done. As she sparked a fire to life in the hearth, a voice echoed from the hall.
“Coo-ee. Anyone home?” Bridget’s head appeared around the drawing room door.
Yes, Gillian was home, but it didn’t feel like she was.
“Come in,” she said. “I’ll fetch some tea.”
Five minutes later she found Bridget nestled in her usual seat as she entered with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sitting opposite her friend, it felt as if the last year hadn’t happened. Except it had. A lid she’d closed tightly enough that it would need a crowbar to open had flown off in Viola’s presence, and Gillian had struggled to put it back on.
Bridget tucked into the biscuits and began to fill her in on the village gossip. Gillian’s attention flickered, her thoughts drifting elsewhere as she struggled to stay engaged in the conversation. She didn’t care that the major had passed out on the village green that morning from too much revelry at the Fox and Hounds last night or that prices were on the up again in thevillage shop or that a house in the village was for sale. She didn’t care for any of it.
“You get to climb back into your own bed again tonight,” Bridget said, her tone bright but edged with concern.
