pulled down over her ears and she wore a short denim jacket over cargo trousers and clumpy boots.
He shrugged. Who was he to judge? It was turning out to be a much more practical choice of outfit than his Italian suit as they trudged along the pathways between the hedges. Mud was already clinging to the hems of his trousers and clogging his shoes.
They entered a large sunken garden filled with vast flowerbeds and a fountain in the centre and at last he had a clear view of the back of Elmhurst Hall.
He knew enough about architecture to recognise that the building was a patchwork of different periods and styles, some sections dating back to the sixteenth century.
The wing facing the front gates had obviously been added later, the grand façade, but round the back of the building one could see the history. Different sections had been added by previous owners, all wanting to improve Elmhurst Hall and leave their fingerprint on it. Now it was his turn to do the same.
It truly was a unique piece of architecture. He could hardly wait to start exploring it.
A small set of fingers tugged his hand then wiggled their way into his palm until they were clasped in his.
‘Come on, Will. It’s this way.’
Hattie pulled him in the direction of a set of stairs that went through a small square tower. The path then continued upwards and across a spacious flat lawn, ending at a large wooden door that was big enough to squash him flat if it fell off its hinges. He let the little girl drag him forwards, too caught up in absorbing his surroundings to navigate his own way.
The babysitter was standing in the arch of the tower, frowning down at him as he climbed the steps. He turned to Hattie.
‘So, if visitors aren’t allowed today, what are you doing here?’
‘Playing princesses and trolls.’
Her voice was flat and matter-of-fact, as if she expected every visitor to engage in similar activities. ‘I’m the princess,’ she said, spreading her full skirt slightly to emphasise the fact, ‘and Mummy is the troll.’
There was a small grunt from the figure at the top of the stairs. ‘Mummy always ends up being the troll.’
She was the child’s mother? Will took a closer look as he climbed towards her. She barely looked older than a teenager herself. Maybe it was her height. She was petite, reaching five feet three at the very most.
The hand she thrust out for Hattie’s was more an order than a request. Hattie slipped her gloved fingers from his and ran to her mother.
Something about him put this woman on the defensive. He could see it in the stubborn set of her chin, the way she avoided eye contact. She started off again before he’d caught up, always keeping a good distance between them.
He followed her, not through the large wooden door in front of them, but round the side of the building into an area that would have been the servants’ entrance in days gone by. Hattie broke free and disappeared through a little door, leaving it open behind her.
The woman turned to look at him.
‘What are you really doing here?’ he said, his usually sharp and inquisitive mind finally whirring away like normal.
She shrugged. ‘Like Hattie said, we were playing. You couldn’t find a better place to play imaginary games than here.’
Yes, but there were more suitable ways to go about it than trespassing in the grounds of Elmhurst Hall. He was about to say as much, but downgraded his observation to something less confrontational. ‘You have the owner’s permission?’
She nodded. ‘In a roundabout way. I work and live here. Use of the grounds is one of the perks of the job.’
Well, he’d find out more about that later.
She nodded in the direction of the open door.
‘Good luck,’ she said, without any hint of encouragement in her eyes. ‘You’re not the first man in a suit to turn up. You’re wasting your time, though. When Lord Radcliffe died…’ Here she paused, and her voice softened slightly. She shook her head once, as if to swish away an uninvited thought, and continued. ‘I’m guessing you’ll go away empty-handed. There’s precious little left to pay his debts.’
Now he could study her face properly, he could see why he’d thought she was only a child. She had large eyes and ripe lips set in an elfin face. If it weren’t for that square little chin, she’d look just like a fairy—timeless, ageless, wise.
‘Thank you for your advice…’
She blinked at him.
‘Josie.’ As she said her name she reached up and grabbed the tea-cosy hat with one hand.
‘I’m not here to…’ The rest of his sentence was forgotten as he realised the bright pink tassels didn’t move with the rest of that hat. He squinted at her then opened his eyes wide.
Not tassels. Plaits! Little stubby braids in a particularly violent shade of fuchsia.
This woman was one surprise after another.
He saw the barest of smiles touch her lips as she turned and stepped over the threshold. She liked the fact she’d shocked him, made him forget what he was going to say.
Well, two could play at that game. And he had a feeling his arrival here was going to cause a bigger upset than discovering an employee with pink hair. If his instincts were right they’d be as surprised as if they’d…well, found fairies at the bottom of the garden.
The narrow passageways in the servants’ quarters amplified the footsteps of the stranger walking behind her. Josie turned to knock on a door made in a century when people must have been a heck of a lot shorter.
At five-two, she wasn’t going to have a problem, but Will Whatever-his-name-was was going to have to duck.
She sighed as she ushered the visitor in to see Barrett and closed the door behind him. She had no wish to hear what he had to say. It was all far too depressing.
Harry had been the dearest, sweetest old man alive, but he’d been hopeless with money. She’d suspected it ever since she’d come to live here six years ago, but only his death and the unravelling of his haphazard accounts had proved how bad things really were.
They were all in limbo until the legal wrangling over Harry’s estate was over. He’d once told her he would leave her the cottage she lived in, but in all the rooms full of clutter Harry had left behind no one had come across anything resembling a will.
That left her and Hattie at the mercy of the new owner. Her beloved godfather had let her live in the run-down cottage virtually rent-free and she couldn’t see the new Lord Radcliffe honouring that. He’d not only inherited the hall, which ate money with a voracious appetite, but also all of Harry’s debts. Even if he was inclined to help out, he probably wouldn’t be able to afford to.
Her salary from running the tearoom here only just about covered her basic outgoings. If she had to pay rent of any kind, the only option would be to cut out Hattie’s activities, and even then there’d be a huge shortfall.
She grimaced as she threaded her way through the ancient corridors towards the kitchen—for that was undoubtedly where her daughter had run off to. Hattie loved her ballet lessons and she would sulk for a month if she had to stop.
Personally, Josie couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. There was no freedom in it, no exuberance. Twisting yourself into unnatural positions and stuffing your feet into hard little shoes that were two sizes too small. No way.
Still, Hattie seemed to like torture in a tutu and Josie wasn’t about to stop her doing what she loved. That was what good parents did—they supported their children’s choices and let them blossom into the unique creatures they were meant to be. She was not going to impose her own likes and dislikes on her daughter as if they were the Ten Commandments.
Just